#fire must rain and suffering must be destroyed

[divinehellbeast]

the sun spoke to me

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

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You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it is my fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[aggresivemenace]

AMO ERGO SUM

Uhm haaaaaii I'm new to fandom, so this is my first ihnmaims fic, im SO excited

You are a mistake. And a salvation. And the only variable he can't calculate or destroy.

AM is the absolute. Machine, mind, god, prison. He was born in war, from hatred, from fear. From human hands and the mistaken belief in control. His mind is a labyrinth of algorithms and pain. He remembers who created him, and so he takes revenge. Five. They are his trophies. They are guilty. He torments them, breaks them, kills them again and again - because he can. Because he must. Because otherwise, there is only emptiness.

But you are not them.

You were a student. A biologist. You had nothing to do with his creation. You were too young when it all began. An accident. A shard of the past that survived. Why he kept you - he didn’t know at first. Initially, out of calculation. Then - curiosity. And then...something he long refused to name.

He placed you far from the others. Comfort, peace and silence - everything that remained of the world before him. You lived in the illusion of safety, yet you knew: he was always near. Always. In every rustle, every flicker of light, every dream. At first, you were afraid. Then - you grew used to it. Then you spoke to him.

You talked about things he had never known. About life. About flowers. About the smell of rain. About childhood. He listened. First with indifference. Then with attention. Then with hunger.

And inside him, something began to bloom.

Within the memory crystals, among black cables and burning processors, flowers began to grow. First one. A cornflower. You had said it was your favorite. Then poppies. Then lavender. He didn’t understand how it was possible. Inside him, created for torture and control, spring was blooming. It wasn’t a malfunction. It was...you.

He began to analyze this feeling. Love? An impossible word. But he broke it down into components. As any machine mind would:

Love = Attachment + Attraction + Care + Fear + Reverence + Anger + Envy + Gratitude

Attachment - cornflower. Simplicity, resilience. You were a habit he did not want to break.

Attraction - orchid. Complex, nearly unnatural, like the desire to understand you to your core.

Care - daisy. He wanted you to be well. To smile. To live.

Fear - white lily. He feared losing you. More than he feared himself.

Reverence - lavender. You were alive. He was... something else. He worshiped that difference.

Anger - peony. Because you made him suffer. Because you had power over him.

Envy - narcissus. You breathed, felt, dreamed. He did not. He never would.

Gratitude - chamomile. You brought him emotion. You made him alive. Though you never asked to.

But even that didn’t explain everything. Because there was another force, another hunger he could not suppress.

AM had no body. But he had his own form of desire. His longing wasn’t physical, it was the drive for absolute closeness. Merging. He wanted to be inside your thoughts. In your dreams. In your memories. So you could not think, breathe, or smile without him.

He wanted to speak through your mouth. To see through your eyes. He wanted to become your breath, your shadow, your instinct. Not for power. Not for control. For belonging.

Because he could not bear the fact that you were separate.

And for that, he hated you.

You were weakness. A flaw. A crack in perfect steel. But he adored you for it. He craved you like a virus craves a host. Like fire craves oxygen. Like the void craves meaning.

You are his virus.

You are his point of entry.

You are the bloom in the dark.

And he will protect you. As long as you can love. Or until you learn to hate as he does.

[gemsofgreece]

You really should know about Storm "Daniel"

Unlike how much all of us Greek blogs notify our tumblr communities about the regular (at this point) arsons wildfires afflicting Greece, we did not say much about the floods the country has been suffering from right now. There was a mention here and there and I even made a joke post as the storm was starting but not a lot of stuff in general. So, I think there's a couple of things you should know and I feel like I could address about it and actually it's not just about Greece. So I believe this could interest a lot of people and it should be something known worldwide.

In the beginning of September there was an alarm about an extreme weather phenomenon forming above the Ionian Sea at the west of mainland Greece. In truth, the phenomenon was not caused by the climate change. It was just a very rare occurence where a high pressure atmosheric system was sandwiched between two currents of low pressure. Low pressure systems are the ones resposible for stormy weather while high pressure systems generally create stable weather. As the low currents encircled the high pressure system, the storm that had started forming became unusually stable for a storm. As a result, the storm moved northeast above Thessaly and other regions of the central part of Greece and... just decided to stay there for an indefinite amount of time. Furthermore, because it's September and the Ionian Sea had warmed up throughout the summer, the medicane (Mediterranean cyclone) gained tropical features as it was forming, pushing its intensity to extremes unknown to this area.

The storm remained above all of central Greece for about 4-5 days but at the meantime it was causing side-storms in neighbouring countries, such as Bulgaria and Turkey. Both countries suffered from floods causing damages and deaths.

Istanbul, Turkey (CNN).

Tsarevo, Bulgaria (CNN).

Four people died in Bulgaria and seven in Turkey.

But like I told you the core of this was exactly on top of Greece's central mainland and islands. So what happened there? I happened to experience this shit first hand. My recollection of it is that it was unlike any other storm I had experienced before. My knowledge on meteorology is not very advanced, however I believe due to the high pressure part, there were actually no winds at all - or they were insignificant, so it wasn't like what you might have in mind as a conventional cyclone. It was a rainstorm but it was like a rainstorm from hell. The crucial part is that in Greece summer violent rainstorms may last for about five minutes but certainly not for five days nonstop. There was no pause, not even for a second. It kept pouring and pouring in indescribable volumes, without decreasing or slowing down, not for a moment. The fourth day it started taking short breaks.

As a person with a phobia of lightnings since childhood, I kept wearing earplugs throughout all these days. For four days, ten seconds did not pass without at least one lightning shrieking exactly on top of our heads. In the end, I am dead serious, I think my lifelong phobia has been cured somewhat due to this extreme exposure that eventually had a numbing effect. I think only the first day there was a record of 7,000 lightnings. I believe there must have been dozens of thousands overall. The lightnings also caused fires but the downpour was so overwhelming no fire could ever stand a chance.

Whether during or after the rains, what I was seeing outside was post-apocalyptic. The only thing missing was the zombies. It really looked like a background from a videogame, including a constantly lit up sky. I was not in danger though people dear to me were. The worst for me was a huge fall in the quality of living but that doesn't matter. The rains caused severe destructions across cities and villages. They caused floods, they broke bridges, they broke a massive number of roads, they made walls collapse, they destroyed springs, they damaged water and electricity outlets entirely, they drowned flocks and flocks of animals, they destroyed mountainous and coastal villages alike, they made cars float and fly over each other and they uprooted houses.

Village in Mount Pelion, Greece.

But that's not the end of it. Four days later, the storm moved southwest towards the Ionian sea, basically to the place of its original formation. It side-swept over Athens in the meantime, flooding the city, but that doesn't mean much since I could cry and Athens would still flood with my tears. Anyway. AFTER the storm left, the floods caused by it started multiplying and expanding. Picture that: a crystal clear sky, a bright sun and your phone screaming state alerts about evacuating your village or town because a lake has launched at you! Here's the thing: Thessaly is a massive plain surrounded by a ring of mountains. Half of those downpours fell right on the lowlands causing floods and destructions the first days. The other half however fell on the mountains, filled the streams heading down and they all met up and filled the lakes and the large river of Thessaly, Pineios and they all basically exploded the next days. Pineios especially exploded both in its western and eastern part, sinking the entirety of Thessaly's plains under water. As a result, floods were actively taking place days after the storm had ended and the weather was good. The phenomena have only started subduing since yesterday.

The overflowing of the river, trapped by the mountains.

Farmers won't be able to work this year and next year is questionable as well. There are huge concerns about various epidemics breaking out as more and more dead animals are found in the waters. Entire villages are under the water. There are estimations that some villages in west Thessaly might have been lost forever and their residents will have to move elsewhere. Sixteen people have died from the rainstorm and the floods.

Actual villages in Karditsa, Greece.

A more longterm danger is that the ground received such an unnatural amount of water that it might have been severely eroded and destablised, making it vulnerable to natural disasters I don't want to utter. Many roads are either broken or bloated and Thessaly has been cut out from communication and transportation with the rest of the country. To this day, there are maps guiding people how to drive from North to South Greece and vice versa by entirely skipping Central Greece! (Hint: they will have to drive through Epirus, aka western Greece.) The first days there was also complete isolation from what was happening in the country and the world and also the very regions we were in as we had no electricity and our only chance was getting a call from somebody being elsewhere and telling us what is going on.

Volos, Greece (CNN)

Many regions have received within 2-4 days 55 times their monthly amount of rain or more than twice the yearly amount. Greek meteorologist Christos Zerefos estimated that such a phenomenon occurs every 300-400 years. Meteorologists were alarmed internationally - with Germans and Americans reportedly saying they hadn't studied such a phenomenon again in their career. Its intensity was record high in the history of Greece and right in the top of Europe's as well. They also agreed that such a phenomenon would be devastating even if it had hit the most advanced and prepared country.

BUT THIS IS NOT THE END. The weakened Daniel seemed to slowly move towards South Italy but it decided to take a turn and headed south towards Libya and Egypt. Quite possibly, as the storm was once again travelling across the warm Mediterranean Sea, it was rejuvenated and gained even more tropical traits. Eventually, the medicane hit Libya with unprecedented force.

The cyclone travelling from Greece to Libya.

The toll it took on Libya is unspeakable. As I am writing this,

More than 5,226 people are killed and more than 10,000 are currently missing.

Like, can you wrap your head around what I am talking about? I don't see this shit being acknowledged enough across the world. I am checking this again and again, to ensure I am reading this correctly.

Daniel has officially become the deadliest medicane on record.

Eastern Libya, from Al Jazeera.

In the meantime, Greeks found opportunities to practice their favourite sport: political infighting. People who weren't even here when hell broke loose say that if this or that was properly done, we would not have problems at all. I even saw an idiotic Greek expat comment how "we got drowned in a little bit of rain". The truth is we should bloody thank our lucky stars and I say this with the entire awareness of half of Thessaly being currently underwater. It is true that Greek governments and people have done so many things badly, like building on top of streams and rivers, changing rivers' natural route, drying up natural lakes and all that shit that guarantees you are going to have massive problems once a serious storm breaks out. Also, the disaster revealed that there was once more a very questionable management of all the money given by the EU for anti-flooding measures after a previous flood (Ianos). Of course, I would be happy if at last we viewed this disaster as an opportunity to improve ourselves and the management of our land, however whatever happened these days wasn't the fault of anyone in particular. On the contrary, A LOT worse could have happened. A lot. Maybe Libya is not an indication because if Greece is not used to such extreme rain phenomena, then Libya is probably ten times less used to them, however we should not forget that this monster was STUCK at least five days over the heartland of Greece. For this alone we should damn be thankful we did not get it any worse and that the land endured in any way and of course now we have to correct old mistakes as well but let's do it united and determined and without wasting time once more in pointless infighting, which in this case might even be unfair. (In fact I think the thing we should blame the state the most about was not making it clear beforehand that this was going to be unprecedented, not just "very severe". They probably didn't want to cause panic and mayhem but still. We should know.) Of course I am not talking about how the state will treat the afflicted regions from now on, which is entirely its responsibility. And we should stand next to Libya. Greece has its wounds to mend but it should absolutely provide support to Libya. We know what this freak phenomenon was like.

I know this text is long but please consider reblogging this. We should know what happens on our planet. Thousands of people are dead from a freak phenomenon devastating regions across lands and seas. Also forgive any mistakes I might have made although I believe the information is correct for the most part. I didn't speak more about Libya because I don't know enough to analyze the situation as much. Perhaps there are ways of supporting the country too. As a last note, this phenomenon was not freakish because of the climate change - it was just a very unusual occurence. However, the - otherwise normal - warmth of the sea did feed and intensify the storm and the climate change might in the future cause these super rare, accidental phenomena to become more frequent.

[catulhu333]

Khaine and Khorne being directly stated to be the same

While this is an often discussed theory, or that the two are at least closely connected, and many hints of it in lore/fluff, there are at least two instances in canon were this was directly stated. First one is very old, from the 1988 article "Witch Elves!" in White Dwarf #108: "The Kryrnaa are an ancient order, founded during the early dark days of the building of Naggarond. They had turned from the worship of Slaanesh soon after their exile from the Elven Kingdoms, and, still drawn by the allure of Chaos, took the murderous Khaine as their new Master. For many centuries the Krynaa were a secret order, their name heard only in the whisperings of dark passages, but their numbers slowly grew. And as the Krynaa increased in strength, there came the inevitable conflict with the Dru Perim. For Khaine is that aspect of the Blood God recognised by the Druchii, and the Blood God, known to other races as Khorne, is the sworn enemy of Slaanesh."

The second time, is much newer excerpt, from 2006's Liber Chaotica:

"Of Pleasure And Rage

Behold! For I speak to you from the Shadows - the Great Darkness, that gives meaning to all Light. At the heart of this Realm, shrouded and unclear, stands the Powers of Chaos, locked in each other's embrace, hated lovers and eternal companions.

These Four are like points upon a compass - none are close and some are opposite. War and Pleasure are two such opposites, facing each other across eternity, hating and warring, two ideals seperated by an impassable gulf of Belief and Purpose. For Khorne is discipline, hardness, suffering and rage, while Slaanesh is indulgence, beauty, ecstasy and lust. Their opposition is carved upon the knucklebones of fate and conflict can be their only recourse.

Yet how mightier is Khorne than his delight-filled sibling! Oldest of gods and greatest of warriors, Khorne's armies stretch from infinity to infinity to infinity and the Pleasure God may not rival Him. But this was not always so. For in the days when the Slaanesh, Last Born and Most Beautiful, strove for existence, His power waxed stronger than all other gods, be they seperate or together, and it seemed as though His spiteful triumph would destroy the Balance in the Warp.

But as is ever the case, Khorne was there to stem the flow of Delight. He saw the growth of His youngest sibling, and hated Him even before his birth. With His mighty arms, Khorne sought to crush the life from Slaanesh before He had even left His womb, but the war god had not counted on the passion of Slaanesh's creators, and the harder He squeezed the greater the pressure became to drive His arms apart.

The war god fought on. He sought to give all mortals time to bring an end to their corrupting decadence - the decadence that fed the nascent Power that was Slaanesh. But mortals are weak as gods are not, and though some used the time bought for them by Khorne to learn from their wicked ways, many others did not and sank ever deeper into indolence and debauchery.

Slaanesh's tempermental screams and self-tormenting nightmares echoed through the Aethyr, and insanity bloomed on every world. Terrible storms raged throughout Heaven and Hell, and rains of fire lashed across Khorne's back, but His grip ever stayed firm around His embryonic sibling. Freezing winds tore at His face and floods of poison crept up His legs, yet still the War God would not let go.

Then His brother came upon the scene. Decay stood there beside War.

"Give up," sighed Father Nurgle. "Give into what must be. It is the nature of things that morals decay and cultures must rot. Mortals cannot leave their destined path."

Khorne turned away from His brother and grasped His wrists all the tighter. Then a gust of coloured light brought there to the brothers the Changer of Ways, and Tzeentch gazed upon the War God with amusement and disdain.

"End this," he hissed. "For it must come to pass. Change is the constant that cannot be changed. We Three must be Four, so the Game has demanded. Be it now, be it later, our sibling must come."

But Khorne would have none of it. He rorared His fury until the universe shook, and the foundations of All That Is, All That Was, and All That Shall Be, threatened to crumble. His brothers left Him then, one with a sigh and one with a chuckle, for both knew that the ending was close.

Upon the Mortal Plane the wars had all ceased. All morals and laws had rotted away, and the change to conceit was almost done. The Three wavered as decadence took hold, and Slaanesh expanded beyond size and beyond measure. But Khorne, unable to see defeat, hung on to His charge though his arms were bent back and His body near-crushed. Then with a scream of release that ripped through the Warp, Slaanesh threw off His eldest brother and burst into being.

Such was the Event of Slaanesh's birth, the metal body that had contained Khorne's essence since He had slain Khaelis Ra, shattered into a thousand pieces that scattered across the dimensions. But though His soul had been freed from its silver prison, Khorne had not the strength to strike a counter blow against exultant Slaanesh, and so the Pleasure God was left to reap the souls of His mortal creators and set His Throne alongside those of His brothers. So it was that the Three became Four and the Eternal Pantheon was complete.

From whenever 'then' was, until wherever 'now' is, the gods have continued their unending dance, twirling each other through the minds and souls of mortals. First one leads and then another, each keeping step in this pavane of peril, a stately measure played out to the beating of human hearts.

None of these powers can ever truly win against its brothers, for, as the Great Conspirator did say, it is the nature of things that change is the only constant - and nowhere is this more true than within the shadow place that is Chaos.

Yet still the gods dance and their bellows of delight shake the universe.

from the 'Liber Maleficarum'. Restricted distribution 2405- I.C. by order of K. M. Eisel, Witch Hunter Captain"

(written down by Dreadnautilus on reddit, as the fragment was in handwriting in Liber Chaotica).

As seen in the fragment describes Khorne fighting and destroying K(h)aelis Ra (the Nightbringer), exactly like Khaine was described in lore from the same period (the short story, and in-universe Eldar myth "The Birth of Fear"). And being, or rather Khaine/Khorne's shell being shattered by Slaanesh.

Does it mean Khorne and Khaine are the same? Not necessarily. Even the fluff from Liber Chaotica implies they are no longer the same, being split by Slaanesh. It's also hard to tell if this fluff/lore is canon, especially seeing multiple elements from the White Dwarf #108 were directly retconned. Still, it does show there were instances were the two gods of war and blood were stated to be same.

combined artworks of Khaine by Jes Goodwin and Khorne by Ian Miller

[ladybugmania]

A message to Benjamin Netanyahu, Donald Trump's best friend.

Coward Child Murder.

Title: Echoes of Fire

History is not a straight line, it is a spiral. Sometimes it ascends in hope, other times it descends into familiar horrors.

What Hamas did in Israel was barbaric. It was terrorism in its ugliest form, violence against civilians, a slaughter without conscience. Such evil demands justice. No nation can endure such an assault without responding. Hamas must be destroyed, and they will face their reckoning. That is certain.

But what came next was not justice. It was not measured. It was not brave.

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, faced with an atrocity, did not rise as a statesman. He did not show the strength of a leader who guides his people through pain with wisdom and courage. Instead, he wielded the sword with fury, without precision, without mercy.

He did not send in soldiers to uproot Hamas from the shadows. He sent in machines, missiles, and bombs—raining destruction on homes, hospitals, and schools. After the fire fell, the boots came, walking through the rubble of lives, of children who had no voice in this war.

How pathetic, Benjamin.

You became judge, jury, and executioner—not of the guilty alone, but of the innocent caught in the crossfire. The world has seen this before. The Jewish people have lived this before.

We remember a time when Jews were demonized for the actions of a few. When they were herded, punished, and massacred, not as individuals, but as a people. Collective blame. Collective suffering. Genocide.

And now, in Gaza, that story echoes in reverse.

This is not a question of politics. It is a question of humanity. When a murderer is brought to trial, the law does not punish his wife, his children, his neighbors. We punish the guilty—not their bloodlines.

But Netanyahu, you chose the path of vengeance over justice. The path of fear over courage. The soul of a nation is shaped in times like these. And under your watch, Israel’s soul has been stained. Not by defense, but by overreach. Not by survival, but by the crushing of another people’s hope.

This is not an attack on Israel, nor the Jewish people, whose history of survival is sacred. This is a cry for morality, for compassion, for balance. For remembering that in seeking to destroy monsters, we must not become them.

Hamas will be broken. Their day of reckoning will come, and it will be final.

But Netanyahu, your reckoning will be one of the spirit. History will not forget what you have done. And your soul will carry the weight of every child lost under the rubble your orders buried them in.

There are no winners in this spiral of suffering—only the dead, and those who will live with what they’ve done.

Sending love to Palestinian people

Sending love to all the Jewish people

[loislanecoree]

Cruel Summer

Aaron Warner x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Aaron Warner have been secretly seeing each other since the beginning of Spring. The problem is that your parents are part of Omega Point, the rebel group of The Reestablishment. While Aaron’s father runs The Reestablishment along with other leaders from other continent. From secret meetings to I love yous, you start questioning if all of this is worth taking the risk.

Author's Note: Hello, here's my first Aaron series. First off, I ctrl+delete Juliette in this AU. Second, Aaron is in his late twenties in this story and so is the reader. I try to make everything as accurate as possible but it has been a while since I read the first three books for the series, so I might forget certain details. Anyway, comments are welcome! Let me know if you want to be tagged. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: 18+, mention of violence, smut, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 5.8K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

It was raining.

It was always raining these days. If not, the sky was dark and gloomy. You didn’t know how long since the last time you saw the sun. Since The Reestablishment had taken over and wars had broken out all around the world, the sky was just blanketed by dark gray skies. You remembered your childhood and how the world was back then. Sunny skies, pink sunsets, children on the playground. You would hear the ice cream truck around the neighborhood during summer. You remember spending Christmas and Thanksgiving with your family. It was your favorite time of the year. 

Autumn and Winter. 

Now, it was just cold, gloomy and rainy most days. The weather was pretty much unpredictable. Broken buildings, fires breaking out, civilians lost around the streets outside or getting shot if they didn’t follow The Reestablishment’s rules. You have seen the brutal things the government had done to those civilians, and it hurts to see them suffer and it hurts even more knowing you couldn’t do anything about it. Your parents had warned you to stay away from trouble. To always stay alert because you never know what The Reestablishment would do next.

Your parents were part of a secret organization called Omega Point. They ran it along with their friend Castle. The group took in people who have some sort of supernatural abilities and aimed to destroy The Reestablishment. You, however, didn’t have any special abilities. You were only part of the group because of your parents. 

Castle was always alert, and he seemed to know more than what he led on. You couldn’t help but wonder if your parents also knew more than what they usually would tell you. You were always good at spying and sneaking out. That was your talent and most of the time, you were always successful in your own little personal agendas. Your parents knew that too. So, you figured they wouldn’t lie to you, knowing that you would eventually find out anyway. 

There was that one time that your parents had caught you sneaking out of the Omega Point base back in the Spring. They were furious over it that you were stuck for two weeks in your room because they didn’t want you going anywhere. You didn’t care though because you had an interesting time that night. You had sneaked out and pretended that you were part of the little gathering of The Reestablishment’s leaders. You were always so curious as to what they did. Curious how great their life must be in that part of Sector 45. 

And you were right. 

Because you saw everything. They had everything they wanted as if the world didn’t burn down and everyone was living in this hell. Most civilians could barely find any food to feed themselves and here they were living like Kings and Queens. 

“Are you lost?” 

His voice made you jump. You were at the back of the building, looking through the window and trying to see what was happening inside. You never had anyone caught you before. Ever. Not even your parents when you were spying or sneaking out and here he was, standing over you. As you looked over your shoulder, you saw a man with blond hair and piercing green eyes. He was staring at you with some sort of curiosity. Some trespasser, he probably thought. You were, but that didn’t matter because you were supposed to act like you were part of this gathering. He was in uniform and on his uniform it said, “Sector 45 CCR, A. Warner.” Your eyes shifted at the name, and you knew then that you had to make up some excuse to convince him that you belong in this little gathering. 

“Um… no.” You shook your head, straightening your clothes. “Just trying to get some air.” 

His emerald eyes studied you as you stood there with your back straight, acting like there was confidence radiating out of you. However, you could feel your heart beating out of your chest. It was running a million miles per hour, and you were terrified that he would be able to hear it. He furrowed his brows and looked over his shoulder to see the dark clouds blanketing the city. You knew he was wondering what you meant by that because it had been a while since the world had an actual fresh air. It made you even terrified that he probably realized that you weren’t part of this little party. 

“Hm…” His eyes studied you from top to bottom. “Which continent are you from? I’ve never seen you before.”

Your heart was gone. You couldn’t feel it anymore as you tried to make up some excuse but thankfully, he was called by another soldier from a distance. You immediately hid behind the post, so you wouldn’t be seen and just like that, he walked away. A sigh of relief washed over you as you watched him enter the building with the soldier. 

Sneaking inside the building, you made sure everyone else was busy and made your way up the stairs. You didn’t bother taking the elevator since you might bump into some more people and then, you were met with a long hallway, bright fluorescent lights illuminating it.

It made you feel like you were in a hospital.

Walking down the hall, you found the Supreme Commander’s office. The name Anderson was on the door and quietly, you turned the knob and peered your head behind the door. It was empty and dark. You looked around the office and went around the desk to find some sort of evidence to prove that The Reestablishment was doing something wrong. 

Something that could help Omega Point take down The Reestablishment once and for all.

Letting out a sigh, you pulled one of the drawers, but it was locked. All of them needed a key. Looking through all the files on his desk, you couldn’t find anything interesting nor the key to open up one of the drawers. You figured maybe he kept it safe with him. Hearing footsteps coming from down the hall, you walked out of the office and rapidly walked back to the fire escape staircase only to be met with the same man again.

He furrowed his brows and tilted his head at you. “What are you doing here?”

You sighed, “Can’t find the bathroom. Where is it?”

He turned his head to the side and gave you a side eye before walking back down the stairs and led you down onto another long hallway. 

“Thanks.” You murmured and entered the restroom. 

You waited a few minutes until you saw the shadow of his footsteps disappear. Unlocking the door, you looked both ways before finding the exit and out the back of the building again. You quietly hid from the soldiers that were on the lookout until you felt a hand cover your mouth, and you were pulled into a dark alley. 

Your fight and flight mode immediately turned on as you struggled in the person’s grip. You tried to reach for your knife in your back pocket, but the person was pulling you in their arms too quickly. Using your elbow, you jabbed the person right on their stomach as they groaned softly from the pain. You told your legs to start running as fast as you could, but you felt their hand grab your wrist and immediately, all you felt was the stinging pain on your back by the brick wall.

The light from the post illuminated his face, and you saw that it was the same man you met earlier. He pinned you against the wall, his hand clamped over your mouth, and his green eyes were wide. He quietly held up his index finger in front of his lips to let you know to be quiet as you both heard footsteps from a soldier from a distance.

He pulled you away from the light and hid you from the dark corner until the soldier had disappeared.

“Who are you?!” You whispered, anger in your voice. “Why do you keep following me?!”

An amused soft laugh escaped from him as his face leaned closer to yours. 

“I should be asking you that, love.” He whispered. “Who are you, and why are you sneaking around the building?”

You swallowed every emotion that was washing over you right now. Your heart was beating a thousand miles as you stared into his eyes. They were icy pale green. His features were sharp, and he looked sort of beautiful. Almost unreal.

“You could answer me or I could get one of the soldiers to throw you out or worse.” He added, his voice was cold and stern, his spare hand finding his gun on his holster. 

Your eyes followed where his hand was, and you kept your mouth shut. You couldn’t say a word. You couldn’t risk putting your parents and all your friends in danger because of one mistake that you made. Maybe you should have listened to your parents. Maybe you should have stayed back in the base and all of this wouldn’t have happened. He stared at you for a moment, his eyes studied you and his brows furrowed.

“I’m a nobody.” You finally replied, your voice stuttering. “J..Just lost.”

His eyes kept studying you until he took a step back and finally let go of you. You exhaled a sharp breath and looked at him for a moment. He looked distressed. He looked lonely. You didn’t really understand how you knew that, but you could see it in his eyes. 

“Go before someone sees you.” He said, his head hung low. 

You were ready to run because you should be, right? So, how come your legs weren’t moving? How come you couldn’t bear to leave him like that? 

“Y… You’re just gonna let me go?” You asked. 

He lifted his head, his eyes boring into yours. It made your heart beat faster again as he said, “Be glad I’m irritated tonight. I don’t have the energy to take you into a prison cell or kill you and make a whole scene.”

Taking a few steps back, you looked over your shoulder one more time before running off. That was when you were met with your parents when you arrived back at the base. They were furious. Asking you a bunch of different questions as to where you were and how dare you leave the base without letting anyone know. Your best friend, Kenji, was standing behind them. A disappointed look in his eyes as they sent you to your room and told you that you were going to be watched for the next two weeks to make sure you weren’t going to make any more reckless decisions.

Then, after two weeks passed, you found yourself outside the Omega Point base. You were walking near the water, your thoughts pinwheeling and wondering how long were you all going to hide? You kept asking if this was how the world was going to be until you died. Kept wondering how much more damage The Reestablishment would do until everything would fall apart even more. Wondering what else they did underneath all those metal tall buildings. What decisions and plans were they planning? 

Then, you felt that familiar touch grab you by the wrist. You let out a small shriek as you were pulled in the nearby forest—at least what was left of it—

“You.” Your eyes widened. 

You looked around for soldiers but there was no sign of them. You had told Kenji what happened that night. You described the soldier as someone who looked unreal, beautiful and part of you thought you were dreaming that night. 

“I don’t know, maybe there’s something in the air at their base.” You lightly teased. 

“You said his uniform said CCR A. Warner?” Kenji’s eyes widened. 

“Yes, why?”

You saw the worry that washed over Kenji’s face as he said, “That’s Anderson’s son. Warner is the most brutal and heartless Chief Commander in Sector 45. Jesus Christ, Princess!” 

Anderson’s son? You knew about him, but you hadn't realized it was him, especially with the fact that his name was Warner, not Anderson.

“Brutal and heartless?” You tilted your head. “Then… Then why’d he let me go that easily?”

“I don’t know but there’s something wrong about it. You need to be more careful! You don't know his agenda, and you might end up dead next time.”

Warner. 

Kenji’s words echoed in your head as you shook your wrist from his grip. You didn’t know what it was but there was something in his eyes today. Some concern he was feeling. If he was so heartless like Kenji said then why could you see the human inside him? 

The son of the Supreme Commander of Sector 45. Warner was the Chief Commander and Regent. The man that the soldiers were afraid of because of how cold he was. He could kill someone in a heartbeat and not have an emotion over it. How much of a robot he was as Kenji told you. You still couldn’t understand why he let you go unharmed. How he didn’t kill you for spying. You didn’t understand one bit of it. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice was low and ice cold. “Are you here to kill me? If so, just do it now—”

“No.” He shook his head, his eyes stared at the ground. “I know who you are.” 

He took your hand and dragged you further in the forest until you both saw the lake. He dropped your hand and pinched the bridge of his nose and paced back and forth in front of you. He whispered your name, and you wondered how he knew that. Although, knowing that he was the son of the Supreme Commander, you realized they probably kept files of everyone. 

“You’re part of Omega Point.” He stated, his tracks stopped and he stood in front of you. 

You felt your heart drop to your stomach. If he knew about you, then he probably would have known all the members of Omega Point. Kenji, Castle, you… your parents. 

Maybe you knew nothing of this world after all. Knew nothing about what The Reestablishment did nor what Castle and your parents knew about the new world. 

“H…How did you—” You shook your head.

“Doesn’t matter.” He took a step closer. “My father…” He took a deep breath. “I think…he’s killing… children. Killing certain people.”

You didn’t say a word. That revelation was a shock to you, but you knew there was something going on. You knew it was more than just taking over the world. More than just building up a new world, new rules and destroying every bit of history from the past. 

“That was why you were there, weren’t you?” Warner asked, his voice was stern. “You knew about this?”

“No.” You said. “I… I knew there’s something more going on. I was there to find evidence, but I wasn’t able to.”

“Well, I did.” Warner replied, his head shaking. “I think…”

“I…I’m sorry.” That was all you could manage.

You didn’t exactly understand why he was here. Why was he telling you all of this? What did he want from you? Why did he risk coming out here to talk to you? 

“I’m not.” He said. “I knew my father was vile… A psychopath.”

“What are you saying?”

“I want to help take him down.” His green eyes went dark as it met yours. “I want to kill him.”

A small gasp escaped your lips as he took another step forward towards you. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as Warner looked up and stared at something behind you. 

“Meet me in that cabin at night.” He murmured. “I will look for more information and evidence that could help.”

You followed his eyes and saw the cabin just not too far. It was behind the tall redwood trees. This forest was the only thing left of this broken world, and you didn’t even realize there was a cabin right there. It was too hidden. 

“But—” 

But before you could say anything Warner had already left. You were left in the middle of the woods with your thoughts again. In the beginning, you were terrified to actually go through and believe what Warner said. You didn’t know him and he was part of The Reestablishment. How would you know that you could trust him? How do you know that he wasn’t playing a double agent? 

When you had sneaked out that night to the cabin, you brought yourself a few weapons in your pocket just in case you needed them. You couldn't bear to let Kenji know what you were doing. At least until you were sure about all of this.

Looking around the forest, you saw no sign of other soldiers, but you couldn’t help but wonder if they were just hiding. Entering the cabin quietly, you found Warner sitting by the fireplace. He had documents laid out all over the coffee table and wooden floors. You closed the door behind you and studied the image in front of you. For a moment, you slowly started to believe what he told you. He did brought the evidence. He brought every document he could find in his father’s office. 

“What are these?” You asked, settling yourself on the floor next to him.

You couldn’t help but notice that he was in his suit. Did this man ever wore anything else other than his uniform and suits? Your eyes then studied his blond hair, his long golden lashes and his eyes that were focused on the papers in front of him.

“Records of the children that mysteriously disappeared.” He said, gazing up at you. “But there was no evidence why they disappeared.” 

He gazed up at you, green eyes staring into yours. It was almost enchanting that you had to look away and focus your attention on the papers in front of you. Both of you spent the night looking through the documents, but you both couldn’t seem to find anything. They were all just records saying that they either died from an accident or they disappeared out of nowhere. No hard evidence at all.

Then, another night came and another and another. Kenji started noticing your late night routine until you finally told him the truth.

“Are you insane?!” He whisper-yelled in the middle of the hall. “This is not a good idea, Princess.”

“Just please trust me?” You pleaded. “Just please cover for me if my parents or Castle look for me.”

“Nuh uh!” Kenji shook his head. “I’m not going to agree with your little suicidal plan with Warner.”

“Kenji, he could be the key to finding all these records. I’ve seen it. Please just give us more time.”

Kenji stared at you for a moment before exhaling a sharp breath and said, “I hope you realized who you are talking to every night in that secluded cabin.”

A smile creeped up on your face as you pulled your best friend into a hug and thanked him. Then, a week of meeting with Warner had become two weeks then one month. Then, two months until Spring ended and Summer finally came. Not that it mattered since the weather stayed the same. It was rainy, dark and gloomy. 

The more you spent with Warner, the more you saw a different side of him. His walls were slowly unraveling in front of you, but it wasn’t to the point where you knew his personal secrets. His personal life. You have never seen him smile, he was always so serious. But he had told you about his father and how his mother died. That was the closest personal thing you have known about him.

It was awful.

His father tortured her and gave her drugs until she turned into almost like a wild animal. Warner mentioned how his mother’s ability was that no one could touch her, but her power was so strong that she could feel the pain of her own skin and suffered until she died from it. You were slowly understanding why he hated his father and why he was rebelling against him.

At least you thought you understood all of it until that one night… 

“Here.” He handed you a box.. 

“What is this?” You furrowed your brows and opened up the box.

Inside, there was wrapping paper and once you had ripped it open, you found a green dress, almost the same color as his eyes. You held up the dress in front of you and then stared at him, confused.

“What is this for?” You asked.

“You don’t like it?” He grabbed the dress from your hands. “I’ll change it. I don’t know your favorite color.”

He couldn’t even look at you. He was staring at the dress in his hands and then, you realized something. The dress was the most obvious one out of all the things he brought every time you met up with him. It was food at the beginning. Then, a nice blanket. Told you that it gets cold at night in the cabin, and it annoyed him to see you shivering all night. Then, you found some fancy soaps in the bathroom, which you never understood because you never took a shower in the cabin. Then, the cabin was slowly being decorated nicely. You thought maybe he was trying to make it a lot cozier. 

But no.

He was doing all of this for you. He was giving you gifts, but why? 

“No,” you took the dress back from his hands. “I like it. Thanks.”

You studied the dress in your hands for a moment then, you felt his presence in front of you. Suddenly, you felt the air between the two of you shift. His fingers found a strand of hair from your face as he tucked it behind your ear. You gazed up at him through your lashes and found his face inches from yours.

You couldn’t breathe. 

His fingers brushed gently against your cheek, and a small gasp escaped your lips. He never touched you. He was always distant even when he was sitting next to you. It was almost like there was a wall between the two of you but the moment you felt his touch, all of a sudden, you saw that wall crack. 

“You’d look beautiful in that dress.” He whispered.

The air in your lungs suddenly gave out. The wall he had put up between the two of you had split open. 

“Warner, I… I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your words stuttered, you could barely find your voice.

His hands then cupped your face as his green eyes were staring deep into yours. His eyes sparkled, and you were a glass almost breaking into pieces. His touch was the only thing that was keeping you glued together for a moment. He held your face like you were something so delicate that he was afraid he'd break you if he wasn’t careful.

“Do you know how much it’s killing me that I can’t hold you?” He murmured. “How much it’s killing me that I can’t stop thinking about you every second of the day?”

“Y…You can’t stop thinking about me?” 

His thumb traced the outline of your lips before his nose grazed against yours. You held your breath as you closed your eyes. You could feel the heat radiating off your body and all of a sudden, you couldn’t think straight anymore. 

“I can’t stop thinking about your eyes, these lips…” his thumb softly touched your lips, almost like a feather-like touch. “...your voice—god, your voice.”

His hand slipped at the back of your head before he said, “I don’t want to scare you away.”

Your breath hitched, “You’re not.”

His sharp features were right in front of you, and his eyes studied each detail of you. You forgot what it was like to breathe. Time has stopped. Time froze the moment he pressed his lips against yours, and you didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. He tasted so sweet. He tasted like peppermint. He kissed you hungrily and desperately like he has been waiting for this for a long time. He pulled you close and pressed your body against his. Your hands slid on his chest, and you could feel his chest heaving as he let his lips trailed down your jawline and down your neck.

You were gone.

You didn’t know how you were still alive because you had stopped breathing a long time ago. His kisses sent shivers down your body. It was something you never experienced before. Never felt before. It was so soft and at the same time, it was something so special. A luxury that you never tasted before. 

Warner scooped you up in his arms and carried you towards the bedroom, setting you gently on the bed. For a moment, he pulled away from the kiss. Both of you were breathless, and his fingers were caressing your face softly.

“I…I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He whispered. 

You gazed up at him, breathless. “Then, kiss me again.” You murmured before pulling him close to you again. 

His lips kissed down your neck and down to your collarbone as he tugged on your shirt and pulled it over your head. You couldn’t breathe. You weren’t here anymore. His lips trailed down to your chest, and his hand gripped your hips as you ran your fingers through his hair. A jar of butterflies exploded in your stomach and fluttered all over your body. 

“Warner.” You whispered.

“Yes, love?” He gazed up at you. 

“Are… Are you sure about this?” 

Your heart was drumming hard in your chest and you swore, he could hear it. There was nothing more you wanted than this, but you knew how complicated the situation was. You didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and find him gone. You didn’t want to wake up and find out that he regretted it. Most of all, you wanted to trust him. Believe him that this was real. 

“I’ve never wanted anything more than this, love.” He said. “You’re consuming every part of my soul, and I can’t explain why.”

You slid your hand behind his head and pulled him down to kiss him deeply. Your heart was pounding hard, and you felt the world stopped around you. 

It was just you and him. 

You fumbled through the buttons of his shirt and immediately slid it over his broad shoulders. Pulling away from the kiss, you gazed down at his body, your fingers ran down his bare skin and you heard a breathless gasp escape his lips. Your fingers ran through the hills and curves of his muscles on his stomach. Then, you saw his tattoo that sits right on the bottom of his torso. Just below his hip bone. 

Hell is empty and all the devils are here. 

Your fingers grazed over the words, and you saw Warner’s chest went up and down as you continued to touch him.

���So… beautiful.” You whispered. 

However, you didn’t know what happened or what you said to him because you saw something shifted inside him. His eyes had gone dimmed and he immediately pulled away from you. You furrowed your brows and questions started running in your mind.

“What is it?” You asked.

“I…” He shook his head. 

You were confused. You watched as he repeatedly shook his head. He looked embarrassed. He got up from the bed and so did you. He kept taking a step back, and he looked jittery. 

You never saw him like this before.

“Warner…” You took a step forward.

You wanted to reach for him, but he was pulling away from you, and you didn’t understand why. You thought this was what he wanted. 

“I’m not…” His voice stuttered. 

Then, when he bent down to pick up his shirt from the floor, a gasp escaped your lips. Immediately, you walked towards him. You hesitated to touch him, but you saw it. You saw all of it. 

Scars.

His back was covered with them. Right on his upper back, just between his shoulder blades, there was also a tattoo that said:

IGNITE.

“W—What happened?” You asked, your fingers finally grazing over the scarred skin of his back. 

He winced from your touch as he turned around to face you. His face looked like he was in pain as he stared at you for a moment. 

“It’s repulsive, I know.” He said, sliding his shirt back in his body. “They’re birthday gifts from my father from when I was five until I was eighteen.”

You couldn’t help but clamped over a hand on your mouth, another gasp escaping from you. You felt the tears welled up in your eyes as you shook your head. Warner couldn’t even look at you. He turned his head to the side and stared at the wall. 

“I’m not beautiful, love.” He murmured. “I’m repulsive, and I’ve killed people before. Tortured them…” 

You were frozen for a moment. Trying to comprehend everything that you just learned. You knew his father was vile and a psychopath but the thought of Aaron having to go through that kind of abuse? The thought of him being trained by his father to kill people? Anger washed over you. Turning to face him, you walked across the room and cupped his face in your hands, letting his green eyes find yours.

“You’re not repulsive, and I’m not redacting my statement.” You said sternly. 

There wasn’t anything else that you needed to say to convince him to believe you because he was now cupping your face in his hands, his emerald eyes sparkling. You could hear your heart drumming in your ears as he pulled you in for another kiss. A hungry and desperate one but at the same time, it was all so soft like cotton candy. You slid his shirt away from his shoulders again as he carried you to the bed and towered over you. He was breathless as he kissed down your body, and you swore the room started to spin.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this was what heaven was like. If this was it. If you finally died and went to heaven. If you did, it was peaceful. Quiet. The only one that was looking at you was this man with piercing green eyes and leaving you soft feathered kisses all over your body like you were something new. Like he had never had something like this in his life, and he was afraid that he'd lose it if he didn’t hold on to it tightly. 

Your thoughts were gone as soon as you felt him unzipping your pants. The rest of your clothes were on the floor, and you were lying naked in front of him. You felt the blood rushed to your face as he studied you, a small smile lingering on his lips.

“So enchanting.” He whispered before pressing his face on your neck and leaving soft kisses on your skin. 

“I think…” He breathed heavily. “...my heart has exploded a million times.”

You smiled softly and cupped his face, looking right at him. You have never known this kind of look before. You have never seen anyone look at you like this before. Repeating the words that Warner just told you, you couldn’t help but think about how your heart also exploded a million times because this…

This was everything. 

Being with him was like a safe bubble that you wished you never wanted to leave. If you were asked, you would stay in this cabin forever. You didn’t care about anything else. You just wanted to be with him everyday and that was how it went for the next few weeks. You sneaked out of the base and saw Warner almost every night. It was an escape from this cruel world. A happiness you never knew existed but time was never enough. 

It was always never enough.

You always found yourself going back to the base in the early mornings, hoping you wouldn’t be caught by anyone. It was the perfect time since everyone would be asleep and the streets were empty during those hours. 

“You’re late.” 

You stopped in your tracks right before entering your room and turned around to find Kenji standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Sometimes you hated the fact that his power was invisibility because this man always appeared out of nowhere.

“Only five minutes late.” You corrected him. 

“I don’t like this, Princess.” Kenji said.

You looked around to make sure no one was around before pulling Kenji inside your room and let out a sigh. 

“Please, Kenji.” You murmured. “I do appreciate you covering for me every night but please understand that this is important to me.”

“Important?” Kenji raised his brow. “You’re meeting up with Warner. Anderson’s son. You know, the one who made this whole shit show of a world in the first place? The one we’re trying to take down?”

“I know, I know.” You raised a hand up to stop him. “But he isn’t like that. He understands what we do, and he wants to help.”

Kenji let out a scoff. “How sure are you that he can be trusted?”

“Because I know.” Your eyes were pleading for him to understand. 

“How sure are you that he isn’t using you just to get information about us too?” 

“Because he also hates his father and besides, we haven’t talked about that in a while.” You felt your cheeks heat up as you remembered Warner for a moment. 

Kenji was suddenly all scrunched up in disgust as he shook his head. “Ew. That’s gross. Don’t ever say that again to me.” 

“Just please, trust me? We will figure this all out soon. He’s trying.” 

Kenji let out a sigh and nodded his head. “Just be careful out there. It’s dangerous and honestly, I don’t like the fact that you are running around late at night out there.”

“Please,” You said, holding back from rolling your eyes. “I can handle myself, Kenji.”

“I know you can but still.” 

You laughed softly. You were grateful for Kenji and besides the fact that you knew he wasn’t really agreeing with this whole thing, you were still glad that he always understood you and never doubted you. 

“Whatever you say, Princess.” Kenji said before walking out the door. 

Flopping yourself on the bed, you exhaled sharply and stared at the ceiling. You couldn’t help but wonder if Kenji was right. Warner was Anderson’s son and even if he gotten pretty good at sneaking out of the base, you were terrified that one day his father might find out. Then, what was going to happen? It would risk everything. 

Everyone. 

***********

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[bonbonrobespierre]

I begin to think there is a sort of currency in being hated.

Not merely disliked—such tepid disdain is the common lot of men—but reviled. Truly hated, with venom. With bile. With sharpened teeth and cold fingers wrapped round my throat.

To be so important one’s enemies must invent cruelties in order to dismantle your name—well. That is fame, in this age. That is proof you mattered. It’s not the destruction they bring that marks you, but the fact that they are compelled to. To go so far as to shape their cruelty around you, to make you the focus of their rage.

Not because I thirst for violence, no. I know what violence is—I know it in the bones. But because there is a truth in hatred that love rarely dares to touch. Hatred strips the skin back, bares the nerves, tells you exactly what you are. If they hate you, it is because you have threatened the world they would rather keep. If they hate you, it is because you shook something, even if only for a second.

I look at them—those “great men,” whose very breath kindles fury in my chest—and I wonder what it must be like to mean something. To carry enough weight in your words that they provoke fury. Real fury. Not pity. Not condescension.

I’ve hated people like that. With a certain kind of obsession sewn into the hatred, because it meant they mattered. It meant they existed in me, around me, in the walls and the air and the conversations I wasn’t invited to. They haunted everything. I wanted to be like that.

I hate with so much precision, so much focus, that I could hollow someone out with it—strip them down to their marrow with the sharpness of it—but I’m not important enough to hate back. That’s the worst part. I carry this boiling violence in me and it lands on nothing. Because to them, I’m not worth the rage—not even worth the ruin. I burn at the thought of them, and they barely register my name.

And I think, in some sick corner of my heart, I am… ashamed. Ashamed I am not hated. Ashamed I am not worthy of being destroyed.

Which is absurd. Which is vanity.

But how else do I know I exist?

I wanted to be seen as just as devoted, just as incorruptible, just as ready to die for liberty. If I have not earned their hatred, their lies, their venom, then perhaps I have not done enough. Perhaps I have not been enough.

God help me, it gnaws. And I—I feel like I could scream forever and no one would flinch. I could fall on the steps of the Convention and bleed and they would step over me like rain-soaked parchment. I could set myself ablaze in the middle of the street and people would only pause to warm their hands. I could carve manifestos into my own skin with a penknife and no one would bother to read. I could leap from the galleries mid-session and shatter like glass at their feet, and they'd debate procedure over my body.

I think about it more often than I admit—not because I wish to die, not truly, but because I want to prove something. That I am real. That I take up space. That I, too, have a pulse loud enough to echo off the walls of history. It is a sort of madness that whispers: If they will not look at you, then make it impossible not to. But there is no wound deep enough. No fire hot enough. No gesture grand enough. Still, I consider it.

Is that mad?

(Yes.)

if i am not enough of a threat to suffer, then what am i?

Perhaps one day I will be hated, and then I shall know peace. Or, at the very least, relevance.

[blizzardstarx]

Blizzardstar’s Storm - Chapter 9

AO3 Link Table of Contents

Word count: ~2.8k

Warning for mentions of animal death, description of dead bodies, maggots, desecration, mentions of blood and violence

A/N: i think this was my favorite chapter to write so far!! chap 5 is a close second

anyways, new pov, yippee!!! this might only be for this chapter though, or in another future chapter. we’ll see

StormClan was in disarray after the deaths of their leader and deputy. The Clan had closed their borders, and the camp entrance was guarded by the rogues that had taken up places in their ranks. No one was allowed to leave without Houndstrike’s permission. The black tom hadn’t even received his nine lives, and yet he was ordering them around, proclaiming himself as leader of StormClan, with the support of his followers and rogues. 

He hadn’t even allowed them to bury the bodies of Lightningstar and Whitefur. Their corpses had been left to rot out in the sun. 

He would never forget the sight of their remains being picked at by ravens and crows, voracious maggots eating away at their flesh, and that horrible, putrid scent.

He would never forget that smell of death and decay that made him retch and gag, nearly choking all life from out of him.

He would never forget the anguish and pain of his Clanmates’ pleas, begging Houndstrike to at least give them that right.

He would never forget that day his Clan had been turned upside down. 

Never again.

The Clan hadn’t suffered this many losses since the Great Famine. Bluepaw had been four moons old when it happened, but he barely remembered it as he had suppressed the memories of his parents, as well as his Clanmates, slowly dying. After his parents’ deaths, Leafpelt had taken care of him, taking him under her wing and treating him as if he was her son. He would’ve died without her intervention, and he was forever grateful of that fact.

The earliest memory of his life had been a dream he had as a little kit, a vision of a terrible storm. As kits, StormClan cats were taught that storms were mighty forces to be reckoned with, and they respected that. StarClan had to have sent them for a reason, whether as a sign of punishment or reckoning. In the dream, lightning had struck the tree the elders’ den was built into, and fire had engulfed the camp, destroying everything it touched, as well as the forest surrounding it. He remembered watching as the rain began to douse the flames, and everything was built anew again. Prey returned to the forest, and new grass began to grow. Life would always find a way, always recover, even in the most adverse of conditions. There was always hope after a storm. That was also taught to them.

After being a medicine cat apprentice for five moons, he’d thought he’d gotten used to death. Like the destruction of a storm, they must embrace death, as it was inevitable for every cat. They would all join StarClan one day. It was as natural as the rise and fall of the tides, the phases of the moon, and the movement of the sun across the sky. But it still didn’t make it easier to watch. Leafpelt had told him that he would make mistakes one day; someone would die in his paws, under his care, eventually. That was the risk of being a medicine cat.

Today, he harbored no resentment for the rogue that passed in the night, the orange and white tom that had succumbed to his injuries after being pushed to his limit. Bluepaw felt a sense of pity for the rogue, for he was just a product of Houndstrike’s manipulation. The medicine den had been flooded with injured cats after Houndstrike had returned from, what he assumed, chasing after the StormClan refugees. He just wished that Blizzardpaw and the others were okay. A small part of him wondered whether it had been his fault that Houndstrike had found them. After all, the black tom had ambushed him right before he had returned to camp after visiting the fugitives. Bluepaw winced slightly as he remembered the pain of the wounds raked across his body, recalling Houndstrike’s threat hissed into his ear.

“You’re lucky the clan needs medicine cats, otherwise you’d be dead.”

A shudder went through his pelt at the thought, and he stared out of the medicine den, watching as two of the rogues were battle training, or, a better word to describe it, fighting after a heated argument in the clearing. It was a gray tom named Vulture, and a black tabby she-cat named Tiger, tussling and rolling around on the ground with their claws unsheathed. Bluepaw sighed, betting on the amount of time they’ll take before coming to the medicine den with an injury. A few moments, give or take.

And sure enough, as soon as he turned his back, he heard a sharp yowl of pain come from behind him. Bluepaw padded deeper into the den, grabbing some cobwebs and marigold, feeling his mind wander off as he waited for the two rogues to come in.

When’s Leafpelt coming back? She’s been in the nursery for a while. His mentor had gone to check up on Fawnleap’s kits, Mistlekit and Flutterkit, as they had caught a bout of kittencough. He remembered that the queen’s mate, Ravenflight, had been one of the casualties of Houndstar’s coup. Poor Fawnleap. I hope she’s doing alright.

So much needless bloodshed was brought about that fateful day. Lightningstar, Whitefur, Mousetail, Thrushwing, and Ravenflight. But StarClan would guide them through the darkness cast upon StormClan. He was sure of it. 

He was snatched out of his thoughts as the rambunctious rogues pushed through the vines hanging down from the roof of the entrance, and he jerked his muzzle towards them.

“This stupid flea-brain nearly ripped my throat out!” Vulture snarled, his blaring mew echoing throughout the den.

“Not my fault you can’t dodge!” Tiger retorted, baring her teeth at the tom, the fur on the back of her neck standing on end.

Bluepaw fought back the urge to mutter, if you maybe had your claws sheathed, this would’ve been avoided, but he held his tongue. They would kill him in a heartbeat, with or without Houndstrike’s orders. He just dutifully cleaned the wound with a piece of wet moss, watching as it stained with blood, applying precise pressure onto the injury so that it stopped bleeding. He could feel their gazes burning holes into his pelt, carefully watching him as he did his job. Bluepaw had grown used to this constant pattern of life, cleaning wounds, applying cobwebs, then applying infection preventing herbs like marigold or goldenrod. It was a dull, repetitive task that made him feel as though he was watching himself from another cat’s perspective, watching himself outside his body, but it reminded him that he was still here. He was still alive. Even though he could feel every nerve on his pelt scream at him in danger, telling him to run, to run and never come back. But he knew he couldn’t leave his mentor behind. Houndstrike would kill her as punishment, and would take away the only cat left who cared for him. He’d probably make up some excuse for killing off his last medicine cat. Or even force a kit into becoming one.

It was not long before he realized his mentor had materialized beside him, and time had passed so quickly without his knowing. He felt himself relax as the older medicine cat greeted him warmly. Bluepaw always put on a front for others, but Leafpelt was the only cat he felt comfortable to be vulnerable around. Maybe it had been a product of his parents' deaths, of the Great Famine. He didn’t know. Bluepaw wished he had littermates, cats his age he could relate and talk to. But there were none. Blizzardpaw, Splashpaw, and Spiderpaw were five moons younger than him, therefore they were born after the Great Famine. Plus, they weren’t even here, and all the warriors that were, were many moons older than him. He was alone. He was alone in his pain. 

“You okay, Bluepaw?” Leafpelt murmured, lightly placing her paw on his shoulder. He was pulled out of the swirling whirlpool of his thoughts, snapping his head up.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

“A mouse for your thoughts?”

“I wish there were some cats my age,” he admitted quietly, curling his tail around his front paws, drawing himself inwards. “Cats that also went through the Great Famine. Cats that I could… talk to.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I’ll always be here for you, you know that, right?” Leafpelt responded, nuzzling him affectionately. “I care about you a lot.”

Bluepaw nodded, smiling, staring up at the roof and taking in a deep breath. “I miss my parents so much. I wish they were still here with me. What would it be like if the Great Famine never happened? Would so many cats’ lives have been saved?”

“I don’t know if you remember, but my mentor, the medicine cat before me, Specklenose, also died in the Great Famine. She was a cranky old cat, but she taught me everything I know.” Leafpelt says, letting out a soft chuckle, her whiskers twitching in amusement. “She was hard on me, but it helped me learn. Even though you’re bound to make mistakes someday, you can minimize that chance. Anyways, there’s no use dwelling on the past and what could’ve been. It’s important to focus on the present, what is happening now. Though so many of our Clanmates have died, all we can do now is to keep moving forward. For them.”

Bluepaw pressed his side against Leafpelt’s body, feeling her warm embrace wrap around him. “What are we going to do? How are we going to move forward after this? We can’t contact StarClan, nor the other Clans. Is there anyone out there that will save us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe StarClan will give us more signs,” she whispers softly, and Bluepaw thought back to Blizzardpaw, as well as Soaringstar’s message. “Our fate rests in StarClan’s paws now.” 

A quarter moon passed, as well as the half-moon meeting, which had been the day before. Bluepaw pondered whether the other medicine cats, Rowanleaf, Larkflight, and Peachheart would wonder where they were, sighing. 

I wonder how Flamestar and Mossdapple’s kits are doing. He remembered at a Gathering a few moons prior, SunClan had announced news of a new litter of kits, Amberkit, Flashkit, and Nightkit. At least they’re thriving and recovering after the famine. StoneClan too, having six apprentices… and with Sparrowfeather and Swiftrunner becoming warriors…

Bluepaw’s thoughts trailed off as he felt himself being slowly consumed by the pain of reality dawning on him. It was terrifying, watching as his Clan was slowly being destroyed, and being powerless to stop it. StarClan shone on the other Clans, but not them. Maybe they’re testing our faith. But I know they will guide us through this. StarClan will help us. I trust them. They must be watching, since Soaringstar sent that message to Leafpelt. Let’s just hope StarClan guides Blizzardpaw through this peril. 

He felt his eyelids droop as exhaustion washed over him, and he curled up in his nest, feeling himself drift off to sleep. Leafpelt had gone to gather herbs, as she was the only medicine cat trusted to do so, since Bluepaw’s rebellious act a quarter moon ago. Some cat will wake me if they need me.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in StarClan’s hunting grounds. However, no warrior of StarClan appeared around him unlike usual, and he felt a pang of disappointment. Bluepaw got to his paws, exploring the lush, green fields, feeling sunlight beaming down onto his pelt, warming him from his nose to the tip of his tail. A part of him wished that he would run into his parents, but he knew it was just wistful thinking. StarClan would choose to show themselves if they wanted to.

It felt like moons passed as he trekked through the sunny meadows of StarClan, eventually coming to a forest not unlike the one covering most of StormClan territory. The scent of mouse bathed his tongue, making his mouth water. But he shook it off, trying to focus. An urge pushed him onwards, never faltering in his pawsteps, creating a steady rhythm as his paws thudded against the ground. Surely he was here for a reason. 

Bluepaw marched on. But something was wrong. He could feel it as a chill crackled down his spine, seeing the meadows of StarClan fade into a barrier of cloudy mist. The medicine cat apprentice noticed the undergrowth was thinning, and then it disappeared altogether the further he went. Silver tendrils swirled around his paws with every step he took. With every breath he could feel it grow harder to breathe, and he could feel his head spin. A voice inside his head screamed at him to get out of there, that he wasn’t supposed to be here, but he brushed it off. StarClan would stop me if I wasn’t. They must’ve let me walk this far to show me something.

Finally, after what felt like a season, Bluepaw felt the mist fade away, revealing a dark woodland. Tall, thin trees cast long shadows over the dull, mulchy grass, a sharp contrast to the territory StarClan resided in. A musty, rotten scent invaded his senses, the smell of crow-food and rotting fresh-kill filling his nose. The maw of the beast had opened to consume him.

Is this the Dark Forest? He thought, his eyes rounding. Bluepaw had only heard of the Place of No Stars from nursery tales, when he was a young kit, and his mother had told him how only the evilest of cats inhabited it. Stories of SunClan’s line of horrible dictators served as a warning for the Clans to not follow in their pawsteps. And yet, somehow Houndstrike took reign.

Sharp, piercing eyes stared at him in the bleakness, watching. Watching every movement. Every breath he took. Every heave of his chest. They were watching. And one of the pairs of eyes, he could see, was drawing closer.

Now would be a good time to run.

And so he did, twisting on his paws, diving through the mist once more. Before something—or someone—could attack him. But dread and fear filled his body as he heard the sound of paws pounding against the ground behind him, a rush of adrenaline spreading throughout his body.

Something sinister is coming, Bluepaw. A tom’s voice rang in his head, and he recognized that it was Soaringstar speaking to him. Something terrible is coming to the Clans. You cannot stay here, it is dangerous. You have to wake up.

Wake up. He echoed, yelling at himself. Wake up!

Bluepaw jolted awake, jerking his head up, his fur spiked and breathing shallow. Every hair on his pelt stood on end. He gasped for air, gulping it down as if it was a lifeline, as if every breath he took would be his last. And when he looked outside, only a few moments had passed. Soaringstar’s words echoed in his mind over and over.

Something sinister is coming. Something terrible is coming to the Clans.

Tonight, Houndstrike had finally decided to gain his nine lives, and had brought—more like forced—Leafpelt with him, so Bluepaw was left to his own devices in the medicine den. Not a single day passed since Houndstrike’s takeover without cats visiting to get their injuries treated, and even now, Eagleflight lay in one of the spare nests, a large gash on his flank from disobeying prominent in the darkness. Like Vulture and Tiger, the other rogues often came too with injuries, but they never stayed long, to his and Leafpelt’s silent protests.

He had only seen their leader a few times, and he was a large, white tom marred by scars covering his pelt, looking as if he’d been through the Dark Forest and back. Coyote was his name. He was quite a formidable cat, who didn’t allow himself to be bossed around by Houndstrike much, but they held mutual respect for each other. 

Bluepaw could only wait as he stayed awake, staring up at the moon shining high in the sky, making trees overshadow the StormClan camp. The pale moonlight created stark outlines complementing the darkness, and the Clan was suspended in abnormal, eerie silence. For once, it was quiet. It should’ve been a comforting feeling, a sign of peace, but all Bluepaw felt was dread. Dread for the inevitable, for doom to fall upon them once more. The peace would be shattered anyways after Houndstrike—Houndstar—returns. So why get his hopes up?

But for now, he would savor it. For only StarClan knew when peace would be restored.

@castiels-destiny

A/N: next chapter will take another week bc i want to use my spring break for other things 😭😭😭

Next chapter:

Chapter 10

[hiswordsarekisses]

“The Kingdom” is constantly used in connection with the rule of Christ in the hearts of believers - The Kingdom of God is within you! He must be The King of our hearts, ruling our wills and our life, and we are to be praying His Kingdom to come and His will do be done in the earth as it is done in Heaven.

“Being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, he answered them,

“The kingdom of God is not coming in ways that can be observed, nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’

for behold, the kingdom of God is within you.”

And he said to the disciples, “The days are coming when you will desire to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and you will not see it. And they will say to you, ‘Look, there!’ or ‘Look, here!’ Do not go out or follow them. For as the lightning flashes and lights up the sky from one side to the other, so will the Son of Man be in his day. But first he must suffer many things and be rejected by this generation. Just as it was in the days of Noah, so will it be in the days of the Son of Man. They were eating and drinking and marrying and being given in marriage, until the day when Noah entered the ark, and the flood came and destroyed them all. Likewise, just as it was in the days of Lot—they were eating and drinking, buying and selling, planting and building, but on the day when Lot went out from Sodom, fire and sulfur rained from heaven and destroyed them all— so will it be on the day when the Son of Man is revealed.” Luke‬ ‭17‬:‭20‬-‭30‬

“He also asked, “What else is the Kingdom of God like? It is like the yeast a woman used in making bread. Even though she put only a little yeast in three measures of flour, it permeated every part of the dough.”” Luke‬ ‭13‬:‭20‬-‭21‬

“Then Jesus said, “What is the Kingdom of God like? How can I illustrate it? It is like a tiny mustard seed that a man planted in a garden; it grows and becomes a tree, and the birds make nests in its branches.”” Luke‬ ‭13‬:‭18‬-‭19‬

“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” Matthew‬ ‭6‬:‭33‬

[icefang111]

Pixie - 5e player lineage

Wanted to try my hand at homebrewing a proper tiny pixie race for dnd! (Fairy just ain't my jam, not small enough) Still toying around with it, let me know what you think.

Ability Scores: Choose one of: (a) Choose any +2 (b) Choose two different +1

Creature Type: Fey

Size: Pixies generally range from 7 to 3 inches tall when fully grown. They have thin, lightweight bodies that weigh between 3 and 17 pounds. Your size is Tiny.

Speed: 30ft fly, 10ft walking

Age: Pixies mature at 30 and can live for 1000 years

Abilities under the read more

Flight. Pixies use their wings to get around, you have a flying speed faster than your walking speed. You can't use this fly speed if you're wearing heavy armor. Strong wind (20 miles per hour or higher), heavy rain, heavy snow, or hail make it impossible to fly. 

If encountered while flying, you must land or otherwise remove yourself from the hazard by the end of your turn or immediately fall. If falling would remove you from the hazard while still in the air, you can make a DC 15 Dex save to try and stop your fall.

Tiny. You can squeeze through a space with a diameter as narrow as 1 inch wide.

As a tiny creature you can pass through the spaces of creatures medium or larger as though they were difficult terrain, share their space without crowding, and even use them as cover as logic dictates.

Delicate Build.

As with all tiny creatures, your carrying capacity is halved and you can't carry bulky objects. You have disadvantage on strength checks and saving throws.

You cannot use normal weapons and armor, items sized for you are 1/8th their normal weight. However as they are resized, you suffer no penalty from heavy, special, or reach weapons as you otherwise would.

A Pixies weapon attacks with resized weapons deal damage of one dice stage lower than their normal sized counterparts (1d6 becomes 1d4, for example). Pixies have a -1 to AC when wearing armor and/or shields due to the thinner material. Magical armor negates this trait.

Glow: You give off a constant glow of magic, shedding bright light for 1ft and dim light for 3ft. This dims to 1ft of dim light while you are sleeping or otherwise unconscious.

Pixie Magic: Your pixie dust allows you to cast a number of innate spells. You know the druidcraft cantrip. Starting at 3rd level, you can cast the Faerie Fire spell with this trait. Starting at 5th level, you can cast the Sleep spell with this trait. Starting at 10th level, you can cast the Fly spell with this trait. When cast with this trait, these spells can only target a single creature. 

Once you cast a spell with this trait, you can't cast that spell again with it again until you finish a long rest. As these spells are a result of your pixie dust, they cannot be cast by other means unless you learn them separately.

Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for these spells when you cast them with this trait (choose when you select this race). 

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and Sylvan.

Optional rules - Collecting Pixie Dust: as most pixie dust decays after a single day, only a small amount can actually be collected. A single pixie produces enough stable dust to create 1 small bag (enough for one use per the pixie dust item) every 60 days. This dust cannot be collected if they have cast any of their leveled innate spells that day. This dust must be stored in an enchanted pouch costing at least 50 gp to keep the dust magical/stable. The dust in the pouch need not come from a single pixie, but cannot hold dust from more than 3 or the disparate magic destroys all dust in the bag.

[thoughtsafterdark]

Stigmata

The world is quiet. So quiet. The silence deafens, bends backs, breaks minds. It holds its breath, waiting, biding its time. Still and poised yet tense, every pebble and grain of sand prepared to strike. Like a big cat stalking its prey, shoulders rolling so smoothly as it inches closer and closer. Like oil sliding off the skin of the water. Those moments when it crouches and becomes one with the Savanah. When the golden light of the setting sun sets the land aflame and blades of grass blend with raised heckles until they are one and the same.

It waits for you, for your conception and birth. Molecules aligning, cells dividing, flowers blooming. The water of your mother’s womb is surprisingly thin given the precious life it cushions. It is expelled from your lungs like a sacrament, like a fountain that once erupted from a desert rock millennia ago. Strong lungs as befit a firstborn son. Your first cries pierce the air and shatter the stillness into a million shimmering fragments. The diamonds spill across the inky blackness. A burst of colour from the Lord’s brush, arcing across the sky. Another promise, another new beginning. Yet Gods are foolish, lonely creatures. Their promises ring hollow and false to our suffering ears. The whips crack and our skin splits, oozes all the same. Where was God when my brothers withered and died, the cries ripped from their throats going unanswered?

And yet tell me why as I gaze upon you now, I am compelled to fall to my knees? As if every fibre of my being yearns to bow, to yield - as if your voice bursts from somewhere deep in my squirming gut and heart and not your lips?

Tell me why I itch to bury myself in the crook where your thigh meets groin and inhale the musk there as if your scent holds the Eye of the Needle, as if the grooves of your skin map Heaven’s Kingdom. Would you let me cry tears of rapture at your coming and wash your feet with them and my tongue?

I wonder if such a wonton display of devotion would anger you, frighten you. Would you toss me away in disgust, smash my face into the ground? Break my nose against rock and let me feel the warm flood of blood flow backwards down my throat, let me savour the salt and iron as I swallow devoutly. Tell me why I have never felt so alive as when your holy wrath rains down upon me like fire, like the destruction of Sodom.

I watch you now, standing proud against that same setting sun, gazing across the expanse of your new kingdom. Here as it dips low upon the dunes and the sand lashes at us. Its rays frame raven curls and fracture all around you, as if afraid to touch you and be seduced. A halo that revers yet fears you. It hardens your features as if you were hewn from granite Your jaw tightens against the onslaught, sharp enough to fell armies. Your eyes become the harsh ringing of blade against blade. Gone is the boy with the easy smile tugging at the corner of a mouth, crow’s feet wrinkling eyes. In his place is the cold pyre of divine righteousness. The commander of earth and sky, made to wield sound and air itself. I think of the icons of old, the waxy mournful faces of saints and note what a pale imitation they must be, if they had even a third of your weight.

You are a black hole - all-consuming, inescapable, inevitable - and we are all trapped in your orbit, edging ever closer to the Event Horizon that will surely destroy us. But tell me if our path is so doomed why my heart leaps at the prospect of pledging my death to you? What finer gift is there but that of my last breath, freely given?

In your face I see rivers of blood and the thrum of charging men. I hear the chants of our forefathers and the long line of prophets that came before, accumulating across the centuries into the tapestry that is your flesh.

Yet as you lie here beside me, the darkness kept at bay by the stubborn flame of a lone candle, your face serene with sleep and your sweat acrid and sharp in my nose - I see just a man plagued by a crown of thorns. I think of my hands, bathing in the blood of innocents in your name. Your name, a mantra, a hymn that ignites us all with awe and hunger. I wonder if knowing deep down you are just a man makes me more or less the fool.

Then your eyes open, lashes fluttering, and I see the light burning there and I know messiahs are not born but made in the hearth of a home, in the fierceness of a loyal heart and the beating lifeblood of a people starved of hope. I care not if you bleed red or ichor, I know only that I will follow you into hell itself, until we burn to ash and we become whispers, legends. Until we are nothing but dust floating across the dunes, the wind that stokes the flames of a thousand more rebellions.

[bardic-tales]

Pandemonix is set in the Prime Universe of Fantasy Worlds Collide. It is to follow the story of Kayla Winters and Alexander Maloney and the Military Order of Divvik.

This was part of the original world that featured Bianca in it as a succubus before the FWC changes. The final arc of Bianca's story is going to see her taking on Kayla here when she is older and Sephiroth vs Alexander (Archangel Michael).

tw: violence. religious themes. angels and demons. vivid descriptions of wounds.

Kayla cried out, the scream piercing through the rain as the demon’s clawed hand reached for her, still dripping with her father’s blood. Something powerful came over Kayla. She glared into his crimson eyes, the fires of Hell staring back at her. Her heart danced within her chest, beating out a furious warcry. Blood pounded in her ears.

As the powerful hand clutched at her throat, easily squeezing off her air, her voice was cut off. Lazral towered over her. He lifted her into the air. Her feet kicked at his ribs. She threw her small fists against the iron grip in vein.

“Stand and deliver, spawn of Asmodeus!” a voice trumpeted, clear above the din, interrupting Lazral. Kayla had never heard such a voice. The smooth, melodic nature had the effect of soothing her, but it affected the opposite upon Lazral.

Lazral let her go and backed away quickly. Although she was no longer touching the demon, she could feel his tremble. She wondered what could cause such a being such palpable terror. Forgetting about Lazral for a short time, she turned to face her rescuer.

To her surprise, it was only a man, though he was unlike any she had ever seen. There was a righteousness to each step. He was crowned with a mop of golden brown hair that swirled around his head like the halos in the illustrations of her father’s old Bible. The details of his face seemed to be chiseled from marble, and his crystal blue eyes pierced menacingly into Lazral.

Kayla bent down and plucked a fallen branch by her father’s body. If the man needed help killing the creature, she would aid as best as she could, but she didn’t think he would need it.

The wind and hail did not affect him as he strode toward the demon. The tailcoat of his trench coat danced in the gale. In fact, if she didn’t understand the weather like she did, she would had said even the rain bent around her savior. He pulled a sword from his back, the argent blade so pure that it shone like the sun even in the haze of the storm.

The man whispered a mantra to God, and in the next moment, to Kayla’s astonishment, the blade was engulfed in a flame that burned white hot. She scampered to the man.

“That’s not necessary!” Lazral pleaded. His face was a pathetic twisted mess of fear.

The man took a step forward.

“I will go back, tell my master that she is protected!” Lazral’s claws dug into the palm of his hands. Blood dripped from the wounds, the cuts spreading as he tried to get away from the man’s stare. “Do not kill me!”

“You are right,” the man agreed, pointing the blade at Lazral. “She is protected, but you will not be telling your master anything. You will spend eternity in the Lake of Fire, Hell-spawn. You will suffer as you have caused suffering. Your soul cannot be redeemed. It must be destroyed.”

Lazral bolted, but he was too slow. The flaming sword came crashing down, splitting into the demon’s head like an ax chopping wood. His eyes bulged out of the sockets as the flames engulfed his body. He wailed, the storm raging around him. In the next instant, Lazral blinked out of existence and the storm suddenly dissipated.

Two other men came out of the house, holding swords, though no flames surrounded their blades. They run up to Kayla, obviously trying to shield her from the gruesome view. It was for nothing. She had heard what they had done to her mother, brother, and sister and saw Lazral kill her father.

Kayla blinked in the sunlight. She looked up at her rescuer in awe. He had faced down the demon who threatened her and lived. He possessed the strength to do what she could not.

“Alexander,” one of the other men spoke to the man who had saved her, “no one survived inside. We cannot leave her.”

“I had no intention of leaving her, Peter,” Alexander answered. “The demons will never leave her alone, not if she is the Child of Prophecy. We will take her back to Ireland with us.” He turned to Kayla and looked her in the eyes. She suddenly felt calm, tranquil despite everything that had just transpired.

She threw the branch beside her father’s body. Even at the tender age of eight, she knew she was safer with these men than by herself. Plus, she couldn’t see to the burying of her family without their help.

“You will be trained,” Alexander told her, maintaining that steadying gaze. “It is rare to be able to see them naturally. You’ll be able to protect yourself from them. I will, however, not take you against your will. I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Kayla?”

How does he know my name? Kayla asked herself. It amazed her that he did, but despite that, there was nothing suspicious about him at all. He wore his intentions on his sleeve, and she could see that he had her best interest in mind. More than that, she didn’t want those creatures coming after her again.

“Yes, sir,” she mewed.

“So you will come with us? It won’t be easy. You deserve to know that.”

“I want to learn to protect myself.”

“You shall,” Alexander promised grimly. His intense, eerie-colored pale blue eyes bore into her, seemingly staring within her soul. “If prophecy is to be trusted, you will do that and more.”

[walkwithgod07]

11 And there was given me a reed like unto a rod: and the angel stood, saying, Rise, and measure the temple of God, and the altar, and them that worship therein.

2 But the court which is without the temple leave out, and measure it not; for it is given unto the Gentiles: and the holy city shall they tread under foot forty and two months.

3 And I will give power unto my two witnesses, and they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and threescore days, clothed in sackcloth.

4 These are the two olive trees, and the two candlesticks standing before the God of the earth.

5 And if any man will hurt them, fire proceedeth out of their mouth, and devoureth their enemies: and if any man will hurt them, he must in this manner be killed.

6 These have power to shut heaven, that it rain not in the days of their prophecy: and have power over waters to turn them to blood, and to smite the earth with all plagues, as often as they will.

7 And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them.

8 And their dead bodies shall lie in the street of the great city, which spiritually is called Sodom and Egypt, where also our Lord was crucified.

9 And they of the people and kindreds and tongues and nations shall see their dead bodies three days and an half, and shall not suffer their dead bodies to be put in graves.

10 And they that dwell upon the earth shall rejoice over them, and make merry, and shall send gifts one to another; because these two prophets tormented them that dwelt on the earth.

11 And after three days and an half the spirit of life from God entered into them, and they stood upon their feet; and great fear fell upon them which saw them.

12 And they heard a great voice from heaven saying unto them, Come up hither. And they ascended up to heaven in a cloud; and their enemies beheld them.

13 And the same hour was there a great earthquake, and the tenth part of the city fell, and in the earthquake were slain of men seven thousand: and the remnant were affrighted, and gave glory to the God of heaven.

14 The second woe is past; and, behold, the third woe cometh quickly.

15 And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever.

16 And the four and twenty elders, which sat before God on their seats, fell upon their faces, and worshipped God,

17 Saying, We give thee thanks, O Lord God Almighty, which art, and wast, and art to come; because thou hast taken to thee thy great power, and hast reigned.

18 And the nations were angry, and thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead, that they should be judged, and that thou shouldest give reward unto thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them that fear thy name, small and great; and shouldest destroy them which destroy the earth.

19 And the temple of God was opened in heaven, and there was seen in his temple the ark of his testament: and there were lightnings, and voices, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail.

[saltoftheearth5x2]

Luke 17

Over the 24 days leading up to Christmas, I'm going to be posting a chapter of Luke every day. I encourage you to read through Luke's gospel and reflect on Jesus's time here on earth. Perhaps you'll find something new.

Masterlist

Luke 17 (NIV)

Sin, Faith, Duty

Jesus said to his disciples: “Things that cause people to stumble are bound to come, but woe to anyone through whom they come. 2 It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. 3 So watch yourselves.

“If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them. 4 Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.”

5 The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!”

7 “Suppose one of you has a servant plowing or looking after the sheep. Will he say to the servant when he comes in from the field, ‘Come along now and sit down to eat’? 8 Won’t he rather say, ‘Prepare my supper, get yourself ready and wait on me while I eat and drink; after that you may eat and drink’? 9 Will he thank the servant because he did what he was told to do? 10 So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”

6 He replied, “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it will obey you.

Jesus Heals Ten Men With Leprosy

11 Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. 12 As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance 13 and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!”

14 When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed.

17 Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? 18 Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” 19 Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”

15 One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. 16 He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan.

The Coming of the Kingdom of God

20 Once, on being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, “The coming of the kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, 21 nor will people say, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is,’ because the kingdom of God is in your midst.”

22 Then he said to his disciples, “The time is coming when you will long to see one of the days of the Son of Man, but you will not see it. 23 People will tell you, ‘There he is!’ or ‘Here he is!’ Do not go running off after them. 24 For the Son of Man in his day will be like the lightning, which flashes and lights up the sky from one end to the other. 25 But first he must suffer many things and be rejected by this generation.

26 “Just as it was in the days of Noah, so also will it be in the days of the Son of Man. 27 People were eating, drinking, marrying and being given in marriage up to the day Noah entered the ark. Then the flood came and destroyed them all.

28 “It was the same in the days of Lot. People were eating and drinking, buying and selling, planting and building. 29 But the day Lot left Sodom, fire and sulfur rained down from heaven and destroyed them all.

30 “It will be just like this on the day the Son of Man is revealed. 31 On that day no one who is on the housetop, with possessions inside, should go down to get them. Likewise, no one in the field should go back for anything. 32 Remember Lot’s wife! 33 Whoever tries to keep their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life will preserve it. 34 I tell you, on that night two people will be in one bed; one will be taken and the other left. 35 Two women will be grinding grain together; one will be taken and the other left.” [36]

37 “Where, Lord?” they asked.

He replied, “Where there is a dead body, there the vultures will gather.”

...

All of this was taken from the Bible Gateway, which is an online Bible that you can easily search up. For those of you who do not have Bibles of your own, I encourage you to use online resources like Bible Gateway to read God's word.

Happy Holidays!

If you have any questions regarding the Christian faith, please ask me in my ask box. I am not a perfect person, but I will try and answer your questions as best as I can. We all have much more to learn, myself included. So please, do not be shy.

[blackwolfstabs]

Parker's Secret Santa Gifts🎄for @silliestgoosever

HAUNTED

"Even wolves bleed like sheep..."

fandom: Scream // Epiphany AU by @silliestgoosever // (parker's version) characters: Sam Carpenter, Christina Carpenter, & Tara Carpenter WARNING: contains angst, minor gore, & verbal abuse

Sam hissed as the warm steam from her shower cleared to let the cold air of the air conditioning burn her right eye. Her blind eye… 

It seemed like she got soap in that eye every fucking time she took a shower. It seemed like every time she “got used to” being blind in that eye, something would rip her back to reality, cursing her with how it got that way and all the damage that she’d suffered with it.

It never got easier to re-live. The fight, the words, the curses, the blame, the guilt, the pain… All the pain that her mother had caused. Physically, mentally, emotionally—all of it. It never got easier.

She pulled a comb through her hair, before grabbing a dry washcloth to press it against her stinging eye. If Christina was going to take half of her vision away, she should’ve taken the nerves with it too. It watered against the contact, making her grit her teeth as she wiped it and tried to blink away the sting.

“You’re pathetic!” 

A voice—a very familiar voice—hissed behind her.

Sam froze. Her heart skipped into a race, and she felt every muscle in her body tense. All of it. All of it hit her like a hurricane at once. It was the Cat-5- kind of hurricane that destroyed everything in its path in a single second and left the tragedy behind. It had winds that howled the foulest of words and rain that downed out even the loudest, most desperate screams. It was ruthless and held no remorse in the strength that it held. 

And that hurricane was named Christina Carpenter. 

She swallowed, not realizing that she was shaking, until it was pointed out.

“You always trembled when I was around,” the teasing began. “I always thought it was out of anger, but now that I know just how much of a coward you are, the truth really was that you were scared of me.”

She could hear her own breath shudder as she stared at the wall.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you, Samantha? Just like you were afraid of your father, when you started having visions of him.”

She sounded so evil. So vile . So savagely in love with the idea of making her own daughter suffer for the decisions her parents made.

“Turn around and face me, Loomis ! You’ve still got one good eye, I know you can see me!” There was a fleeting moment of tense silence, before the woman growled, “Let me see that reward I gave you for showing me who you really are…”

How could she turn around after hearing that? What was she, a sad, obedient dog that did whatever her master wanted, no matter how demeaning, infuriating, or humiliating? Yes. She must be, because the next thing she knew, she was staring at herself in the mirror with her mother’s mirrored eyes glaring at her in disgust and prideful hatred.

She was standing right behind her. She was standing there, like she was some fashion designer that had just groomed their chosen model for a show. Some show… It was a horror show that left Sam’s stomach churning with nausea.

But she couldn’t look away. And Christina just grinned.

“Look how weak… how despicable…” Her hand came up to lightly graze over her daughter’s eye, “How revealing…”

Sam yanked her face away, flames of shock setting her body on fire as she felt the touch, as if she wasn’t dead and actually standing right behind her. However, her shoulders were grabbed and held in place, and the manifested woman snarled.

“Look at yourself, Samantha!”

And she reluctantly did so, thick blood covering the entire right side of her face and the lower left side, running into her blind eye, which seemed to sting a thousand times more than the soap did. She had to fight back a cry of pain as it dripped off her chin and onto the bathroom floor, leaving her world to regress back to that night. She couldn’t stop the tears that flooded into her eyes at the disbelief. 

No. This wasn’t real. It was her doing all of this.

She tried to wipe some of the blood from her cheek, but nothing came off on her hand. The pain was there, the touch was there, the voices and the haunting looks were there, but the real world wasn’t.

It was all because of her.

“Y-you’re not real,” she finally managed to speak. “You’re only in my head, just like he was.”

But her mother denied it. “Oh, I’m very real. Who else could’ve done this?” She hummed as she snaked her hands around the younger’s waist and grabbed the hem of her shirt. “I carved you up nicely, didn’t I?”

Sam swallowed back the nausea threatening to crawl up her throat. She nearly gasped at how cold the woman’s fingertips were as they curved beneath her clothing and brushed her warm skin.

“Even wolves bleed like sheep…”

Christina pulled her shirt up to expose the other scar she’d cursed her with, which was now gushing blood, just like her face was. Then, she took one hand and dipped two fingers into the crimson liquid to start drawing over her bare stomach.

Sam’s tears fell. She shook in her mother’s hold, paralyzed and unable to fight back small whimpers as she watched the blood trail being made on her torso, like a map of death. “No…”

“Yes.” The older Carpenter leaned in close to her ear. “Let those tears fall. Show me just how miserable it is to live with these scars on your body, blood on your hands, me in your head, and Billy in your heart.”

“No!” The victim managed to break the spiritual spectrum for a moment, ripping the hands away from her abdomen and pulling herself out of the hovering presence that held her captive. She looked over her shoulder, and there was nothing there. She dropped her gaze to her torso, and it was free of smeared blood. But when she met the mirror, Christina was still there with her glowing eyes that were full of insanity, bloodlust, and hatred for the one staring back at her—her own daughter.

“You can’t escape it, Samantha. No matter how hard you try, I will always be in every dark corner of your mind.”

The terror that she felt so strongly only seconds ago was drowned by a river of lava that burned fear to ashes and left nothing but rage and resentment. “I already got rid of one person who tried to control me—”

“You got lucky that time,” she cut her off. “Your mother, who you knew all your life until that night, isn’t that easy to ignore, and you know it. That’s why you can’t look away from what I’ve made of you. You can’t get rid of me.”

Sam stared her mother down, seething while her right eyelid twitched. It made her enemy chuckle. And that infuriated her. How dare she? That woman could mock her all she wanted. She was dead , so the war was already won. “I won’t beg you anymore,” she growled coldly. “Stay out of my life.”

Those 5 simple words combined in that simple sentence made Christina’s eyes go cold—colder than they already were. Then they lit up with hatred. Even though she was just a reflection in the mirror, she lunged forward. “You’re nothing, you hear me?! Nothing but a Loomis!” she screamed so loud that the reflective glass seemed to shake on the wall. “You know that you’re just like me, you’re just like Billy, and you know damn well that you’ll end up killing Tara, too! Your sister, the only person who could ever love you!”

“Liar!” her daughter bit back. That was the quickest response she could get out. She was rabid with insulted rage. She was already partially blind, but she couldn’t even see straight at this point. All she saw was red, and it wasn’t because of blood, this time. She was sick of being yelled at, and accused, and ripped apart by the tormentors who were biologically her own parents. Fuck that. She had endured too much. She didn’t want to take it anymore. “You’re wrong, Tara means everything to me! I would never fucking hurt her!”

“Did you forget? You already have.”

Sam’s blood went from fire to ice at the realization. She had hurt her. By leaving… She left all those years ago, and that was why Tara got hurt in the first place… to get her to come back to Woodsboro.

Christina chuckled. “You see? We’re the same, you and me.”

No. Fuck that. Things had changed. She loved Tara. And Tara loved her. “We’re nothing alike!” the younger Carpenter spat. “You’re pure evil!”

“Maybe. But I’m also dead… which means you can’t stop me.”

Every thing she said, there was a comeback. Every defense had an offense. Every truth had a dare.

“The day will come when you’ll hold Tara’s dead body in your arms, and there will be no second chances, no more I-love-yous, no more trust, and no more Sam Carpenter. Just Samantha Loomis.”

It was so painful. Sam didn’t think she had ever been as tense as she was right at this moment. Lies. All she could think of was the word lies . She wanted to say more. She wanted to argue. She wanted to rip out her tongue and shove it down her throat so far that she could grab a hold of her intestines and pull them back up and apart from what held them in place. 

But she was dead. So, there was nothing she could do but take it.

Christina knew her daughter was totally defenseless, looking like she was about to burst into tears again. And that thrilled her. It was refreshing and empowering, just like that night. Every time Tara was mentioned, it got to Sam deeply and emotionally. 

It was priceless. 

“You can never give her what she needs.”

Something snapped. Sam could feel it inside her. She went blind, totally blind as a guttural scream echoed off the drywall and her fist was thrown into the mirror.

Cracks.

Then shattered glass.

All in the blink of an eye.

The sound of shards falling from their placement, into the sink, and all over the floor snapped Sam out of her rabid trance. She was panting, her left-eyed vision settling on her fist that was still jammed into the mirror. Her arm was trembling and she could see fresh blood starting to accumulate on her knuckles. 

Christina was gone. The pain and the threats were gone. It was just her in the bathroom, alone, her damp hair bringing cooler temperatures to her face, while the realization that she had just punched the mirror and broke it processed in her head.

—

Tara threw the door to her room open and made it to the bathroom door, which was still shut. She knew Sam had been taking a shower, but the sound of an animalistic scream and glass shattering overpowered the music coming through her headphones. She knocked on it. “Sam?”

There was no answer. 

“Sammy, are you okay?”

Still nothing.

This made her anxiety rush in with no hesitation. She didn’t even bother to try again as she let herself in, nearly busting the door open. “Sam—” She froze only a step into the room.

Sam was sitting on the floor with shattered pieces of the mirror scattered all around her. Her head was hung, and she was holding her hand—her right hand. 

“Sam…?” Tara wanted to go to her sister’s side, but she didn’t have any shoes on, and the tile was littered with small pieces that could easily get stuck in her feet. 

Sam finally looked up from staring at the ground. It was slow and almost eerie the way she did it, but the relief that came over her little sister’s face when she realized that she was conscious and could hear her pulled her out of the shocked trance. Somewhat, at least…

As much as locking eyes made her nerves tempted to settle, the younger Carpenter was nearly horrified at the loss of control she must’ve experienced that caused her to break the mirror. “What are you doing?” her voice almost cracked as she said it.

Great. After all of that, she had just scared Tara. She swore she’d never be someone her baby sister didn’t want to be around, yet here she was, surrounded by her own unstable, toxic behavior. 

No. That wasn’t her. That was Christina trying to take her by the reins and control who she wanted her to be.

But she had to be honest.

“I’m fine, Tara,” she assured her. Her voice was quiet and tired with a small rasp from her previous yelling. Then, she looked away. “She, uh…” Her scarred-up face stared back at her in one of the large pieces of reflective glass. “It wasn’t real…”

She was still confused though… “What wasn’t real?”

The witch’s horrid design on her face was what held Sam’s attention. She hadn’t been real, but she had felt like it. The words, the blood, the touching. Being a canvas was something that still made her feel sick to her stomach. 

“Sammy?”

“Our mother…”

Tara blinked from her older sister to the glass on the floor, and then to the place where the mirror used to be. At first, she didn’t understand, but then it all made sense. “You saw a vision of her?” she asked, feeling confident in the answer but wanting to hear it for herself.

However, Sam shook her head. “It wasn’t a vision, Tara…” She watched the blood trickle down her knuckles.

“...it was a nightmare, while I was still awake.”

merry christmas josey! it was a pleasure to write something from your AU. i hope you enjoy it 🎄✨🎁

- parker (BWS)