#frost forevermore

[mint-shrike]

The Lawless

Lawless belongs to an extremely small colony of mutated/evolved scugs that live on the Soft Breeze Above Clouds' territory. Due to the territory existing on a high altitude the scugs there have copper-based blood instead of iron-based one. Due to a lot of water around the SBAC's can they are capable swimmers and can hold their breath for extended periods of time. They are known to be vicious hunters and opportunists, sometimes going as far as to hunt down anything that is not part of the colony, including scavs and other scugs

Lawless has sharp spines that move depending on his mood and can be used for protection or intimidation. His ears are often pressed close to his head, never standing up to avoid frostbite. He's also a facultative carnivore and has sharp teeth. Curious by nature, he's less afraid of most creatures, preferring to use his agility to evade attacks and escape. He enjoys stargazing and looking at all the little details of everyday objects

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Over and Over and Over Again

So there's this animation meme going around of 'Are we together in every universe?' and I don't have a tablet or anything to dray my animation on, so I figured maybe I should just write it out. This is really more of a drabble, a very very short story, but it's one I've thought of for a while.

I hope you all enjoy!

TW: Just fluff, maybe existentialism?

Wordcount: 1k

Art from This Post

Story Below the Cut

Over and Over and Over Again

The setting sun paints the landscape in golden orange tones in the far distance. Its crimson head only just peaks over the hills in the horizon as the moon begins her faithful ascent to the heavens. The world orbits and tilts all around you, but none of it matters as you lay under an apple tree beside your beloved.

You take his big hand in yours and look up at him.

He’s staring off into the distance, entranced by the beauty of the world around you. He has the slightest smile on his face as he watches the clouds meander through the sky like sheep in a meadow. Soft, puffy white things touched with gold as they graze on the dying light.

You look up above at the tree, its branches winding out and up to touch the sky with spinster’s hands. One leaf breaks away in a gust of pleasant wind to twirl down to the dying grass beneath you both.

The world is finally at peace. You’re safe, and for once, you can confidently say König is safe as well. All those years of waiting for a letter to arrive home, waiting for a strange soldier to show up on your doorstep with your husband's dog tags in their hands, waiting for one single phone call to shatter your world, it was all wasted anxiety. König was safe now, and he always would be. The military was a distant thought now, KorTac a lingering dream, just a simple passing breeze fluttering through the leaves. You could actually relax now, knowing that König would be by your side forevermore.

König’s hand squeezed yours.

“Is everything alright?” you asked.

König hummed, “Everything's perfect.”

You nodded and leaned over to rest your head on his long arm. The world was beginning to frost, but you felt warm and comfortable by his side. The peace and calm was a welcome escape from the fear that had haunted you for years.

“Actually,” you murmured nervously, “there is one thing I’m thinking about.”

König gave you another hum, this time tinged with concern.

“I was just wondering if…”

An albatross pushed another branch into place in her nest. She looked at her mate with sad eyes, “Do you think we’re together in every universe?”

Her mate rolled his eyes and gave out a small squawk.

“No seriously, do you think we’re together in every universe?”

The male groomed his partner and hummed.

The male fox drops the rabbit at his mate’s feet, “I think you’re overthinking again.”

The female drops her chin to her paws. Her tail flicks once, then twice, and she says, “I don’t think so. I don’t think I overthink, actually.”

“Thinking about thinking is a form of overthinking, isn’t it?” the male laughed.

“No!” the female huffs, her fur standing on end as she bristles up.

The anemone hums to the clown fish, “I think you just don’t want to admit I’m right.”

The clown fish swims irritably through the fronds of the great anemone, “I think it’s an important thing to think about. Don’t you?”

The anemone waves idly through the waves, “I don’t think so. I think I'm happy in this universe, and that's what counts to me.”

The squirrel huddles in the knot of the tree, hanging on desperately as the winds whip around it.

“I mean, it’s just…” the squirrel pauses as lightening cracks through the sky, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. So what if…”

“What if?” the tree hums back.

“What if something tears us apart? What if you can’t be there for me again?”

The wolf laughs at his mate and hurries the pups out of the den to play. He lays beside his mate and licks her cheek fondly.

“If you’re asking if anything can take us apart,” the male says, “then the answer is: I don’t think so.”

The female whines, “Are you sure?”

The male chuffs, “I’m sure. You just have to trust me.”

The male penguin shifts the egg from his pouch to the female's, careful as he possibly can be with the fragile life between them.

“But we’ve already spent so much time apart,” his mate worries, “it feels like something is always trying to keep us apart.”

“My time away has ended now,” the male says calmly, “I won’t leave again.”

“But how can you promise?” she asks.

“Because that time is over now,” the seahorse winds his tail with his partner, “we’re together now, and that’s what counts.”

The female snorts, but she holds onto him dearly, “I hope you’re right.”

“When have I been wrong?” the male points out, “I always come back. You always come back. It doesn’t matter how often we’re apart, we always come back to each other. Doesn’t that count for something?”

The shingleback lizard waves her tail back and forth. She wipes her eye free of dust and turns back to her mate.

“Maybe,” she admits, “but I'm not sure.”

“No?” her partner laughs, “well, what would change your mind?”

The female thinks for a moment. She absentmindedly digs a bit into the dirt, then covers it back up again before she turns and admits, “Maybe I’m just scared.”

The ocean laughs as the rain pelts his face.

“Why would you be scared?” he bellows over the raging tempest.

“Because I’m worried we might be kept apart one day,” the rain cries out.

The ocean reaches up to take more of her into him, bring her back into his hold. She readily falls into him, letting herself be taken up in his current once more.

“As long as we are here,” the ocean whispers into his depths, “we’ll always be together.”

A bright flash of light, a blinding epiphany, something truly wonderful whispers to another.

“So, you do think we’d be together in every universe,” one says to the other.

The other takes the one into himself and holds it close, “I promise you that we’ll always be together.”

“Do you truly think so?” the first asks as it peers up at its lover.

“I think so,” König says as he smiles back down at you, “I don’t think anything can keep us apart forever.”

You smile as you reach up to brush his stubbled chin with your fingers.

“I hope you’re right.”

König laughs and pets your hair.

“I’m always right. You just have to trust me.”

Konig Dump

Regular Fanfics

[planet-marz1]

Birthday Girl

Summary: Joel wakes you up with a sweet surprise on your birthday Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Word Count: ~500

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, lots of fluff, Joel just being super sweet

A/N: This is dedicated to my favorite person ever, the loml @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin make sure to go wish her a happy birthday for me! 💜

| main masterlist | notifs blog |

The soft morning sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air. As you stir from your peaceful slumber, you feel a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around you, pulling you close.

A contented sigh escapes your lips as you snuggle into the warmth of Joel's embrace. His chest rose and fell with each steady breath, creating a comforting rhythm that lulled you into a sense of tranquility.

Joel's lips brush against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver of delight down your spine. 

“Good morning, birthday girl,” he whispers.

You can't help but smile, your eyes still closed, savoring the intimacy of the moment. 

“Mmm, good morning, my love,” you reply, your voice barely more than a sleepy murmur.

Joel's fingers trace delicate patterns on your arm, creating a soothing sensation that makes your heart flutter. “Guess what day it is?” he teases, his breath tickling your ear.

You let out a soft giggle, feigning ignorance. “Hmm, I wonder. Is it just an ordinary Sunday?”

He chuckles, his warm laughter resonating through your body. "Not just any Sunday, darling.”

With that, Joel gently turns you around to face him, his eyes sparkling with affection. His lips meet yours in a tender kiss, and you can feel the love he poured into that simple gesture. As he pulled away, a mischievous grin played on his lips.

“Now, it's time for your birthday surprises,” he declares, reaching for a tray that holds a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of breakfast treats, and a single cupcake adorned with a flickering candle.

“All of this, just for me?” you ask.

You couldn’t believe someone would do something so simple, yet so meaningful, just for you.

“Make a wish, sweetheart,” Joel encourages softly.

You close your eyes, a smile playing on your lips, as you make a silent wish. The same one you make every year, though your life right now seems pretty perfect. You already have all you could ever want, and more. With a gentle exhale, you open your eyes, and Joel leans in to help you blow out the candle.

You both share a celebratory bite, and you savor the sweetness as you look into Joel's eyes. Leaning in, you capture Joel's lips in a sweet and lingering kiss. As you pull away, a giggle bubbles between you, and you can't help but notice the frosting on Joel's beard.

“Looks like we got a little carried away,” you tease, a playful grin on your face.

With a gentle swipe of your finger, you wipe away the frosting from his beard, both of you sharing a laugh. As you lean back, Joel looks at you with a twinkle in his eye, his gaze filled with adoration.

“You're always full of surprises,” he says, leaning in for another kiss, this one filled with a gentle tenderness.

“I love you so much, Joel,” you whisper, your eyes shining with gratitude and affection. “This surprise, these moments – they mean the world to me. Thank you for making my birthday so incredibly special.”

Joel's smile deepened, and he wrapped you in another loving embrace. "Anything for you, my love. Here's to many more birthdays spent together.”

tag list: @pertinentpostmortem @party-hearses @mandoisapunk @bastardmandenni @chaotic-mystery @beskarandblasters @amanitacowboy @littlegrungegirlaf @pedrodascal @sweetercalypso @ilovepedro @cool-iguana @alwaysmicado @lovers-liability @futuraa-free @morgaussy @pedritoferg @spookykoolkat @wethairjoel @chronically-ghosted @buckyispunk @pattwtf @morning-star-joy @elvinaa @tinycozycomfort @magpiepills @pr0ximamidnight @joelscurls @janaispunk @5oh5 @farmerlarrry @maximoff-forevermore @atinylittlepain @joeldjarin @spookyxsam @mrsmando @hyzer34 @limerence4u @sin-djarin @reddedmiller @joels-shitty-puns @elvinaa @kajashe @vee-bees-blog @josephquinnswhore @worhols

[leifyposting]

Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. 

Or are you misremembering again? You’re forgetful, these days. 

Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. You are certain of this. It meant something, once.

It is so cold out here. At least, you think it ought to be cold. It’s probably a bad sign that you are starting to feel warm. Or… don’t some of the native Snezhnayans make houses out of snow? Maybe that’s the reason you’re suddenly feeling warm, warm and toasty, like you’re snuggled up by a fire. When was the last time you sat by a fireplace? Do you remember?

Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. Your father’s name is Crepus. 

No, that’s not right, is it? Try again.

Your father’s name was Crepus. 

Right. Because you killed him, don’t you remember? 

It was an act of mercy.

Put your hands around his neck and squeezed until the life faded from his eyes. 

It was an act of mercy!

Or maybe you placed your hand on his chest and pumped flame into his heart until it stopped beating. Wouldn’t that be poetic, the coveter killed by the very thing he had so coveted?

Your Delusion gleams on your chest, the same colour as the blood that’s blooming on the snow underneath you. It winks out at you from the bird that adorns your coat, like it knows something you don’t know, like it knows something you have forgotten. You have forgotten a lot, lately. 

He would have died from his injuries anyway. You simply couldn’t watch him suffer anymore.

Does that help you sleep at night?

No. It doesn’t. 

You haven’t slept well in a while. Three years, now; three years of tossing and turning and waking up from nightmares in a cold sweat. You can mark the time down to the day. No one tells you that when you turn 18 you forfeit any claim you had to a good night’s rest. That happens to everyone, right? Or is it just you? What happened on your 18th birthday that robbed you forevermore of rest? 

What else do you remember?

You have one brother. 

Oh?

Had one brother. His name is Kaeya. 

What happened to him?

You… You don’t remember. 

You do. Try harder. 

You don’t remember. 

He can’t have meant that much to you, then. 

He did! He does!

Then why don’t you remember?

You… 

Red against the night sky. Raindrops hit your blade and sizzle, sending steam into the air. You swing your claymore blindly, your vision obscured by flame, towards someone standing in front of you. Are you aiming for him, truly? Are you simply overtaken by grief? Either way, the effect is the same. When the steam clears, there is frost on the ground — an acknowledgement of the gods’ favour upon him. You turn and do not look at him again.

You had a fight, the two of you. 

Ah, there we go. What about?

It was after your dad died. 

And?

And he told you… something. Something that made you hurt him. Why can’t you remember?

Was it important?

It felt important at the time. 

And now?

Now it doesn’t seem worth much of anything. 

The snow is melting underneath you. You have always run hot, even before you received your Vision. You sink further into the snowdrift and it cradles your body like the mother you never knew. High, high up above you, an eagle makes slow circles in the air. You try to look around, but you are too weak to lift your head. 

Death has a way of putting things into perspective.

You’re not dying. Are you?

Sure looks like you’re dying, little prodigal. 

Kaeya will save you. He always has before. 

Kaeya’s not coming. You disowned him, remember? You tried to kill him. 

You didn’t mean it. 

That doesn’t change what you did. And now there is no one but yourself to save you. 

You remember… a boy on his knees in front of you, cradling a newly granted Vision to his chest. You remember the charred sleeves of his jacket, the skin of his arms raw and red, the blood that’s oozing from underneath his eyepatch. You remember the look of horror on his face. You don’t remember what you did to put it there. You don’t remember who he is. You don’t remember who you are.

It is so cold out here.

Stop that. 

And you are so tired. 

Enough of this. Who are you?

You don’t remember. 

Think. 

You don’t remember. 

Who are you?

Your name is– Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. 

And?

You are 21 years old. Your father’s name is Crepus. Your brother Kaeya…

You hear crunching on the snow behind you. Footsteps, growing louder and faster as they spot you. A flash of blue in your peripheral vision, half obscured by the blood in your eye. Kaeya? Is that Kaeya?

Your brother Kaeya is not coming to save you.

Someone sinks to their knees next to you. “Gods, kid. Always getting yourself into trouble, aren’t you?” A woman’s voice. She gets her arms underneath you and lifts. You feel the earth fall away, blood and melted snow dripping from your coattails. “Let’s get you home.”

You don’t remember what home is. 

Yes, you do.

You remember a fireplace. The smell of wine. The feel of dirt beneath your feet, the gleam of a crystalfly outside your window, the dense heat of a summer evening before a storm. You remember a woman’s voice, gently chiding you for trekking mud into the house. You remember your brother’s obnoxious grin as he bends to take his boots off, ever the rule-follower. 

That’s not the home she’s taking you to.

You know that. She’s taking you back to headquarters.

Is that a good thing?

They will keep you from dying.

Is that all you want?

That’s all you deserve. 

But is that all you want?

No. It isn’t. 

Oh, little prodigal. Isn’t it time to go home?

[sunny-mercya]

Frostbites

Edmund Pevensie x Male Reader

Fandom -> Chronicles of Narnia

Masterlist

Edmund was, besides possibly Lucy too perhaps, the only one who knows the reason of why you hated the joyful Christmas and Winter season with a raging passion—so much, that calling you a Grinch would be still a compliment.

It wasn't Christmas itself—you do enjoyed the festive holiday, not in a big gathering to celebrate, only with Edmund and some of his and your family, more than just a bit—it was the sole whole season of 3 (if you count March and Mid-April to it, would be 5 and a half) Months Winter, which you detested and trying to escape from like the plague.

When November starts with its days getting darker sooner, nights longer and the very first blast of cold chilly air blew through the cracks of our home, grazing even the tiniest bit of your skin—you would instantly crumble into a mess. A mess of a frightening state, too wary and paranoid about your own surroundings and yourself.

And when the first snowflakes are tumbling down the sky and onto earth, creating a Winter Wonderland of frost and glistering diamond like sparkling—an agonising cry would leave your mouth.

Crying through the weeks, nights even, till you hit the point of utterly exhaustion—leaving you sluggish and burnt out and a decaying ghostly shell of yourself.

To put it simple; Christmas and Winter was making you depressed. Bringing back a trauma, which you tried so hard to forget, to bury it deep inside of your mind—locking it up as if it would be belong to Pandora's Chests.

Though with every new-coming Winter, the depression and trauma returns, stronger and stronger than ever—hitting you like a whiplash, full force till you're just a whimpering mess—it, no, She haunts you forevermore till death will claim your soul.

~~~

Bitter it was; that on one side, you absolutely hated silence—having the radio on whenever you could at home—on the other side, having to constantly listen to the jazz and swing-full Christmas songs—which are played on loop—is a saddening torture for your mind.

Edmund had you in his arms. Your face buried deep into the crook of his neck as you weeped and sobbed for the third time that day—and it was only around Tea Time now.

Softly and gently, how someone would handle a expensive set of Crystals figurines, does Edmund drove his fingers through your hair—whispering promising sweet nothings to you, in hopes of calming you down (again).

The Christmas tree which stood relatively near the fireplace—but not close enough to be accidentally set on fire or burned—decorated with candles and ornaments, felt for once this year and all of sudden so out of place—in a way unhinged and surreal—that Edmund too, felt a rage building up in him.

If it weren't for her, the damned Witch, you could've enjoyed the season like everyone else with joyful delight.

Snowy Winter was Edmunds favourite season of the year—even though Edmund himself had a bad encounter with the personification, one of them, of the frosty cold season too.

One of his few wishes is to enjoy Winter with you; to walk through the forest and fields, building Snowmen's, taking you ice skating on a thick frozen lake or simply huddle under the blankest in front of the crackling fireplace and enjoying a nice cup of hot coca.

Once the next lovely Christmas song has started to play, you sobbing had gotten even louder, uglier.

~~~

Edmund had carried you back to bed, at one point when your breath had started to get ragged and shortcutting. He tried his best to get you back into a normal breathing pattern, but when you painfully cried out and pushed him away—curling into yourself, like a newborn and if you had been burned badly—Edmund knew he was being too much for now, too overwhelming for you.

Edmund didn't even tried to touch you again, knowing from experience, you would flinch away from such a simple gesture. So he covers you a bit with the add-on blanket, before getting up from the bed and back into the livingroom. Leaving the door just a bit ajar.

Normally Edmund wouldn't, if not nonexistent rarely, drink a glass of Irish Whiskey. You two only had alcoholic beverages, for when Peter, Lizzy or Henry comes over. Occasionally you two would drink some beer here and then, but never wine or the strong kinds and especially not in the mid afternoon.

Though when Edmund had witnessed your ever first mental breakdown—after the adventures years in Narnia and when you two moved in together—he needed something, anything, strong and since Cigarettes weren't his thing, taking a sip—a full blown swing—from the Whiskey bottle once, till he was drunk enough to not remember anything that night—he still talks with the local priest about this—was what helped him through this nerve pulling time. It still does.

Edmund took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes, taking another sip from his glass and throwing his head back. Body relaxing ever so slightly.

Edmund knew the reason why you hated Winter and the memory flashes vividly through his mind;

It was back then when they first had gone to Narnia—through a Wardrobe—and Edmund, being the naive bitterly and dumb child he was, had took sides with the White Witch Jadis—the enemy.

At first it had been fine till he realised how cruel and evil this woman, like a true witch indeed, was.

The moment when Edmund had meet you for the very first time, was when Jadis had throwing him into the Ice-Cell as a form of disciplinary punishment.

There you sat in the far corner—in the same cell as him, it probably was your cell to begin with—in nothing but a simple nightgown, curling into a ball in hopes of getting a bit of warmth. Though all you were was a shivering mess. Edmund inched closer to you, frighting you into a yelping—alerting one of the wolves, which sneers at them both, growling out a warning, which you took so scared seriously—that Edmund wonders what they, Jadis, has done to you to make you so frightened.

It took some time and coaxing of Edmund—Lucy told him that kindness and patience is the key, though Peter once said that being straightforward is just as good—to get you to talk to him.

In a hoarsely whisper, so grave and hoarse as if you hadn't spoken in ages and Edmund had to strain his hearing, you told him your name.

[Name] [Surname]. A name so rare and yet so common at the same time and Edmund, he didn't knew why, liked your name—had a nice ring to it, sounded so fitting, so much like you.

«I like your name, I'm Edmund. Let's be friends» thats what he told you, taking your icy cold hands in his own, shaking them.

During his stay in the cell, which could have been just mere hours or days or weeks even, he has chatted you up—telling you about his siblings, how he was being a big dumbass and about Aslan. You hung on every word he said, listen with uttermost attention and excitement.

Edmund, about to give you his extra coat—wanting to give you some warmth, your blue chapped lips was something he couldn't look at—saw a glimpse of grotesque he wished to never have to see—but he will—again.

The scars, shaped like snowflakes and frosting, which covers most of your right arm, had a deep bluish purple colour to it and the row of bitemarks looked freshly made—drops of blood trickling down your wrist and onto the iced floor.

Edmund didn't dared to ask you about this, a too personal question in his option, though it burned on his tongue. He wanted, needed, to know.

«Don't trust her. She's evil.» nothing more you said afterwards, taking his hand and gripping it.

And Edmund promised to himself and you, in a wordless whisper, to get you out of here.

Edmunds lips curled up into a smile, chuckling a bit to himself as he looked at the ceiling above. He had saved you from Jadis—once (and also twice)—and when they all returned back to their world, imagine the surprise he had when he saw you at his new school.

His reminiscing smile, of how you to became best friends and than lovers—close to be married—turned sour, making him take another sip of the Whisky.

When you had told him, one day during a walk through the snowy park—because Edmund asked you out for such activity, even when you told him your dislike towards anything winter related, you still agreed to—about those particular scars you had, a newfound bubbling anger had risen in Edmund.

So Edmund perfectly gets it why you hated Winter. Being held captured and being tortured by Jadis—getting frostbites by her, making you withering in gruesome pain—to abide to her ruling ways—because she saw you as something special too once, though all you were—in the words of Aslan—a Knightly Prince from the stars above, send to protect the Kings and Queens of Narnia.

~~~

After his second glass of Whiskey, which begun to coat his mouth heavily with its sharp vanilla like taste, Edmund decided to call it a day and go to bed. It might be just late afternoon, sun begun to set ever so slowly, but he felt tried.

With slow and steady steps he walked into the bedroom, crawling into the bed next to you. You had significant calmed down, so much that you had fallen asleep. Breathing evenly in and out, a relief to Edmund.

Giving you medication for your hysterical moods, was something Hannah—a good friend and nurse—had suggested more than once. Telling Edmund how it will make you feel better and take off some mental straining weight of him too. Edmund always denied, you didn't need some pills to keep you calm, you had managed throughout the years without them, doing fine.

Edmund takes you in his arms, pulling you close. Kissing your cheek, he closed his eyes, listen to the faintly christmas song—before sleep overtook him too.

Edmund knew why you hated Winter, but he hoped one day you will have a love towards it once more and brining you joy.

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter II || Chapter III || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter I: May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favour

From the Treaty of the Treason:

In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 21 at a public “Reaping.”

These Tributes shall be delivered to the custody of The Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains.

Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games.

***

The sun rose over the forest, waking up her prey.

Most of them had not yet shaken off winter’s cold embrace, buried safely underground in a deep slumber. But it was spring now—still in its early days, perhaps, though like many others in District 12, Feyre Archeron had exhausted her patience.

She was ready to hunt.

The morning frost covered the ground beneath her feet as she looked for animal prints. She’d take anything, at this point—the past few months had been colder than expected, and their icy breeze seemed to have permanently settled in the pit of her stomach, growling occasionally to remind her of its presence. As if she hadn’t already known. Hunger, these days, felt like the most stable companion she’d had in years.

A bush rattled somewhere, cutting through the silence, and Feyre’s grip on her bow tightened.

With her mind cursing the loud, heavy boots she’d chosen for the hunt—the only pair she owned apart from her slippers, really—she made way towards the sound, each step careful not to alert her prey. She’d done that too many times, stepping on a dried out branch like a fool, moments before firing the fatal shot. She couldn’t afford to do that again.

The bush rattled again, and Feyre reached for an arrow.

Please, please be a deer.

Another rattle. Feyre took another step, her heart pounding in her chest.

A deer would be good. More than good, actually—a catch like this would feed her and her family for a week, if not more. She could almost picture the look on Elain’s face as she placed its carcass on the kitchen table. Her sister could use some good news after the winter they’d had, and especially on a day like this.

Feyre shook her head, forcing her mind back into focus.

Two winters ago, she’d caught a wolf. It had been the best day of her life. Her family didn’t know hunger for three weeks, and Elain had sewn her a flimsy fur coat. Even Nesta had smiled a little bit.

I take back my wish, Feyre thought. Can you be a wolf instead?

The bush rattled for the final time, and, with a loud gurgle, her victim made its final step into the light.

“Oh, please,” Feyre groaned out loud, and fired the arrow straight through the turkey’s heart.

Served her right for setting her hopes so high. A wolf. How ridiculous, she thought, kneeling by the dead bird to pull the arrow out. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Feyre murmured. “At least you’re fat. Thanks for that, I guess.”

“You are disturbingly good at that,” a familiar voice said behind her.

Feyre shot up to her feet, whipping her head to its source. “Shit,” she swore, placing a hand on her racing heart. “You scared me!”

Arms crossed as he leaned against a tree, Isaac offered her a coy smile. “Sorry,” he said, his shaggy brown curls shimmering in the sun as he angled his head in wonder. “Who’s this little guy?”

Feyre raised the bird in front of her, making the show of displaying it in its full might. “That,” she said, a sly smile playing on her lips, “is my dinner.”

“Ah,” Isaac said. “Not a great way to start off the day. For him, I mean.”

Feyre shrugged, pulling the arrow out of the squelching flesh. “We all have to survive somehow.”

Something flashed in Isaac’s eyes as he took in her words. “Yes,” he said, his expression dimming. “I know.”

Feyre bit on her lip, her head dipping to the bloodied arrow in her hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Relax, Feyre,” he said, taking a step in her direction. “I just came to watch you hunt.”

Shoving the turkey into her hunting bag, Feyre grimaced. “I’m afraid you’re in for a huge disappointment.”

“Still nothing, huh?”

“Just this pathetic little guy,” she said, patting the brown leather, then frowned. “I probably shouldn’t say that minutes after killing him.”

Isaac stared at her for a moment, then at the bag, its worn-out fabric already staining red. “He’s no less pathetic than the rest of us,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?” Feyre asked.

But Isaac had already turned away, his gaze focused on a point high up in the trees, where another bird chirped a sad melody.

“Mockingjay,” Isaac hummed, those absent eyes closing in content.

Pain stung at her chest as she watched him, so close within her reach, and yet so far away. She had barely known him before he returned from the Capitol two years ago, but she did remember him as the kind baker’s son who had always used to smile.

Now, Isaac only smiled when his mind escaped to a better place.

Sometimes, Feyre wished he would take her there with him—somewhere where she wouldn’t have to worry about the cold, the hunger, the looming realisation that this wretched reality would never change. Perhaps that was why she felt so drawn to him—in a world of pain and uncertainty, Isaac was a brief escape to peace.

“Do you know what day it is, Feyre?” his voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She assumed he’d dismissed her presence by now.

She answered him anyway.

“The Reaping.”

Isaac nodded. “The Capitol’s hunt.”

Feyre’s brows knotted in confusion. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.”

At last, Isaac turned to her with a sigh. “How different, do you think, are we from your turkey?” He gestured to the bag at her side. “We, too, live out our lives in fear, our only hope to escape those who prey upon us.” Isaac shrugged. “The answer, Feyre, is: you and that turkey? You’re one and the same. The Capitol’s forest is only a little larger.”

A shiver went down her spine at the words, spoken behind the border yet dangerous nonetheless. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt Isaac, not anymore, but her? She was fair game, and Isaac’s reflections were treason.

He must have realised this, and he flinched visibly, as if shaking off some haze. “I think I should go,” Isaac said, turning to her again with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Ignoring the cold filling her veins, Feyre nodded. “I’ll walk you home.”

They walked through the forest, neither of them saying a word, even the mockingjays having seemingly decided to stay behind. Feyre couldn’t blame them. In Panem, not even birds were safe.

Especially not in District Twelve. Frankly, Feyre was surprised birds as beautiful as the mockingjay had still bothered to visit the place. Only ravens and magpies seemed to remain now, pests, as Nesta liked to call them, though Feyre had never agreed. They were drawn to jewels—to anything that glinted, really—scouting for any sparkle in the ground they could find. As if the stars they’d flown with in the night had not been enough. Feyre envied them, if anything. She used to dream of touching the stars, too.

Even the jewels were out of her reach, so far out, in fact, that she counted herself lucky if she managed to get her hands on coal. Coal, minerals—for the longest time, they had been her district’s export. The mines hid wonders of immeasurable beauty and infinite riches, her father used to tell her. Immeasurable beauty and infinite riches—it was no wonder the Capitol would put its hands all over them as soon as they’d see the light of day.

Isaac used to work at the mines, just like her father had. He never had to—his own father’s bakery had been doing a good enough job to sustain the family over the winter—but he volunteered. Feyre didn’t know the whole story, but according to Elain, Isaac had taken an old man’s place, too sick to answer the Capitol’s call to labour. And so, at seventeen, her friend had gone into the mines to become “his District’s pride.”

He had only stayed there two years, of course. Feyre remembered that day as clear as yesterday.

It had been the first time she’d been allowed to watch the Hunger Games. In what Nesta had called a foolish, ridiculous effort to spare them from the world’s cruelty, their father would send them to bed early, every night from the day the Games began to the day they ended. Nesta and Elain would always sneak out, watching the screen in horror from where Father could not see. Feyre had stayed, and would continue to do so until he died.

She was seventeen, and Nesta has hardly shared Father’s sentiment. It’s my last year, she’d said. If they choose me, at least I’ll have some comfort in knowing my sister are watching until the very end.

But they had not chosen Nesta, a girl called Clare Beddor taking the female Tribute’s title. She’d died almost immediately.

The last time Feyre had seen Clare—in real life, not getting butchered on the small screen at her kitchen counter—was when she stood in front of the District’s Hall of Justice, tears streaming down her face as she shook the hand of the male Tribute beside her.

Isaac Hale had not cried that day.

He never cried after his return, either, though he was never quite the same. The Capitol hadn’t let him mentor last year, and from the rumours, he wouldn’t mentor in this edition, either. He’s getting a well-deserved rest, the news would say. He’s gone mad, the locals would whisper. But Feyre knew they were all wrong.

Isaac was simply…broken.

“Mind your head,” he told her gently as they leaned under the electric fence.

She’d have to turn right to head home, but Feyre had promised to walk him back to the Victors’ Village, and she fully intended on keeping that promise.

She’d never been into his house. He told here there were cameras.

The noise grew louder, and soon enough, they reached the black market, its merchants shouting over each other, each of them claiming to have the freshest, most affordable produce from Eleven. Feyre avoided them all like the plague, unless she herself had something to trade. It had been far more enjoyable to look at their stock knowing she could do more than simply look.

“Does my eye deceive me?” A raspy laugh reached them. “Feyre Archeron, back from the hunt!”

She turned to the old man with a polite smile. “I’ve got nothing for you today, Andras.”

His one, yellow eye narrowed. “And Isaac Hale, back from the dead.”

Beside her, Isaac paled.

Feyre gripped the sleeve of his tunic, nudging him forward. “I’ll come on a better day,” she offered. The man only shrugged.

Isaac stopped her at the end of the street. “I can make my way from here.”

Her brows furrowed. “It’s okay, I can…”

He placed a hand on her arm. “Feyre. Go home, eat your turkey. I’ll be okay.”

Her hand covered his own, and she did her best to keep herself intact. “We could run away, you know.” She swallowed hard. “We could get away with it, you and I.”

For the first time, Isaac truly and openly smiled. “I’ll see you at the Reaping, Feyre.”

***

The smell of blood and carcass filled the house as soon as Feyre stepped foot inside.

Living on the outskirts of the District borders was a blessing, really. Feyre couldn’t imagine having to sneak past the centre’s Peacekeepers with a bow in hand and arrows on her back—not if she wanted to make it out alive, or with fifteen lashes taking her quiver’s place at the very least.

She had already learned her lesson once, though, with five long scars creasing her back if she ever dared forget it. She wouldn’t—that one time was enough to make her cautious. On busier days, she’d leave her hunting gear in the small hollow of the oak tree five minutes north of the electric fence. If any of the Peacekeepers confiscated her bow, it would be over. She could sell everything she owned, and she still most likely wouldn’t have been able to afford one. Bows, after all, were illegal to civilians, and the black market prices had been absurd these days.

And so, the only thing carried by Feyre today was the dead, bloodied turkey, her bag heavy with its stench. It was worse than she thought, it seemed, judging by the sickly green hue of Elain’s skin as she handed her the bird.

“Feyre,” her name came with a sigh of relief. “You’re home early.”

“Still nothing?” Nesta cut in, rising from the chair at the kitchen table.

Feyre’s lips formed a thin line. “This was the best I could do.”

Silence fell over the room, filled only by the distant sounds of scratchy caws��ravens, Feyre realised, picking whatever lunch they could find off the streets.

Elain, thankfully, was the one to break it. “I laid out some clean clothes for you on the bed.” The one bed they all shared all winter, keeping each other warm. “So that you can look nice at the…later today.”

Elain wiped her hands on the apron nervously, trying to mask the way they shook as she almost said the word that made her skin crawl and the blood drain from her face. The Reaping.

Her throat tight, Feyre forced her eyes back to her sister’s face. “Thank you.”

Elain nodded, still trembling slightly as she placed the turkey on the red-stained cutting board. Feyre’s heart clenched at the sight, her own dread forgotten in light of Elain’s, who’d been enduring this for far too long. Who, year after year, had watched her neighbours, her friends, leave and never return. Slaughtered on a tiny screen the Capitol had forced into their house, their anguished screams the only goodbye they could offer. Elain, for whom this Reaping could only mean one thing—death or freedom, a permanent release from Panem’s blood debt.

At twenty-one, this year marked the last time Elain could be drafted as District Twelve’s female tribute. It also marked her name being added to the pool for the tenth time. Tenth.

They all knew what it meant.

“You’re not going to be chosen,” Feyre said, her voice cutting through the dismal silence. “There are so many people your age in our District. They’re going to draw someone else’s name, and you’re going to go about your day like you do each year,” she dragged the words out, her eyes never leaving her sister’s. She could only hope they carried as much confidence as her tone did. “And then, you’ll finally be free. Like Nesta,” Feyre looked to her eldest sister, who nodded in affirmation. “And like so many others in Twelve. Okay?”

Elain loosed a shaky breath. “Okay,” she said, and took Feyre’s hands in hers. “We both will. You only have two years left, and then everything is going to be fine. Better.”

It was true—she did have two years left, but it seemed as though each year, there were less and less of District Twelve’s kids left. At the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, her name would be in the pool eight times.

Nesta’s name had never been drawn, and neither would Elain’s. Perhaps fate would be merciful to the Archeron sisters—perhaps it would see the life they led each day and decide it was punishment enough.

Feyre squeezed her sister’s hands back, forcing a smile onto her lips. “Of course.”

At last, her sister smiled, then let go, her hands moving to smooth out her apron yet again. “I’ll draw you a bath. You stink, you know.”

Feyre laughed at that. “I know.”

With a small shake of her head, Elain disappeared into the adjacent room, the door clicking lightly behind her.

“They probably wouldn’t mind seeing you with blood on your hands,” Nesta’s voice sounded behind her. “It’s how they like us best.”

Feyre turned to meet the icy blue of her stare. “A little help would have been appreciated.”

Nesta waved a hand. “You and I both know she won’t stop fidgeting until it’s all over.”

With a sigh, Feyre dropped to the wooden seat, her forehead resting against the roughened table’s surface. A wave of tiredness crashed into her all of a sudden, washing over every aching limb until she wanted nothing but to fall asleep right where she was sat. “I suppose you’re right.”

A loud creak of the chair moving beside her signalled Nesta taking her seat.

“Was there truly nothing in the woods?” her sister finally asked.

That woke Feyre right back up. “You think I lied before?”

“Of course not,” Nesta said calmly, crossing her arms on the table. “I just think you should take a break for a day or two. You might even find more of those birds if you’re well-rested.”

Teeth digging into the inside of her cheek, Feyre accused, “You’re making fun of me.”

“I really am not,” Nesta sighed, two slender fingers moving to rub her temple. “But Feyre, this turkey you caught will last us three days at best. What then?”

Anger began to boil in the pit of her stomach, rising steadily with each word. “Nesta, I already told you I’m doing the best I can.”

Another sigh. “I know, Feyre, I only mean that…”

“If you’re so dissatisfied with my hunting, maybe you should try it out yourself.”

Nesta straightened in her seat. “That is not what I meant.”

Her hands curled into fists. “No, I think that’s precisely what you meant.” She met Nesta’s gaze and her eyes narrowed. “Winter or not, I hunt every single day. What do you do to help us survive?”

Flames rose in Nesta's cold, hardened stare, her jaw clenching tight as she measured Feyre’s form beside her. “You have no idea,” she said, her tone practically seething, “You have no idea what I’ve done to help this family. What I’ve been doing ever since Father gave up on us, then died like the coward he was. What I’ll continue to do,” she added, her voice breaking slightly, “until both you and Elain no longer need me.”

Feyre opened her mouth, but it was Elain’s words that sounded beside her. “We’ll always need you, Nesta.”

Feyre turned to face her, and Elain reached for both her sisters’ hands, her doe-like eyes shining with concern. “We’ll always need each other.”

Neither of them said anything, and Elain released them with a sigh. “Your bath is ready, Feyre.”

Feyre rose from the table, stepping towards the bathroom before turning to face Nesta one last time. “Will you skin the turkey while I’m gone?”

With a small nod, Nesta stood as well. “Of course."

***

Elain had chosen a pretty dress, long and made of blue linen, though Feyre still thought she looked ridiculous. It didn’t help that her sister decided a braid would be most suitable for such an outfit, golden-brown and thrown over the side of Feyre’s shoulder. She wouldn’t be surprised if she got thrown in with the fourteen year olds.

When the alarm sounded, all thoughts of the dress and her hair evaporated from Feyre’s head.

“It’s time,” Nesta told them, already at the door.

Feyre took Elain’s hand and squeezed it once. Her sister did not answer.

They walked with the crowd, large and beige and never-ending. At least the spring breeze accompanied them, and, not for the first time in her life, Feyre was grateful Twelve rarely suffered a scorching sun.

Families moved slowly around them, an aura of whispers and murmurs hanging in the air as parents assured their kids that it would all turn out okay. Feyre had never wanted nothing more than to believe them.

“Feyre,” Elain said quietly, her jaw tight enough for Feyre to notice how hard she fought to keep it from trembling.

She squeezed her hand once more. “I’ll tell you what, Elain,” she said. “When we get back, we’ll each have another, small serving of the turkey. Okay?” she asked, and Elain nodded. “Good. It will give you something to look forward to. For the entirety of this Reaping, I want you to think of nothing but how good the food is going to be.”

“It was really nice,” Elain admitted.

Feyre smiled. “Exactly.”

“Peacekeepers,” Nesta warned beside them. They were getting close, the massive sign in the distance signalling they have reached the Hall of Justice.

“Wait, Nesta—” Elain began.

Nesta looked firmly into her eyes. “I’ll see you soon. Do not make a scene.”

With a hard swallow, Elain nodded.

And with that, Nesta moved aside to join the audience of grieving parents, siblings and friends.

“Elain,” Feyre told her one last time. “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

Elain exclaimed in shock as a white-dressed, masked man grabbed her arm, pulling them apart. She thrashed for only a second before realising she was being held by a Peacekeeper.

“Registration,” the man barked.

Elain nodded frantically, and Feyre dared one last look at her sister before joining her queue.

Moments later, she was greeted by a stern-looking woman whose expression reminded her of Nesta.

“Name.”

“Feyre Archeron,” she breathed.

It would be okay. She’d done this millions of times.

Without another word, the woman reached for her hand, pulling it toward her violently before pricking her finger to draw blood. Feyre hissed as she pressed the fresh cut to a piece of paper, right beneath an awfully bad photo of her, dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks more hollow than the deepest of Twelve’s mines.

Some things never change, Feyre thought bitterly.

With that, she joined her sector, taking her place somewhere in the middle—close enough to see the large, white screen set beside the stage, but far enough to not be able to make out the faces of the Hall’s officials, standing straight and dressed in grey.

The queues behind her shortened within minutes, and when the last child took their place in the audience, the screen lit up without warning.

“War,” a voice rumbled over the crowds, old and wise and with a hint of grandfatherly authority that she’d gotten to know so well over the years. “Terrible war.

“Such a vile, cruel act,” President Hybern’s words continued to sound over the speakers, with images of smoke and fire flaring up the screen one by one. “An act that pushed our country into its greatest trial.”

Another bomb set off with an amplified thud.

“Seventy-four years ago, the thirteen Districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Their malevolence spreading nothing but hate and destruction over Panem.” Now, the screen showed the Districts—Seven and Ten, from what little Feyre could make out—with their Halls of Justice on fire, their buildings nothing more than gravel on the streets. Another image showed a woman holding a small child, crying out in agony over its lifeless body. “Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This,” the President emphasised over a clip of children weeping, “was the uprising that rocked our land until nothing remained.”

A girl standing beside Feyre sucked in a breath.

“And then came the peace,” the President’s voice was now calm, serene, as the screen displayed Eleven’s wheat fields, floating atop the wind’s gentle breeze. “A Capitol rose up from the ashes and created a new era of prosperity. Of love. Of family.” A child ran up to their mother, launching into her arms, both of them laughing in happiness.

“But peace comes at a cost,” Hybern warned. “Together as a nation, we swore we would never know such destruction again. Would never know such treason again.”

Feyre almost rolled her eyes, bracing herself for what was coming.

“And so it was decreed,” President Hybern announced proudly, “that each year, the Districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman, to fight to the death in a pageant of honour, courage and sacrifice.” A young man on the screen stood on a podium topless, his muscles glistening in the sun, as he threw up his hands in victory. “The lone victor,” the President continued, “bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of the Capitol’s generosity and forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future. This is how we stand together. As a family, as a nation. As Panem.”

With that, the video cut off.

Feyre had never heard the District’s centre be so silent.

And then, the door flung open, and a woman stepped in, her hands joined in a loud applause.

“Wasn’t this just beautiful?” she asked into the microphone at the stage’s centre, her voice dripping with syrup.

Feyre hadn’t seen her before—the Capitol must’ve sent someone new.

She was beautiful, to be sure—everyone in the Capitol was, or so the Districts were told, at least. Her face was covered with a thick layer of foundation so white she would have merged into the Hall’s wall behind her had it not been for her hair—crimson red, and long, falling in waves to her back and crowned with large black flowers Feyre had never seen in her life.

Feyre could just barely make out her face—nothing special, she decided. Dark eyes, straight nose. Pretty, she supposed, though she might have not been the best person to consult on such matters. Coal, on the other hand…

She didn’t even realise she’d snorted at her inner dialogue until the girl beside her elbowed her straight in the guts. She muttered a low “Ow!” before the girl’s glare told her all she needed to know.

Diverting her attention back to the crimson woman, Feyre listened again. “Now,” she crooned. “The time has come for us to select our courageous Tributes!” she clapped her hands again, and Feyre thought she had never seen a more idiotic spectacle in her life.

The woman winked, red-painted lips twisting in a smile. “If you were paying attention to the lovely video, you know we’re going to choose one lovely man and woman for the absolute honour of representing District Twelve!”

For a woman like her, Feyre supposed, everything must have been lovely. Even the imminent deaths of the two children she was about to hand-pick from her ridiculous crystal bowl.

“As always,” she winked again. “Ladies first.”

With a loud click of her heels on the wooden stage, she made way towards the bowl on Feyre’s right, a perfectly manicured hand dipping inside.

Feyre’s heard stopped. This was the time.

A few more seconds, and it will all be over.

Breathe.

Elain, I’ll let you have my extra serving, she swore in her head. Just let it all be over.

In the few seconds that seemed like an eternity, Feyre wondered if the bowl was made from real crystal, and if yes, if it had been her father’s dead hands that mined it.

And then, the crimson woman pulled out two cards.

She weighed them down in each hand, making a show of choosing before settling on the card on her left, the right card dropping back into the bowl.

Torturously slowly, she stepped back to the microphone and opened the card, her delighted smile now clear on the screen at the stage.

“The female tribute from District Twelve is…” She looked to the crowd, her eyebrows rising in feigned suspense. “Elain Archeron.”

No.

No no no no no no

“Elain Archeron?”

Please.

The ringing in her head was deafening.

“Where is the lovely Elain?”

Please.

Someone pushed Elain out of the crowd, her usually beautiful face now white as death.

Feyre’s whole body burned as she watched Elain move toward the stage on shaky legs.

“There you are! Oh, you’re gorgeous!” the crimson woman praised. “Come closer, dear, let us all have a look at you!”

A Peacekeeper pushed her closer, and Elain stumbled over a step.

Not Elain.

It couldn’t have been Elain.

It shouldn’t have been Elain.

No.

“No,” Feyre said out loud, her legs moving on their own accord. “No!” She shouted, pushing her way out of the crowd. “ELAIN!”

Elain’s head whipped back, and those doe eyes have never held such fear.

Two Peacekeepers reached her in seconds, holding Feyre back and into the crowd again. “No! LET ME GO!” Feyre trashed, kicking one of them in the shin.

She forced herself free.

��I VOLUNTEER!” Feyre shrieked with a strength her lungs had never known before.

Her entire body stilled, as if she’d surprised it just as much as the crowd around her.

“I volunteer as Tribute.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“My, my!” the presenter wondered. “I believe we have a volunteer!”

The crowd began to murmur.

“Come on up, my dear.”

It had only been by Feyre’s sheer will that her feet carried her forward. She didn’t stop until she reached Elain, still frozen in place.

“Feyre,” Elain breathed, tears falling freely down her face.

“It’s okay,” Feyre whispered. “You’re okay.”

She didn’t know how she managed her way through the stairs and onto the stage, but within the next few moments, Feyre stood beside the crimson woman, her appearance even more ghastly up close.

“What is your name, my dear?” she asked.

Feyre looked over the crowd, her head still spinning.

Someone subtly cleared their throat beside her.

“What?” she turned toward the sound.

“I asked about your name, dear.”

“Feyre,” her voice was hoarse, and she swallowed hard. “Feyre Archeron.”

“Ah,” the woman acknowledged with a motherly nod. “And am I right in assuming that was your sister whose place you have just taken?”

Feyre nodded, her eyes still searching the crowd. “Yes.” Was Elain safe? Was Nesta? “Yes.”

“Well, Feyre Archeron, you are District Twelve’s first volunteer!” she turned to the microphone, addressing the crowd. “Such bravery. Such heart. Congratulations, lovely Feyre.”

Congratulations?

The woman clasped her hands together. “And now for the gentlemen!” she said happily, making her way to the other bowl.

Feyre’s heart sank as she realised her sisters were no longer in the crowd, and neither was Isaac. What happened to them? Where did they take them?

Oh, Isaac, Feyre thought. We should have ran away.

“The male Tribute from District Twelve,” the woman’s voice sounded loudly beside her again, shaking Feyre out of her daze, “is Tamlin Rosethorn.”

The florist’s son.

He stepped out of the crowd, pale yet standing tall and strong. His muscles reflected through his white shirt as he stepped onto the stage.

“Go on,” the woman encouraged with a smile. “Shake hands.”

Tamlin locked her hand in a tight grip, and as Feyre met his emerald gaze, she wondered if he would kill her first.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Tributes from District Twelve!” she exclaimed for the final time to no applause but the sound of Panem’s anthem playing over the speakers. “Thank you, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

“Come now,” she now addressed the two of them directly. “Inside.”

Feyre did not know how she got pushed into one of the Hall’s rooms and sat on a chair, the door locking her inside. “Wait here,” a muffled voice told her.

So Feyre waited.

An eternity, or maybe a second, had passed when the door opened again, two figures launching themselves in.

Feyre shot up from her seat.

“One minute,” the muffled voice told them.

Elain was sobbing as she threw her arms around Feyre’s neck. “Feyre. My beautiful Feyre.”

“Everything will be okay,” Feyre told her, forcing strength into her voice.

For Elain.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Feyre. I would’ve—”

“It’s done now,” Feyre said, pulling away to meet her sister’s gaze. “Listen, I don’t have much time.”

“Promise you will make it out,” Elain begged.

“I promise,” Feyre lied.

Her head now turned to Nesta, who began, “Feyre—”

“I need you to listen to me carefully,” Feyre cut her off. “My bow and arrows are hidden in the tallest oak tree in the forest, five minutes north of the fence by the house. Talk to Isaac. He will teach you how to shoot.” Nesta nodded, and for the first time, Feyre saw silver lining her sister’s eyes. “Take care of her.”

Nesta nodded again. “I always have.”

Feyre loosed a breath of relief. “I know,” she said, then pulled Nesta into their embrace.

“Time’s up,” someone said behind them, and Feyre took a step back.

“Try to win. Please,” Nesta told her.

There was nothing else to say, so Feyre said nothing. Soon, her sisters were escorted out.

“You only have thirty seconds,” a Peacekeeper told her, and another visitor appeared in the doorway.

“Isaac,” Feyre breathed, but he stopped her before she could waste their time with nothing but empty goodbyes.

“You can hunt,” he said, his eyes cleared and more determined than ever. “Use it.”

Feyre shook her head. “We both know I’m already dead, Isaac.”

He opened his mouth, but Feyre stopped him. “Take care of them. Please, promise that whatever you do, you won’t let them starve.”

At that, Isaac wrapped his arms around her. “I will,” he whispered into her ear. “I promise.”

They looked at each other one last time, and Feyre said, “We should’ve run away, like I told you.”

He offered her a sad smile. “You’d never leave your sisters, Feyre. Only death could ever stand between you.”

“Yes,” Feyre said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I know.”

With that, Isaac left, and as the door closed quietly behind him, Feyre stepped into her new reality.

She was truly alone.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase

[pedrospatch]

WIP Title Game

thank you for the tag my darling @planet-marz1 🤍

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

so i have way too many WIPS so i’ll be doing this only for the ones i am actively working on to post within the next few weeks or so.

- put on a show (dbf!joel x reader)

- frosting (daddy dom!joel x sub reader)

- wreck my plans, that’s my man (dbf!joel x reader)

- softness (post outbreak!joel x reader)

- you and me, forevermore (dbf!joel x reader)

- A Safe Haven Chapter 10 (post outbreak!joel x reader)

np tags! 🤍 @cupofjoel @cavillscurls @macfrog @sweetercalypso @mrsmando @janaispunk @ilovepedro @tieronecrush @missredherring @morning-star-joy @mandoisapunk @undrthelights @chronically-ghosted

[sercphs]

@astrxlfinale has entered a duel of fates

⠀⠀⠀⠀There is a focused gaze on Caelus, watching as his mind races through and realizes - watching as he arrives at the conclusion, the understanding as to what it was that he was now faced with. The trial before him, the unparalleled peril that vocalized a single statement. A warning just as much as a verdict, and issuance of a challenge that could not be refused, even if the opposing party had wanted to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Contrasting the wreathing power of the Trailblazer, the nameless man approaches with a frigid calm, like a cold front descending uncaringly upon a hot summer day. Even now, without so much as a weapon - the presence of one man carries a weight that scant few could rival. A weight that, perhaps, only once so far had rivaled.

"You do not carry a name."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Ah, a rushing approach befitting of the weapon of legends in his hands. A lance gazed upon by the Amber Lord themselves, was it? So it is that an answer is delivered in kind, that frigid cold soon proving to be much much more than just an air about the man.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His hand raises, and no weapon is drawn in to existence - but nearly instantly there is a massive formation of ice that trails from the motion, meeting the initial rush with a cascade of bone-chilling cold and an ice that even the great heat can't seem to penetrate though. All in the same motion, the man's other hand raises to meet the following strike head-on, consuming the very flames unleashed upon him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Letting that flame of the Amber Lord be trapped forevermore.

"Until the day you are in control, you will not own the name you use."

⠀⠀⠀⠀In that motion, he turns to Caelus's attack, lifting his hand to grab the very weapon swung at him like a club, the very channel through which the Amber Lord's power was funneled, giving the Calamity a power not belonging to it... Very well then.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Let the icy cold, the deepest of frosts, consume your power - let it bring even the hottest of days to an end with a blizzard... Let your great lance be consumed by the ice that devours flames.

"Endure."

⠀⠀⠀⠀A command given more than advice provided as the man draws his own blade at last, the gleaming heat of it as it is pulled into existence from his back and takes shape, the very presence of it alone a threat in and of itself...

⠀⠀⠀⠀...Yet still overshadowed by the weight of the man who wields it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The Shuhadaku of Uriel. Finality given form.

[mint-shrike]

Description of areas around Soft Breeze Above Clouds' structure and their climates

Mainly, SBAC's structure has 3 areas around it due to the structure emitting warmth. Those areas ard: inner circle, middle circle and outer circle

1. Main hyperstructure where most calculations are made

2. Secondary structure. It is relatively small as SBAC has only recently started his plan on expansion of his structure. More minor calculations and processes that can be automated run there. It also can be used as a backup in case anything happens with the main one

3. Inner circle - area closest to the structure, it's pretty warm there and there's almost no snow, some liquid water that has spilled out of the reserve can still be found very close to the structure. Vegetation is common, but usually can only survive in closed spaces (caves and insides of mechanisms), medium creatures live there, such as harvergers and Scolipedes. A lot of pipes go through here to cool the water used in the systems down. Winds are harsh and strong, when SBAC's structure is cooling down and almost nonexistent when it's working due to hot air radiating from it creating an increase in air pressure around, causing winds to travel slower, and when the structure is cooling down, the hot air around it looses it's volume, thus creating low atmosphere pressure and causing winds to become much stronger

4. Middle circle - small area with no developments from SBAC. No liquid water, everything is frozen, plenty of snow with frozen tunnels inside of it. Some vegetation can still be found under snow tho. Most scugs live there as well as burrower lizards and lesser vultures. Winds are still strong, but vary a bit less that in the inner circle

5. Outer circle - barely any vegetation, mostly rocks covered in snow, mainly big species live there such as yeti lizards, snowdeer. The only small specie that lives there is harverger due to their symbiotic relationship with snowdeer. Winds are harsh, but barely vary in strength, creating pretty stable environment

6. (I have accidentally forgotten about this number, uh)

7. The mountain. SBAC's structure barely holds any effect over the rest of the mountain, environment is pretty stable and is the same you'd find on any other mountains

Inner workings

8. Transmitting pipes. Almost no creature lives here due to extremely hot water and strong torrents

9. Main reservoir - main area that stores water. Due to strong torrents only species that are able to withstand them like needlefish and suckerfish can live there. Water temperature varies depending on how deep you go. The deeper - the colder

10. Backup reservoir - basically backup water in case any escapes main systems and has to be replaced. The water is cool there, most aquatic creatures live there. Big eyes fish inhabits those waters, aquatic vegetation is plenty

[sculptorofcrimson]

Pavilion of Golden Flowers

A Warhammer retelling of the Drunken Concubine.

Synopsis: Valdor waits for his master

“Love and hate breeds a trice

Couple like the moon with sun

Love and hate are vast

Ask, do kings love?” - Drunken Concubine

~~~

Terra no longer snowed. The white flakes that once cascaded and tumbled before Terra’s slow ruin, the pale frost that had blanketed the Himalayas and chilled golden armor to divine bone, had departed for scorching spring, never to arise once more. There was no more water to freeze, not a single drop of natural moisture upon Terra to fall from its plump heavy clouds. No more bitter frost to wrap the world underneath its wintery embrace. Even the Imperial Palace’s pools and lascivious decor held no natural born water of Terra’s oceans, not eden wealth could restore the lost, for Poseidon had long since abandoned humanity to its fate. 

The skies no longer wept in sorrow. They had no more tears to shed. It would be winter, if not for the fact Terra’s climate was nearly as dead as its oceans, and the Imperial Palace was insulated against such natural wonders. There would be no natural ice upon Terra’s surface, for now and forevermore. The only weak flicker of nature’s dying grasp was the slowly spreading moonlight, hovering with marked fickleness as an icy moon rose above the palace. Before it’s single-eyed gaze, the world sharpened and illuminated itself, the ghostly light painting it silver in all its ancient splendor.

It was through this nostalgic haze did the concubine toss back another cup, wineglass crinkling underneath gene-enhanced fingers that could have crushed a man’s throat. The hulking behemoth of a man would have looked intimidating under any other circumstance, even when draped in nothing but silken regalia and stripped of his weapons and armor. Not so long ago, his stern features had been set in an unsmiling glower as the serfs had massaged and groomed and dressed him for his lord, the Emperor's favorite concubine barely resisting as they draped him in silk and threaded scarves around his muscled frame. He hadn’t struggled when they had pulled on jewelry pretentious enough to bankrupt an entire star sector and veiled him in such golden extravagance it was nearly ostentatious. He would have protested against such attire(it was not practical, it was not even easy to move around in, how was he supposed to defend his lord in such ridiculousness?), but the serfs were already tugging the much larger Custodian towards his appointment. Their movements had been harried in their scampering as they had ushered him before a feast fit for an emperor, the Custodian now perfectly prepared to magnificence as if he had been any other item now artfully arranged for their Emperor’s amusement.

Yet still as majestic as ever even when draped in silks instead of auramite, Constantin Valdor was as resplendent as ever as he helped himself to another drink, the liquid searing his throat as his Custodian biology attempted to make sense of what he was drinking. His gene-enhanced form shuddered slightly as the liquid seared his insides, flesh and cells unable to comprehend what foreign substance could be strong enough to bypass his innate resilience.  

Such indulgence would out of character for the Captain-General, but the hour of restraint had long since passed, such reservations simply ceased to matter when the clock ticked on and on and on yet, whereas the hands turned and the sand slipped through the hourglass, his lord and master had never even appeared. It was possible that such a thing had simply slipped His mind, however impervious as it was, and left Valdor sitting there, alone, half-slumped over his...seventeenth? Eighteenth? bottle of the finest wine within the Imperium. 

At this point, they might as well give him the entire Imperial Palace's cellar. 

The serfs and servants and servitors still scurried for the aborted appointment, and the Captain-General watched them with the dull impartiality of cold detachment, the alcohol wrought haze having thankfully having numbed the cold humiliation of the Emperor’s abandonment to muteness. 

Still holding the wineglass in a crushing grip, Valdor idly wondered who could sharing the Emperor’s bed as of this moment. Who had been the lucky concubine chosen instead of him? Ra, for his humanity? Kadai? Saturnalia? Perhaps even Diocletian, as feisty as he was? Perhaps tonight the Emperor wanted a challenge instead of Valdor’s mute obedience. 

The Captain-General let his gaze linger upon the wineglass, now slowly being refilled by the hand of a Lucifer Black. Briefly, their eyes met, and the guardsman flinched when he noted Valdor’s piercing glare upon his, however dulled by wine that gaze was. The Lucifer Black dropped his eyes, and his hands shook, spilling a neat drop of red liquid along the side of the glass. Neither of them comments. Valdor only made a noncommittal noise as he dismissed the guardsman, gaze travelling onto the serfs still hurriedly running through their preparations as if they truly expected the Emperor to ever arrive. Valdor took a sip of the wine. And then another. Because why not? He long since knew the bitter truth the servants didn’t. 

The Emperor would not arrive today. Valdor knew that even as he accompanied them and waited for a master that would never return. The Emperor would never be here now, not in one hour, not in two, not when He had already chosen another concubine over him. 

Such indulgence would be impossible to fathom under other circumstances. Yet Valdor found no reason to refuse as he beckoned for the guardsman to approach again, waiting for a refill with endless patience and a serenity that tasted bitter.

The Emperor had taken the emotions of jealousy and envy and carved them out of his chest years ago. In fact, He had even taken the memories of desire itself and torn them out of His perfect creation, had drained away as much of his humanity and conscience as He pleased. Even now, lost in drunken reflection, Valdor found it impossible to even feel a twinge of loss or sympathy for his condition, had found it so unspeakably strange and incomprehensible. Such programming was wired into his literal bones, singed into the very fabric of his soul and shackled into the chains of his mind. There was no greater pleasure than serving his master, if only because he could feel nothing else otherwise. Of course, when pain and absence of pain were all you could feel, you too would gravitate against feeling nothing at all. 

The Lucifer Black seemed no longer frightened of Valdor’s presence, although the short glances he gave the Custodian were now full of wariness and guarded observation. Valdor ignored him, more out of the fact he knew the guardsman wanted to talk to him no more than he desired to initiate a conversation. Instead, they both watched the wine refill in a wineglass that would soon crack from Valdor’s grip upon it, and when it was full, the Lucifer Black stepped back without a word. 

The wine was supposed to be the finest in the Imperium, yet acting as a connoisseur of wine was the last thing upon his half-dazed mind as Valdor mused upon the hollow ache upon his chest, the strange withdrawal he felt upon his master’s abandonment. It was the unpleasant sensation of betrayal, a deep-seated ache in the absence of his normally iron-clad duty. The liquid was searing as he downed another cup of the Imperium’s finest spirits. 

His master wasn’t here. And the Emperor most likely would not appear tonight, or even tomorrow. Right as of this moment, He was most likely enjoying His time with another Custodian, perhaps humoring Ra, perhaps listening to Diocletian, perhaps even doing both in their company.

The thought was no consolation. The fact that his brothers were accompanying the Emperor while Valdor tried not to rip the sheer silken attire surrounding his muscled form did nothing to aid the Captain-General. While Valdor was no longer capable of jealousy, he was not yet quite ready to let go of the closest thing he had for pain in the face of this coldly blunt rejection. He was not yet ready to… forgive? Forgive, perhaps? Was that the word? Was he still capable of such an action, stripped of humanity as he was?No, Valdor believed not. To forgive would be to imply the Emperor had done wrong. To forgive would be to imply that there was a sin that needed forgiving. And the Custodian found himself unable to hold the Emperor to His sins, to His great mistakes and misconceptions. It was simply beyond him, quite literally unable to summon the hatred required for even such a small action. 

The Emperor had carved out his ability to feel such poisoned luxuries long ago.

And thus, you cannot forgive someone you could not even blame in the first place. 

There was no scapegoat, no one else to blame as Valdor raised the cup to his lips and drank from the finest wines in the Imperium. The Captain-General hung draped in the finest silks of Terra, and lounging within the finest Palace to have ever been graced by Mankind, and yet nursing the dull pain who refused to drown beneath endless drinks and the finest of liquor the Imperium had to offer. The liquid was searing yet numbing upon his tongue, yet he had accustomed himself to its taste with surprising efficiency.

Such human revelations were not supposed to be part of his duty, and would not be part of his duty. He was to serve in all regards, and so be it. So be it if the Emperor has another concubine in His mind, it was not his duty to intervene after all. This had, of course, happened multiple times in the past, and doubtlessly would continue in the future.

But if that was the case, why was he so rankled over his master’s absence? Why would he desire Him so?

Valdor’s grip tightens once more upon the wineglass at the echoing of his own thoughts, unable to completely drown out sorrows long since assumed lost to him. 

Sorrow. What an ugly word. 

Thanks to the Emperor he no longer held the capacity to feel in any defined form anymore, and if he could, it would be better to leave him to the illusion that he couldn’t. The wineglass cracks underneath his force, finally giving away, shards of glass normally unable to pierce Custodian flesh suddenly driven into skin and muscle by the sheer strength of Valdor’s grip. 

The Lucifer Black that had been preparing to refill the glass utters a sharp cry of surprise at the shattering, flinching at the Custodian’s sudden motion.

“And so be it.” Valdor growled aloud, his words surprisingly clear and sharp despite the inebriation that had overtaken him. The guardsman flinched and looked up in surprise, partially due to the fact Valdor had seemed to speak to him, partially due to the fact the Custodian’s piercing gaze was fixated on…something. Something not quite within the room with them right as of this moment, something he himself possibly could not name. Valdor’s cold gaze settles upon him for a moment and the guardsman’s hand trembles slightly upon his pitcher, but does not falter. He only watches the Custodian with a mixture of caution, surprise, and carefully guarded curiosity at the strange, somehow dark expression which briefly flitted across the much larger Custodian's features, before it was gone once more.

Valdor finally drops his gaze as he turned away, expression listless and unreadable, the shards of glass of what had once been a fine wineglass now piercing through his skin and the silken fabric. With surprising calmness, he sets down the broken glass, silently savoring - or as much as a being like him could savor - in few sensations he was yet capable of feeling: the bitter sting of pain, if only for a few moments before it was gone. Almost intangible once more in an eternity of unending invulnerability. Instead, he only draws back in silent almost-disappointment, watching the guardsman move to sweep up the broken pieces, soft footsteps rustling against lavish carpets as the pale-faced Lucifer Black busied himself with the task. When it came to the ranks of the golden, the still-living immortalized dead, silence was a virtue, and it was one they could easily afford.

He does not acknowledge the Lucifer Black, and offered him not even a single word as he turns and strides out of the room, his gait slightly lacking the usual eerie grace with which the Captain-General usually displaced himself with, an uncharacteristic alcohol-bourne clumsiness gracing his every step. The truth of his destination, he was not yet certain of, even though he knew he must find somewhere else to go. Somewhere further away, somewhere where his master wouldn’t be able to look upon him with disappointment and rebuke.

The Lucifer Black only watches him leave, the closest to vulnerable the Custodian would ever be, titanic form casting shadows against the silverware and the shattered glass. It was only when Valdor’s hulking silhouette was gone did the guardsman release a soft, exhausted sigh of worried relief.

Even alone, Valdor could not find it in himself to regret. His steps beat a hollow rhythm, the sound echoing off the walls, a soft, frozen heartbeat of entombed steel. He should have accepted what he had always known. It would be for the best, yes. He was nothing more than a tool of the Emperor’s, His loyal servant and Captain-General, created to please His every whim. Nothing more. Nothing less. Who was he to disagree?

He had no more tears to shed in the face of this, no more sorrow to feel. Such emotions had been ripped from him long ago. He was Valdor, the Captain-General of the Custodes. He was Valdor, the Emperor’s favorite, or he should have been. He was Valdor, and as he spasmodically leaned against a gaping doorway, trying to rationalize how he wasn’t drunk, how he wasn’t actually drunkenly leaning against a frame never meant to support his weight, he coldly explained away how the Emperor’s absence tonight should have been no surprise. He was busy, of course He was. He had other matters greater than a single Custodian to attend to, it would have been thoughtless of him to assume otherwise. And of course, His eye strayed from him to Ra. Or Diocletian. Or Khorarinn. There were ten thousand of them, it would have been arrogance on his part to assume otherwise. How foolish of him.

Shaking his head, hearing the decorative bangles wound into his neural implants jangle, the Captain-General’s gaze aimlessly wandered to the full moon still shining through the gaps of the Imperial Palace’s view. It was a single, baleful eye glaring down upon him, casting its silver gaze upon the emptied floor, upon the pillars and murals half-shrouded in shadows. Its languid light was almost a mockery to the hollow ache in his bones, an empty cry, an emperor’s fickle favor made grand and hollow in the taunting moonlight.

Slumping against the wall when he heard the door’s hinges begin to creak from his sustained weight, the Custodian’s sharp gaze wanders from the pool of liquid moonlight to the sight of the Palace’s gardens, in full bloom, yet so artificially sickly sweet even the Emperor’s gene-wonders could not have removed their deviance. A stray finger catches onto one of the golden bangles, and Valdor’s cold expression never falters as he grasps onto one of its latches and harshly tugs downwards. His gaze never even flickers in intensity, glaring back at the moon with enough frost to rival even the abyss of space itself as the bangle was forcibly wrenched from delicate neural implants, the sharp sting of pain drowned out without even a flinch. Valdor grasps the removed bangle, the pinpricks of Custodian blood already fading as his regeneration takes hold, the Captain-General quietly glaring back at the soulless moon that would never offer solace. The way it came to him, bubbling out just from under the surface like some entombed corpse from beneath the grave, the revelation itself was almost cruel. And made all the more taunting by the fickle light of a hollow night. Yet, it was not particularly surprising. No, not at all.

What is the meaning of glory, what is the purpose of prosperity? What of pride, what of greatness, what of even loyalty itself, when he could not even fathom betrayal itself? His hand tenses and relaxes as if in sync with his rapid thoughts, crushing the gold of the bangle now and imprinting the soft metal with his clawed grip.

It was hard to imagine a time before then, a time before when he still felt memories of avarice, of greed, of loathing, of joy itself, reduced to half-snuffed candles flickering in a dream.

The bangle snaps under the force of his grip. Uncaringly, he tosses it aside. It clatters as it falls.

Of course, His eye had strayed from him to Ra.

Of course.

Transfixed, utterly inebriated, and watching the stars that were never truly humanity’s birthright, the first Custodian tried to pretend that his Emperor’s cold dismissal wasn’t so terrible, so visceral, that even immortals knew pain.

~~~

"Love and hate are vast

Ask, will king re-love

Chrysanths Terrace reflects moon

Who knows how lonely my heart

Drunken in king's arms

dreaming of love” - Drunken Concubine

[lolatulips]

I know someone already asked about Crystal’s feelings, but how does Marie feel? 👀

Ah, I see you wish to ask only the richest of questions, don't you? Well, suppose I shall answer as best I can!

Ahem. She doesn't know! Alright see ya credits roll curtain call byeee-

Pfft, for real tho, she feels... a grand and volatile mess of emotions and sentiments towards Crystal. Some that make sense, some that don't, but every single one of them is overly complex. She despises her existence, she can't get enough of her. She wants to know everything she can about her, but she'd just as easily smash a radio to bits if it were discussing a competition Crystal won earlier that week. They had been friends once, they had been much more than that even, but all good things must come crashing down, being left a mangled and completely unrecognizable shell of what it had once been.

Crystal was the first and only person who really knew Marie, for better and for worse. She knows about Marie's little "gift", for example, and all the good and bad that could've come from such a thing. Which might be another aspect to explain how she feels about the woman in question being here at her place of work...

When she first saw Crystal on all the major league stuff, skating for the world to see, being talked about fondly by locals and fans alike, she could decide whether she wanted to throttle the woman or hold her tenderly in her arms one last time. Of course, she figured she'd never have to make a decision like that considering how wildly different their lives had become. Marie had remained in Paris for the majority of her adult life and Crystal was a globetrotter. The likelihood of either one of them ever seeing the other again was astronomically low, if not impossible altogether. Doubly so once she took that job at Middlesea! Now Marie's past couldn't haunt her even if it tried!

... And then it did. And then Crystal Winters appeared, in the flesh, right there in a patient room. The precious, precious little Snow Queen herself. The precious, precious little Princess of Frost. As if to mock her. As if to smile and laugh as she goes back through the unfinished business of dragging Marie down from the golden throne she rebuilt for herself. As if to spread her arms open wide and display all the success and fame she's managed after lovingly stabbing her dearest in the back. And, what's more, she's claiming that she wants to start anew between the two of them, wants to bury the hatchet and see if they can't let bygones be bygones.

How... dare she...

Marie would not be able to understand at all what Crystal's hoping to prove, to trick her with by pretending to care like this. She hates her, doesn't she? Why bother attempting to bring her guard down just to betray her once again? She can't stand it, she can't stand how any of it makes her feel. It makes her want to scream! She'd gladly leave her levels undone forevermore if it means she never has to deal with any of this crap, than you very much!

Thaaaat's about it, I think. At least as much as I'm willing to divulge, hehe. As you can see, the French are endlessly complex in their emotions and their feelings towards one another, almost to the point of a constant breakdown! Well, for one of them at least. Hope thos answers it well! Thank you for the ask!

[maebymine]

la cordura del cordero.

february arrives. the corners of my window grow patterns of frost, and the trees dance naked to a ferocious wind. the grass is wet without having it rained and the touch of wool keeps away the bitterness of the flora.  i keep dreaming about lambs; being born and being raised and being worn and being eaten and being cried for at night. we destroy to live and suffer because of our methods. we cry with blood in our hands and wipe it away to prevent it from staining our minds forevermore – the terror of guilt has been sitting in my chest since i was very young. there was probably a lamb born the same day i was. i wonder often if i’ve ever worn her skin or tasted her flesh. there’s a certain warmth that invades me when i convince myself that my bovine twin crossed paths with me at some point – even if they were dead and i was the predator that would remain at the top of the chain. that’s when i am most frightened by my tendencies, yet the fear is brought by them, too. i am product and consumer, i am tortured by my nature. lambs are made innocent because of how we think of them, aren't they ? – they are pure because we are not. they are as holy as a river, as a rose, as a poem written long ago. everything that feels cruel to me is excusable when it’s non-human. i don’t understand how i cannot forgive what i am.

— m.

[wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart]

In honour of the spooky season, I felt like sharing something from an old fic Haunt me for a year. This is the last chapter of it but I think you can read it without knowing the rest.

🍁🖤🍂🪦💀🌕

In the light of the huge golden-red harvest moon, which slowly rose free of the horizon on the last night of September, the cemetery was once again transformed into a mysterious and haunted place. An enchanted realm where time could be strange, and where the veil between the living and the dead sometimes became thin.

In its light dark shadows came to life, creeping free from the trunks of old trees and rising from the tombstones. Black and flickering they moved in the night, the silent spirits of those forgotten by the living, cursed to haunt the darkness forevermore.

On the mound in the center of the cemetery illuminated by the hunted moonlight the old oak stood like a mighty dark silhouette against the sky. An ancient creature proudly watching over its mysterious realm and all its souls. Old, patient, and with many scars from time's hard bite, it watched.

A cold wind, which carried with it the promise of frost and winter swept across the landscape and through the branches of the old trees. Mercilessly, it started to loosen and tear off their leaves, beginning its work of picking them naked for the winter. It whirled the leaves through the cool night air, before it laid them to rest on the cold ground.

The proud slender evergreens, who stood untouched by the changing of the seasons, swayed dangerously in the wind's grip. The moaning, whistling and groaning sound which it created was both haunting and frightening.

A single lantern glowed at the foot of a white pillar, its flickering light illuminating the prayer written there, blurred by the light mist rising from the grass around it.

The mist gave shape to the elusive elves, transparent and almost invisible, as they drew the dark shadows of the lost souls into their tempting dance under the moon's golden-red light, before the wind dissolved them and carried them all away into the cold night.

Large witch-rings of bone-pale mushrooms grew in the grass, marking where the cursed could be found, where the witches and wizards would meet, where the Force could be reached and where time did not exist. In their rings of living pale flesh, created by rot and decay, anything could happen on a night like this.

Covered in dark green ivy, terrifying thorny but beautiful climbing roses and sweet smelling honeysuckles, hidden in the wild and forgotten part of the cemetery, an ancient sanctuary lay nestled among the crooked old fruit trees.

The lost and forgotten fruits had fallen from the crooked branches and now lay in the long grass, where their rotting flesh would bring new life when winter loosened its grip once more. The wind carried with it their riped, sweet scent of decay, which, mingled with the scent of damp earth, became the fragrance of both life and death.

The lights that marked the many paths that flowed like solidified streams through the realm of the dead, glowed with a light as dim as the moon's. They marked the known paths, but no one followed them this night. The dead knew other ways through the darkness, and the living wisely stayed away.

Between old and new tombstones a deer walked, enjoying a late and undisturbed meal, paying no attention to the spirits around it. Above it, an owl glided gracefully through the moonlight with silent wing beats, hunting for its innocent and unsuspecting prey, and like tiny elusive silhouettes against the sky the bats performed one last elegant dance before their long winter sleep, where they would let themselves slip close to death's eternal embrace.

The wind whispered in the night, it sounded as if it were whispering or singing an almost inaudibly poem meant for those who rested or wandered in the realm of the dead in the night of a hunted red-golden moon. It whispered for those who were loved and missed, but also for those who were forgotten and left behind.

There is no death! The stars go down

To rise upon some other shore,

And bright in heaven's jeweled crown

They shine for evermore.

There is no death! The dust we tread

Shall change beneath the summer showers

To golden grain or mellow fruit

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize

To feed the hungry moss they bear;

The forest leaves drink daily life

From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall,

The flowers may fade and pass away-

They only wait, through wintry hours,

The coming of the May.

There is no death! only the Force

that flows in all and walks with a silent tread;

It bears our best-loved things away,

And then we call them "dead."

***

A tall figure walked through the dark shadows of the night and the mysterious light of the hunted moon. He was a shadow among the many dark shadows that danced in this night. His coat flowed behind him in the wind like a long black cloak, merging into the darkness of the night, when he walked up the mound on which the old oak stood, as if it were his right to master and rule the darkness of the night in this realm.

For many nights he had wandered here in the dark, among the dead, seeking the light, only to find, like so many others who had walked in the darkness seeking the light before him, that it had been with him all along. And yet, here he was once more, enveloped in the darkness of the night, lit by the haunting glow of the moon, missing his light, seeking what he feared to have lost.

Another figure also wandered through the night, called once more by the Force to this haunted place. Dressed in a white coat, which the moon's light dyed golden-red, he walked elegantly like a spirit through the shadows, led by the whispering wind. This night he did not follow the long-known paths, but had finally chosen to follow a new one through the dark.

For many nights he had sought the sorrow and memories found here in the realm of the dead, but had instead discovered something new, yet familiar. He had finally allowed his heart to open again, knowing he was doomed to lose what he had found once more, or so it seemed.

Now he wandered yet again here in the realm of memories, seeking the freedom of the present, longing for the one he knew he would have to lose.

The Force brought them together once more, it had always brought them back together, for they were souls connected across all borders, of all times, and all universes. No veil could keep them apart forever, their destinies one and the same, even when they did not know it. They would always recognize each other, would always seek the other's soul and light.

They met in the night, bathed in the hunted moon's golden-red light, under the crooked branches of the old oak, as they had so many nights before.

Their astonished joy at finding each other again, was evident in the desperate kisses they shared, and the relieved words that tumbled across their lips, finally telling the truth and putting into words the love that would at last set them both free of the darkness.

They had both thought that the other were lost, that they were abandoned, that there had been no other choice but to leave the other, to lose what they had just found, and now the Force had granted them one more night.

Amazed, grateful and happy to be together again, they walked through the cold haunted night in what they had made their realm unafraid of the darkness and shadows. They talked, laughed, kissed, played and danced in the golden-red moonlight, filled with the joy of being near each other, their love finally free and shining. They lost themselves in the moment, in the here and now, and for a time they did not care about anything else but each other.

The path the Force led them by in the haunted night, brought them to one of the many tombstones that rose in the darkness lid by the moon. In its mysterious light they saw the truth written there.

It was a terrible truth that could have, and perhaps should have, driven them apart again. But they held on, stubbornly, they clung to each other, refusing to let go of what they held so dear and had just found.

And then the Force revealed to them that it no longer mattered, as it led them to another of the stones that stood in the darkness to remember the dead.

Its base was covered in withered flowers, and on it were other names written in curved script, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Its golden-red light was also illuminating another truth, that was written there to comfort those left behind.

'There is no death, only the Force.'

***

On the last night of September the moon rose with slow dignity high into the sky, and gradually its light changed to a soft shining silver-blue that almost made the night as bright as day, creating long black shadows, transforming the cemetery into a realm of black and white.

In the bright silver-blue moon light, two figures walked through the silent realm of the dead. They walked in the realm where the Force touched the living, and allowed the dead to finally find their peace. Where it gave back the lost souls their light and hope, allowing them to find the hidden truth and the freedom forgiveness can bring. It was a silent realm of dead, though filled with life, and here, where the veil between eternity and all times, all realms and destinies, was thin and fragile as a moth's wing, transparent, to let lovers meet one last time, they walked in the silver-blue moon light.

And when the morning light came, soft and bright, they were gone. Had vanished through the heavy wrought iron gates which marked the borders of the hunted realm. In the light of the new day, the ancient inscription which adorned them, and which the passage of time had made almost invisible, suddenly became strangely visible.

'Luminous beings we are, not this crude matter.

The Force created us from its eternal flow, its children we are,

and when we are one with it, our souls become eternal.’

‘At the end of time there will always be a new beginning.’

‘There is no death, only the Force.’

***

Notes:

The poem is the first half of John Luckey McCreery's 'There is no death' with only a tiny modification.

[alargepieceofgammon]

You, the forest:

Your skin is bark and leaves and moss,

Your breath is petrichor.

Your eyes are stony, laced with frost,

And closed forevermore.

Your blood runs fresh through tree-trunk veins,

From a heart of rain and thunder.

And as the beasts play woodland games,

You lie in endless slumber.

Verdant vines grow from your crown,

Swaying gently in the autumn breeze.

And as the sun comes falling down,

You sleep among the trees.

With twigs of bones in midnight sleep,

And a gentle snoring gale,

Your riverbed runs in dreamlike deep,

Under moonlight, soft and pale.

You rest at night beneath limitless light,

A dappled shine falls on the flowers below.

Your hair burns cold and bold and bright,

Bathed in starry silver glow.

Now night has left and still you rest,

A gift, a home, a friend.

May your dreams be nothing but the best,

For they shall never end.

[pluralpedia]

Plurpy-tan!

This is version 2.0 of Plurpy, and the first face you see when you open Pluralpedia.

2.0? What happened to 1.0? Well you see, Plurpy 1.0 was made in a picrew, back when there were less than 20 people on the project! Most picrew makers don't let you use their outputs for anything aside from personal icon use, and we decided to future-proof the project and step away from that image as quickly as we could!

We still have the original saved, though, don't you worry. You can even see it under the cut!

Fantastically Plurple!

Original picrew maker linked so that full proper credits are available

History

Back during the early days of Pluralpedia, when we barely knew that we wanted to call it Pluralpedia yet, the Discord server where it all started began discussing a mascot. Ideas were thrown around, and as everyone was feeling excited for this mascot, this Pluralpedia-tan (Plurpy-tan for short), Nikiha of the @frost-system came up with a quick visual for the mascot...

... Leading to the first mass-introjection event of over half a dozen so-called Plurptives, across just as many systems. Many more Plurptives were to come, but forevermore would Plurpy, the purple-haired girl with a penchant for books, be the through-line of the wiki community.