#graven deep

[tiredela]

tonight i felt like drawing various eso npcs who canonically only appear in two books :D

[madameriascreenshots]

Graven Deep, P7

[the-ghost-in-your-walls]

Headcanon: Commander Pyrosome not likes, but is still somewhat fond of the Nektons. She would rather die than admit this to anyone

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

alright I am highkey annoyed that the savior of necrom title is tied to an antiquarian achievement which requires you to do 4 dlc dungeons in order to complete. 

[sonsofks]

Realms Deep 2023: ¡Sorpresas, Anuncios y Más en un Showcase Digital que Deja Huella!

“Un Resumen Cargado de Emoción del Realms Deep 2023: ¡Revelaciones, Fechas de Lanzamiento, y Nuevos Títulos Abundan!” El Realms Deep 2023, el anual showcase digital organizado por 3D Realms y sus orgullosos colaboradores, concluyó su celebración anual el sábado 30 de septiembre de 2023. Fue una presentación repleta de emocionantes revelaciones, esperadas actualizaciones, primeros vistazos…

[anantaru]

— taking care of his wounds

including xiao, scaramouche, diluc, childe x gn! reader

꒰ genre ꒱ — fluff & angst, crack, mentions of blood, sweet n cute

— xiao

"you do not have to do this."

"but i want to!"

deep down inside, it was imperatively embarrassing for xiao to have you mend his wounds and scratches— especially considering the fact that you were seeing him this way for once, a shelter of vulnerability and weakness, as he always seem to put it.

a good for nothing who cannot even be strong enough to defend himself, let alone the person he fell in love with.

keep in mind, you were very much aware of your boyfriend and his cruel views on himself, precisely the hurting words chosen by him, which he would insult himself with on a daily basis.

as punishment? one can only guess or say that much, but there was a translucent underlining that only a handful of people were able to take a grasp on.

"and you‘re my boyfriend xiao." that happiness in your voice, he couldn't get enough of it. but you always add the right words into the mix, catching a bolstering blush on xiao‘s handsome face the sweet moment he picks up your chosen name for him.

'boyfriend' was he worthy of such a name? he shivered, it took all his self control to not run off from this vulnerable moment.

"i‘m also worried." and you sigh so sweetly against him, melting your skilled fingers into his flesh and filling all the cold emptiness within his heart. "i don't want you to worry." his voice almost breaks in midst his sentencing but it's low, his words mumbled, "you could find someone better than me."

it's a graven fear the man held for what felt like an eternity. to see you leave one day due to his weaknesses.

because every time he experiences you taking care of him, yes, xiao does turn embarrassed— his eyes twinkling open wild, but he feels that static, as if he could actually reach the heavens behind the sky.

he suddenly hisses when you began to wrap a small cloth around a bigger wound on his hand, sneakily sealing your lips over his roughened up knuckles to kiss each and every one of them.

"there will never be someone better than you, xiao."

— scaramouche

"how childish."

scaramouche's face was mounted in a discomforting tinge while he gazed at the cute, little, not to mention pink, band aids covering the majority of his face and chest. "shut up."

you shake your head, laughing at your boyfriend's bright, assessing eyes while he hopelessly attempted to wholly conceal the agonizing pain bound within his facial features, keeping them in check with a hard look, brows criss crossed and squeezed together, "you're using too many of those."

"i wouldn't have to if there weren't that many scratches all over you."

but above and beyond, there it was; a crucial, meaningful expression that sneakily slipped past his own eyes— your current state, when you lock away the smallest amount of warm tears glinting nervously, finishing it with a soft smile, not wanting to make scaramouche feel even worse.

what confused you, and, frankly, scared you in the first place was the severe rarity of this situation— it was uncommon for him to get this beat up, this littered up with scratches and bumps, you can still remember the mere seconds earlier, when he showed up in front of your door step— dirty clothes ruptured and ripped, his bottom lip popped open and blood sliding down his chin, eyes low lidded, barely any life behind them.

by all means, scaramouche was doing better now, with the help of you and your quick responses doing wonders. needless to say did he too, catch a glimpse of your distress when you suddenly had stopped mending his wounds.

"hey." he pokes your left cheek, once, twice— "hey," and his comforting, warm voice ever so softly slips past your ears.

"i'll be okay, besides, i will take it as an insult if you think that is enough to end me."

and judging by the hitch of your breath, scaramouche felt a rambling burn deep inside, at nothing but that distraught look on your person. He opens his eyes wide, steady as glass, before sloping his head towards you, a faint, transient smile lightening his bruised face when you lean in to kiss his lips, tenderly, but compelling enough to lift the worry off your shoulders.

— diluc

patience— and the adequate plenitude of pressure were the very two notions you had channeled tonight, with your trembling hands slowly dapping the blood off diluc‘s injuries.

you truly cannot remember the last time he had shown any signs of recklessness in his usual behavior when it came to fending of intruders, so whatever must‘ve happened today had to be of graven importance or a powerful enemy catching him off guard.

"thank you." he suddenly speaks, but averts his eyes, and although his voice was raspy and chill, diluc managed to quickly snap you out of your stinging thoughts. you move to his face, tilting his chin up to catch an ideal view on the main bruises around his left cheek, allowing you to tackle those as well, "for doing this i mean."

at his words, you stop your hand, smiling serenely, almost angelic.

"you don't have to thank me for this."

"—but, do you want to tell me about what happened?"

diluc's face twitches when you retorted back to brush a splotch of dried blood from his jaw— you noticed how his lip was busted open, this thought again, of someone hurting the love of your life, it compared to sharp needles jabbing at your skin, over and over until drilled in its entirety.

but he didn't, diluc would never tell you about anything dangerous, not even when he showed up to your home, looking like that. "i rather not." there it was, that brave smile he'd manage to put on whenever he found himself in a situation like that, regardless, worry gnawed away at you, your gaze piercing through him like a freezing blast of ice.

"yet worry not." all of his attention was on you as he slants close to take your cheeks in his roughened palms, feeling them shake against your skin awakened a murky, dull feeling where you wanted to just cry in his arms, "i'd never let someone hurt you."

sigh, deep down, you wonder if diluc will ever comprehend that seeing him like that was already hurting you, was already pulling the hot air off your seized throat and clenching your heart with dread, feeling as if you could not breathe.

instead, you smile kindly at him, foreheads resting against each other, overcome by a dark sense of silence.

— childe

"hah! you should see the other guy!"

excessive boasting upon boasting, your sweet childe was out here acting like he had just experienced the best day in his entire life— a certain smile, brighter than ever witnessed before, if it wasn‘t for his black eye and bloody nose breaking the illusion he attempted to portray.

however, in contrast, childe found it exceedingly cute and appealing whenever you were severely worried and concerned about him— as is someone was ever able to greatly harm nor scratch the overenthusiastic harbinger. "you really shouldn‘t be this reckless sometimes."

you sigh deeply, then shake your head, mending the bigger wounds with a wet cloth first so they were clean and ready to be wrapped up.

but, important side note, you being brightly concerned for him made his heart flutter unexpectedly and childe suddenly expels a large wave of pride, "but you love it when i'm reckless."

"i do not."

"you don't?!" his smirk fades.

"i want you to be save." you kiss the corner of his mouth, and a vast deal of weariness sweeps over you, claiming your energy with it when you remember that this wasn't possible.

ajax was a harbinger after all.

his voice, now thick of seriousness, greets you closely, "don't worry about me." he speaks so idly, listlessly and without a care in the world, as if he doesn't care about his own wellbeing. and it left a bitterness littering on the tip of your tongue.

"because as long as you have everything in your life, i too will be fulfilled." with that, childe kisses you, all around passionate, needful and telling. on the assumption that he longed to show you his determination to protect you in a different way than solely using his own choice of words.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[nalyra-dreaming]

“Took him to that banquet, where the men there... well, took liberties.” Except they didn’t. That’s the gag. They tried. They offered their rings and their jewels and Marius entertains them all while giving Amadeo knowing looks. Armand describes these looks as “secretive” and “teasing” because he knew that none of the men were going to make it out of there alive. Marius is literally toying with them. “I couldn't help but smile. Kill them, I thought, slaughter them. I felt fetching and even beautiful.” (TVA)

He KNEW Marius would never make him do anything he didn’t wanna do. “Martino, kiss my child if he'll allow it, and mark you, be gentle when you do." (TVA)

One would think so called book experts would be the first to point out the misinformation being spread about the banquet scene, but they’re not. In fact, you’re actively contributing to it with nothing to back it up. So I have to ask, just why are you making it sound like something happened when it clearly didn’t? It’s okay to admit that not every change being made for the show aligns with what’s actually in the book.

*sighs*

(you're the nonny who got pissed at me for saying that Marius did not kill Santino decades after Amadeo's abduction, aren't you. When it's clearly a play on centuries...)

Let us let the text give the whole scene, okay? Or, more of the scene, than the one sentence you picked (since it's a rather long one).

The red-haired man leaned forward, deep into the flirt, and put the goblet right against my lip. "Little David, you'll grow up to be the King, remember? Oh, I would worship you now, tender-cheeked little man that you are, and beg for one psalm from your harp, just one, were it given with your own will." My Master whispered low, "Can you grant a man's dying request?" "I think he is dead!" said the gray-haired man with obnoxious loud- ness. "Look, Martino, I think I did kill him; his head's bleeding like a damned tomato. Look!" "Oh, shut up about him!" said Martino, the redhead, without taking his eyes off mine. "Do grant a dying man's request, little David," he went on. "We are all dying, and I for you, and that you die with me, just a little, Sir, in my arms? Let us make a little game of it. It will amuse you, Marius De Romanus. You'll see I ride him and stroke him with one artful rhythm, and you'll behold a sculpture of flesh that becomes a fountain, as what I pump into him comes forth from him in my hand." He cupped his hand as if he had my organ already in it. He kept his eyes on me. Then in a low whisper, he said, "I'm too soft to make my sculpture. Let me drink it from you. Have mercy on the parched." I snatched the goblet out of his wavering hand and drank down the wine. My body tightened. I thought the wine would come back up and spew. I made it go down. I looked at my Master. "This is ugly, I hate it."

"Oh, nonsense," he said, barely moving his lips. "There's beauty all around!" "Damned if he isn't dead," said the gray-haired man. He kicked the body of Francisco on the floor. "Martino, I'm out of here." "Stay, Sir," said Marius. "I would kiss you good night." He clapped his hand over the gray-haired man's wrist and lunged at his throat, but what did it look like to the red-haired one, who gave it only a bleary glance before he continued his worship? He filled my goblet again. A moan came from the gray-haired man, or was it from Marius? I was petrified. When he turned from his victim, I would see even more blood teeming in him, and I would have given all the world to see him white again, my marble god, my graven Father in our private bed. The red-haired man rose before me as he leant over the table and put his wet lips on mine. "I die for you, boy!" he said. "No, you die for nothing," said Marius. "Master, not him, please!" I cried. I fell back, nearly losing my balance on the bench. My Master's arm had come between us, and his hand covered the red-haired man's shoulder. "What's the secret, Sir?" I cried frantically, "the secret of Santa Sofia, the one we must believe?"

The red-haired man was utterly befuddled. He knew he was drunk. He knew things around him didn't make sense. But he thought it was because he was drunk. He looked at Marius's arm across his chest, and he even turned and looked at the fingers clutching his shoulder. Then he looked at Marius and so did I. Marius was human, utterly human. There was no trace of the impermeable and indestructible god left. His eyes and his face simmered in the blood. He was flushed as a man from running, and his lips were bloody, and when he licked them now, his tongue was ruby red. He smiled at Martino, the last of them, the only one left alive. Martino pulled his gaze away from Marius and looked at me. At once he softened and lost his alarm. He spoke with reverence. "In the midst of the siege, as the Turks stormed the church, some of the priests left the altar of Santa Sofia," he said. "They took with them the chalice and the Blessed Sacrament, our Lord's Body and Blood. They are hidden this very day in the secret chambers of Santa Sofia, and on the very moment that we take back the city, on the very moment when we take back the great church of Santa Sofia, when we drive the Turks out of our capital, those priests, those very priests will return. They'll come out of their hiding place and go up the steps of the altar, and they will resume the Mass at the very point where they were forced to stop." "Ah," I said, sighing and marveling at it. "Master," I said softly. "That's a good enough secret to save a man's life, isn't it?" "No," said Marius. "I know the story, and he made our Bianca a whore."

The red-haired man strained to follow our words, to fathom the depth of our exchange. "A whore? Bianca? A murderer ten times over, Sir, but not a whore. Nothing so simple as a whore." He studied Marius as though he thought this heated passionately florid man was beautiful, indeed. And well he was. "Ah, but you taught her the art of murder," said Marius almost tenderly, his fingers massaging the man's shoulder, while with his left arm he reached around Martino's back, until his left hand might lock on the man's shoulder with his right. He bent his forehead to touch Martino's temple. "Hmmm," Martino shook himself all over. "I've drunk too much. I never taught her any such thing." "Ah, but you did, you taught her, and to kill for such paltry sums." "Master, what is it to us?" "My son forgets himself," said Marius, still looking at Martino. "He forgets that I am bound to kill you on behalf of our sweet lady, whom you so finagled into your dark, sticky plots." "She rendered me a service," said Martino. "Let me have the boy!" "Beg pardon?" "You mean to kill me, so do it. But let me have the boy. A kiss, Sir, that's all I ask. A kiss, that is the world. I'm too drunk for anything else!" "Please, Master, I can't endure this," I said. "Then, how will you endure eternity, my child? Don't you know that's what I mean to give you? What power under God is there that can break me?" He threw a fierce angry glance at me, but it seemed more artifice than true emotion. "I've learnt my lessons," I said. "I only hate to see him die." "Ah, yes, then you have learnt. Martino, kiss my child if he'll allow it, and mark you, be gentle when you do." It was I who leant across the table now and planted my kiss on the man's cheek. He turned and caught my mouth with his, hungry, sour with wine, but enticingly, electrically hot. The tears sprang to my eyes. I opened my mouth to him and let his tongue come into me. And with my eyes shut, I felt it quiver, and his lips become tight, as if they had been turned to hard metal clamped to me and unable to close. My Master had him, had his throat, and the kiss was frozen, and I, weeping, put out my hand blindly to find the very place in his neck where my Master's evil teeth had driven in. I felt my Master's silky lips, I felt the hard teeth beneath them, I felt the tender neck. I opened my eyes and pulled myself away. My doomed Martino sighed and moaned and closed his lips, and sat back in my Master's grip with his eyes half-mast.

So, let's see.

I've highlighted a few instances. And yes, I DO see these as Martino here take liberties. Now, I'm not sure how it is with your reading comprehension, but it's very clear to me that an offered kiss on a cheek and one taken open mouthed are two different things.

And it's not even the first kiss either, as highlighted above.

Oh, and above that, the "bantering "how he would ride him until he makes Armand come".

And it makes Armand want to throw up.

That is what I mean with "liberties".

Now, you obviously can call this as you want.

I CALL IT TAKING LIBERTIES.

And Marius let it happen, actually more or less coaxed him into it as well!! Oh, yes, he always planned to kill Martino - for Bianca. Well. But do grant that dying man his last wish Amadeo, hmmm, how about it. /sarcasm off. What do you want me to say to that.

So, actually I DO think that it is in the book. At the very least hinted at. The "ankles of the boys" and all that, too. Want me to dig that out, too?

So, nonny:

Take your passive aggressive asks elsewhere in the future, please.

Because despite your claim I CAN back it up.

[dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd]

Graven Hearts

After being unofficially banished from the Mourn Watch, rebellious Lisbette must recruit one of her former professors, Emmrich Volkarin, to help her defeat two ancient Elvhen gods. Hurt that her favourite professor never stood up for her when she needed him, Lisbette takes delight in provoking the handsome, silver-haired necromancer, perhaps enjoying herself a little too much.

Female Rook | Age Difference | Daddy vibes | low key bratting | Hurt/Comfort | Eventual Smut

Start with Chapter One

Chapter Two

Lisbette can’t sleep that night. She tosses and turns for a long time, before finally sitting up and glaring at the wall. Emmrich Volkarin is just through that wall, no doubt sleeping soundly. He probably wears striped pajamas and one of those long, tapering night caps over his perfect silver hair. 

Her lips twitch as she imagines it. What would he look like if she went in there and got into bed with him? Scandalised, no doubt. His nightcap might fall off. 

She sighs and flops onto her back. As amusing as it is to think about, she’d gotten carried away earlier that afternoon. She didn’t want to make the professor angry with her, or make him uncomfortable. She should have welcomed him to the Lighthouse, but instead anger had hijacked her mouth and she’d said and done all...that.

Lisbette couldn’t understand why. Probably it was a mixture of her anger and hurt toward the Mourn Watch and the fact that she’d always found Professor Volkarin to be particularly handsome and charming. Poking at him, teasing him, making him glower at her. It was better that he was angry with her than pity her. She doesn’t want his apologies for how the Mourn Watch treated her. If he tries to apologise, she thinks she might scream, or sob, or both. 

She reaches for his book, Alvarus’ Treatise on the Undead , and reads a few passages, idly turning the pages. She’s never read it, but the content is painfully familiar. It feels like her childhood. It feels like home. She ends up with the book clutched against her chest with both arms wrapped around it, her eyes closed against the tears that threaten to fall. 

She doesn’t miss the Mourn Watch. 

All right, maybe she does, deep down.

But no one was going to hear that from her. Ever. 

It has been a long, filthy day in the Hossberg Wetlands. Lisbette chose Davrin to come with her, because as a Grey Warden, he’s a natural choice for the area. Then she asked Emmrich to make up their third as a kind of apology she didn’t have to say out loud, because she thought he’d enjoy the gloomy atmosphere of the place as much as she did. 

After a particularly bloody and blighted fight, she and Davrin were filthy, but Emmrich was as pristine as when they set out. Dirt didn’t seem to want to cling to the professor.

‘Oh dear,’ Emmrich tuts, looking at them both. ‘Neither of you have learned dirt-repelling charms. I put them on my clothes every morning. The dead can be so messy.’

Despite the fact that she’s resolved to keep things strictly Fade-related and professional with Emmrich, Lisbette speaks without thinking. 

‘Dirt-repelling charms?’ she asks, wiping the back of her hand over her cheek. ‘I’ve never heard of those before.’

‘The principles are simple. I can tell you about them, if you wish.’

She eyes Professor Volkarin warily. He’s smiling pleasantly at her, and they have a long walk to their next destination. This doesn’t seem like a topic that concerns Watchers particularly, and so she cautiously nods. 

The two of them discuss the theory behind the charm and the mage who invented them, and Lisbette is surprised to find she’s enjoying their conversation. Professor Volkarin is a great deal less formal with her than he was as her professor. He’s animated as he speaks, gesturing with his staff and his hands, and adding a lot more personal opinion about things than he ever used to do. 

Then he says something that feels to Lisbette like tripping up and falling flat on her face. 

‘Vorgoth hasn’t been without a dirt-repelling charm since the incident with the ink bottles and the four playful spirits from the lower Necropolis.’

The playful spirits from the lower Necropolis. They’d been her friends when she was a child. They’d played spooky hide-and-seek with her, popping out of urns and chasing her around statues. She’d never been afraid back then. She hadn’t learned fear until very recently. 

‘Lisbette?’ Emmrich says. 

She realises he’s been talking and she hasn’t heard a word. ‘Sorry, I was...thinking about the Evanuris.’

But the professor isn’t fooled. He asks gently, ‘I think you’d rather not speak of that place. Am I right?’

Lisbette watches Davrin and Assan up ahead. Her pride is telling her to keep her mouth shut. No one from the Mourn Watch can know how much she misses them. It’s embarrassing. Shameful somehow. They turned their backs on her, and she won’t come scratching at the door like a pathetic stray cat.  

It was strange seeing the Necropolis yesterday after so long. The long corridors, decorative urns, and flickering veilfire had once been home to her. The most wonderful place in the world. 

‘It doesn’t matter. I won’t be returning there ever again.’

‘Ah, so I shouldn’t ask if you...’ He trails off and smiles. ‘Nothing. Never mind.’

They walk together in strained silence, Lisbette looking everywhere but at him. 

‘I find that long walks are preferable if there is conversation,’ the professor says in a cheerful tone. ‘Would necromancy in general be an agreeable topic of conversation for you, Lisbette?’ 

‘Yes it would,’ she tells him. ‘Very welcome, actually. The group tends to be disconcerted by the ‘death stuff,’ as they call it.’

‘The death stuff is weird,’ Davrin calls back to them.

Emmrich and Lisbette exchange glances, and Lisbette is surprised to find she’s smiling. 

‘People from outside Nevarra, they’re the strange ones,’ Lisbette says.

‘Burning their dead. Heartbreaking.’ 

‘So wasteful.’

The professor speaks eloquently about his corpse whispering, and the necromancer in Lisbette can’t help but be drawn into a technical conversation about souls and spirits. 

This is surprisingly nice, she thinks to herself as they walk along. As long as they don’t talk about the Mourn Watch, she’ll be happy to chat with the professor any time, and it was comforting speaking with someone who’s known her longer than everyone else in her life. 

Hours later, they're stepping back through the eluvians, and she feels as though she should say something to the professor. 

Saying sorry was too much for her pride, so she expresses gratitude instead. ‘Thank you for coming today. I liked having you with us. Me.’

‘I was pleased to be of service. Oh, dear,’ Emmrich murmurs, and plucks an invisible speck of dust from his pristine coat. ‘I fear I’m filthy.’

‘Bathing in this place is fine, but don’t you miss the-’ Lisbette breaks off. She was about to say, Don’t you miss the bathhouses at the Mourn Watch . 

She misses the bathhouses. She misses the friends she made, and the camaraderie of being with other necromancers. She misses being among people who uncomplicatedly like her. Who don’t look at her like she’s strange or wrong or is going to get them all killed, even if they have accepted their deaths. 

For a moment she can’t breathe, as if death itself has stopped her throat. 

Emmrich reaches for her. ‘Lisbette? Are you unwell?’

If he manages to put his hand on her shoulder, she’ll probably cry, and then he’ll look at her with pity, which is the last thing she wants from people who turned their backs on her. 

Lisbette shakes her head and hurries into the Lighthouse, grateful for her masses of curls that hide her face. 

--

Emmrich can’t remember the last time he felt this angry. The mission was a success and everyone was safe. Including Lisbette. Thankfully, especially Lisbette. She had fought remarkably, one might say even magnificently, facing down the horror that is Ghila’nain without flinching. He’d been inspired, even dazzled, in those moments.

But to punch the First Warden. 

This is not the behaviour of the thoughtful and compassionate leader who he’s been growing to esteem.

That night at the Lighthouse, everyone is congratulating Lisbette on her actions, praising them and even laughing about them. Only Bellara is silent, but her silence is uncertain. 

Emmrich leaves them to their laughter and retreats to his rooms. He needs tea. 

Later, he passes Lisbette in the library. 

‘Lisbette,’ he says with a polite incline of his head, because it’s bad manners not to greet her.

He is already past her when she calls to him, ‘Is that all you have to say, Professor Volkarin?’

There’s a distinct sass to her voice. 

Emmrich stops, and then turns around to face her. How best to proceed when faced with an angry young woman who is his senior in rank, however informal things are at the Lighthouse, but who he longs to dress down as though she was still his student? 

She’s not writing snarky little essays now. She could get herself killed. 

He clasps his hands behind his back and regards her with a grave expression. ‘We made an impressive stand at Weisshaupt, but I was taken aback by certain events of the day.’

Lisbette’s eyes glitter with anger. ‘Just say it. I shouldn’t have punched the First Warden. That’s not how a Mourn Watcher behaves.’

‘I am conscious of your feelings on the matter of the Mourn Watch and I won’t speak of them, as I have already told you.’

She was being entirely too sensitive about the Mourn Watch, but he would respect her wishes even if he didn’t understand them. 

She was being entirely too sensitive now as well. 

‘You don’t have to say it. Your disapproval is written all over your face.’ 

‘You are better than how you behaved today, Lisbette.’

Her eyes narrow, and she takes an angry breath. ‘And what gives you the right to decide that? You can’t form a council and pass judgment on me, and exclude me from all these people who’ve dared to call themselves my friends. If you’re so disappointed in me, Professor Emmrich Volkarin of the Mourn Watch, you know where the door is.’

‘Lisbette...’ 

‘I’m not interested in talking about it. Either you stay or you go, but you keep your opinions to yourself, and that includes your judgmental looks that I feel boring into the back of my neck.’ 

Well, that told him. Emmrich feels his moustache twitch in even greater disapproval. 

That night as he lies in bed, he goes over the conversation with Lisbette again. Just what happened to Lisbette when she was asked to temporarily depart the Mourn Watch? What council was she talking about? 

He gets out of bed and writes a letter to Myrna. 

Myrna’s reply comes back within two days. It includes a detailed description of the events of the civil war that pertain to Lisbette and her group of fellow mages. After the unrest had been resolved, Lisbette was judged in front of dozens of noble Nevarrans, not just the Mourn Watch, who were angry about the civil war and looking for someone to blame. There was not one word of acknowledgment, let alone gratitude, for the lives she had saved by intervening. The judgment was entirely focused on the fact that she had acted without anyone’s approval or permission. Lisbette did not speak up in her own defence, and no one from the Mourn Watch spoke for her either. 

Emmrich reads the letter through again and sighs. The Nevarran council sounded excessive, even cruel. He’d imagined that it had been gently suggested to Lisbette by the Mourn Watch that she leave until things settled down, and it had been a private, internal matter, but how wrong he was. 

Thank you for reading!

CHAPTER THREE

[fdelopera]

Moon Knight on Erev Rosh Hashanah

I took part in the Moon Knight mystery swap, and I'm writing this fic for @enigmatist17 !

Since it is New Year's Eve (or New Year's Day depending on when you're reading this), I wanted to write a fic for the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah.

This fic is based on the MacKay comic book series (Moon Knight 2021), and is set several issues before Issue 30.

I wanted to show MK System as an observant Jewish System, since that isn't often explored in depth in the comics. And you just know, Jake "For the People" Lockley is usually the one who schleps their tuchus to shul!

Happy New Year!

✡︎

“We’re not going,” said Marc, shaking his head, trying to push back the emotions coming from Jake and Steven. “Absolutely not. I haven’t been in years. Not since … well, not since that time with dad. And Jake, I think it was mostly you around that time anyway. You always paid more attention in shul.”

Marc felt a familiar pulling sensation from where Jake usually hung around, when he was close to front. And then Jake’s familiar Brooklyn twang said, “Marc, bubbeleh, I could just knock ya out cold and take us there myself, you know. But I want you to be there. This is for you as much as it is for us.”

Marc felt Steven chime in with his nasally Long Island cadence, “We both want this. Jake and I do. Not for dad. Not for the family. For us. For you. We’re the only mishpocheh that matters here.”

“Well, I guess I’m just the odd man out. As per usual.” Marc shook his head, and absentmindedly ran his hands through his hair. Their hair was greasy and unkept from being shoved under the mask. What else was new. They needed a shower. That was usually Steven’s job, but Marc didn’t want to give Steven any chance to front and collude with Jake to drag them to shul. Not now.

Not with tomorrow being the 1st of Tishrei. The first day of Rosh Hashanah.

“I heard that,” said Steven. “And neither Jake nor I are going to force you to go to High Holiday services. But we bought the ticket, everything’s all set up. Central Synagogue has a beautiful service. It won’t be anything like dad’s shul. The music is more contemporary. The Rabbi and the Cantor are both women. They’ve got beautiful voices. You’ll find a way to pout about it, I’m sure, but I know deep down you’ll enjoy it. Trust us.”

“What about Reese and Soldier? What about Greer? Are we really going to leave them alone for days at a time? Just tell them, ‘See you later!’ What if they need me? What if Hunter’s Moon has to track down another one of Black Spectre’s goons?”

Marc felt Jake’s chuckle erupt from deep within, and he heard Jake’s words wash over him with yellow-colored mirth. “Marc, I think a couple of vampires and a cat woman are more than capable of taking care of themselves without you fucking everything up, don’t you think?”

“Marc…” Steven’s voice echoed softly within, a wash of blue concern pushing against the back of their eyes. “Marc, what is this really about.”

“It just feels like a complete waste of time, with everything we’ve got going on.”

“Hey!” Jake’s annoyance came quickly. “You might not take shul seriously, but I do. This is important for us. We’re Jewish, Marc. Whether you like it or not. And as Jews, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are our two most important days. Our holiest days. I know that probably doesn’t mean shit to you anymore…”

“No, no, I’m not saying that…”

“Well, you kinda are. You’re saying that our two holiest days don’t matter for shit. Meanwhile, you’re out on the street, doing the bidding of an Egyptian god.”

“That’s different. I don’t worship Khonshu. I still remember the Aseret Hadibrot, and I know that Number One and Number Two are very important.

“I am the L-rd your G‑d, Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.

“You shall have no other gods before Me. You shall not make for yourself a graven image, nor any manner of likeness of anything that is in heaven above, that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them, nor serve them. For I the L‑rd your G‑d am a jealous G‑d, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children of the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me; and showing mercy unto the thousandth generation of them that love Me and keep My commandments. (x)

“See? I still remember what dad taught us.”

“Nice, so you can recite the Ten Commandments,” sighed Jake from inside. “But you still don’t seem to understand why it’s important for us to go to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.”

“What I do remember is something dad talked about once… This was a while ago. Before he got sick. He was preparing a d’var Torah for Yom Kippur, and there was something he said…” Marc stopped himself before he thought about it more.

“Marc, what is it? What did he tell you?” Steven’s voice was gentle, his blue concern washed over them again.

“You already know, Steven.”

“Well, why don’t you say it, then.”

“It’s silly. Just a stupid thing. Something I heard dad say once. It just, got me thinking. About us. About me.”

“If it’s silly, then why are you trembling now?”

“I dunno. Maybe I still worry that it’s true.”

“Well, why don’t you talk to us about it? We can work through it together.”

Marc sighed and rolled his eyes. “This is fucking ridiculous. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Marc, bubbeleh…” Jake’s thoughts were soft. “C’mon. Try us.”

“Fine. I have to find it.”

Marc grabbed his phone and searched Sefaria for the specific passage. “It was just this one commentary in the Talmud. About Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Here it is. You’ll see how dumb this is. Really.” He sighed dramatically, but he couldn’t quite keep the tremble from his voice.

“The Gemara goes back to discuss the Day of Judgment. Rabbi Kruspedai said that Rabbi Yoḥanan ben Napacha said: Three books are opened on Rosh Hashanah before the Holy One, Blessed be He: One of wholly wicked people, and one of wholly righteous people, and one of middling people whose good and bad deeds are equally balanced. Wholly righteous people are immediately written and sealed for life; wholly wicked people are immediately written and sealed for death; and middling people are left with their judgment suspended from Rosh Hashanah until Yom Kippur, their fate remaining undecided. If they merit, through the good deeds and mitzvot that they perform during this period, they are written for life; if they do not so merit, they are written for death.” (x)

Marc sighed. “That’s it. You get it? That’s why I’m worried.”

“And what about this worries you, Marc?” Steven’s thoughts were patient, even as Marc’s emotions started to rise.

“I’m scared. I’m terrified that something awful is gonna happen. I’m fucking terrified that I’ll be inscribed as one of these ‘Wholly Wicked’ people. Steven, you’ll be fine. You’re one of the ‘Middling People’ after all.”

“Ha! Very funny Marc. And I guess that makes Jake one of the Righteous few.”

“Damn straight I am!” laughed Jake.

“You are, Jake. Jake ‘For the People’ Lockley, of course you’ll be among the Righteous. But me? I dunno. Somehow I’m convinced that if I go to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I’m going to die.”

“Marc…”

“Yeah, Steven?”

“Headmates can’t die, Marc. At least, not without the body dying. And so long as you’re not planning on jumping out of a third story window…”

“No, no. It’s not that. I don’t know what it is. I just feel. Overwhelmed. By something. Something is weighing me down. I know headmates can’t die, or at least, not like that. But I just feel like something is coming for me.”

“Marc, what you’re feeling is grief. And guilt. And shame,” said Jake, his voice softer now. “We need to practice Teshuvah. Repentance. Being wrong. Telling the people we’ve hurt that we know we’re wrong. Explaining why we’re wrong. Asking for their forgiveness. Asking three separate times. Being prepared for them to say no each time. Being prepared to walk away. For that to be the closure we get. But Marc, we gotta start somewhere.” (x)

“I'd rather get punched in the face. Actually, I’d rather take a thousand hits than go through that.”

“Yeah, buddy. I know you would. But we don’t got that choice. Not when it’s the thing that is keeping us from being a Jew. Not when you believe that you are literally going to die because of your feelings of guilt and shame. We need Teshuvah.”

Jake sighed deeply from within. “Marc, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are sacred. They have always been our holiest days. Our Ten Days of Repentance. The Days of Awe. But do you know why they are so important?”

“Probably. I’m sure dad told us.”

“Because of Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai.” (x) (x)

“Wait, which one was he?”

“Ribaz. He’s the rabbi who pretty much saved Judaism.”

“Oh. Right. After the Temple…”

“Yes. The Temple. This is how dad used to tell it...

"After the Romans besieged Jerusalem. After they set fire to the Beit Hamikdash, our holy Temple. When we had no place left to offer up sacrifices to G-d. What would we do? Especially on Yom Kippur. Without the sacrifices at the Temple, how would the Jewish people be able to repent? How would we be forgiven of our sins each year? How would we continue to be Jews?

“Ribaz was a wise old rabbi. He stood and wept as he watched the Temple burn. The flames went higher and higher, late into the night, casting evil shadows upon the land. And he looked to the Tanakh for guidance. He turned to the Nevi’im. To Hoshea. And there he found the wisdom he sought.”

“For I desire lovingkindness, not sacrifice; devotion to God, rather than burnt offerings.” (x)

“I remember,” muttered Marc, his thoughts blending with Jake's, remembering their father’s voice. “Hoshea 6:6. And with that, he knew how we would carry on as Jews. We would offer up lovingkindness, prayer, and Torah study. That is how we show our devotion to G-d.”

“Yes!” thought Jake, nudging Marc from the headspace. “And that’s why we gotta go to shul tomorrow. Ribaz didn’t save Judaism just for us to be a slouch about it! So we gotta go to shul tomorrow to get our name in the Book of Life. So we can be sealed on Yom Kippur. So we can start the process of doing Teshuvah. We gotta reach out to Frenchie, Marc. And I miss Gena and Crawley so damn much. It’s gonna be really hard. But we gotta start somewhere. We gotta start repenting to them. And we gotta mean it this time. Let go of some of that ego you carry around your neck. It’s weighing all of us down.”

“Jake’s right,” thought Steven. “We don’t know what the future will bring, Marc. But we gotta start.”

Steven began humming a tune that pushed out in little breaths through Marc’s voice. It was a tune that Marc knew but couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“What is that?” thought Marc, directing the question at Steven. “That sounds like…”

Steven pushed closer to front, and continued humming, a little louder this time. Some words came through Marc’s lips in Steven’s voice.

“Who by fire? And who by water? … Hmmm hmmm hmmmm… and hmmmm hmmm hmmmmm…”

Marc coughed, cutting off Steven’s song for a minute. “Oh, it’s Leonard Cohen.”

Marc could feel Steven’s smile from inside the headspace. “That’s right, Marc. And you know what it is, right?”

“I do. Yeah. Yeah. Who shall live and who shall die. His version of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer.” Marc began to sing softly. (x) (x)

And who by fire?

Who by water?

Who in the sunshine?

Who in the night time?

Who by high ordeal?

Who by common trial?

Who in your merry merry month of May?

Who by very slow decay?

And who shall I say is calling?

“But teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah shall avert the severe decree.” Marc took a deep breath. “I’ll go. I will. For Ribaz. And I’ll do it for you Jake… I’d do anything for you. You know that. And yeah, you too Steven. Even though you’re a pain in my ass. I’ll do it for you. We’re mishpocheh.”

“And for you, Marc?” asked Steven, whispering the words through their lips.

“Huh. Okay. Fine. For me too. I’ll go be a good Jew. Ha! Dad would be so proud.”

“We’re not doing it for him,” thought Jake.

“No. Okay, no. You’re right. We’re not. I’m not. We’re mishpocheh. We’re doing this for us.”

[sorrelchestnut]

Birds on a Wire, Lucanis/f!Rook, 3/?

Part One, Part Two

Lucanis's tension eases somewhat as they grow close to the family villa.  All of the properties surrounding it are also owned by House Dellamorte, a mix of shops, apartments, and warehouses staffed by Crows and generational retainers.  It is not impossible for a traitor to insert themselves into their ranks - his uncle Andrea was brought low by one such turncoat - but it is as close to safe as they will be without four sturdy walls and an entry point he controls.

Rook's low whistle cuts through the morning air.  "That is some pile," she says, leaning back on her elbows to better survey the whole of the edifice.  "Looks even bigger down here than it did from above.  How many servants does it take to keep this thing running?"

"I could not even begin to tell you," Lucanis says honestly.  Caterina always handled such matters, telling him to focus on his work and that the rest would come in time.  And he always let her, because he didn't want to think of the time when it would be his responsibility.  "You're welcome to take a look at our payroll if you're curious."

She smiles at him, a brief flash of white teeth in the looming shadow of the building as they pull up to the dock.  "You know me, pet, I'm always curious."

"Just like you're always nice?"

"'zactly.  If you're gonna do a thing, why do it halfway?"

Marco clears his throat, giving up the pretense that he cannot hear them.  "Monsignor, we have arrived."

"Thank you, Marco.”  Lucanis disembarks first, duffel slung over his shoulder before the fledgling can lay claim, and offers his hand to Rook with a flourish.  Her scarred upper lip curls into a smirk but she takes it anyway, stepping daintily from boat to dock with only the strength of her grip to betray how much she relies on the guidance.  She has adjusted well to the loss of her eye these few short months, but certain distances, Lucanis knows, are still hard for her to judge.  She can fumble all she likes in the privacy of the practice court - but there are eyes on them here, in this supposedly empty courtyard.  Lucanis will not allow her to fall.

Her hand remains on his arm as they move towards the entryway, a solid and comforting presence at his side.  By court standards she should be at his left, with his right free to draw steel in her defense - but they are not at court and anyway he is left-handed, so this is the way they have always moved together.  Even before they were anything but contract and Crow, when she still had two good eyes and a ready hand to match, he still fell in at her left and she at his right, twin blades ready to cut anything that dared stand in their way.  Now it is his honor and his privilege to place his sword in the one place she cannot see to defend - and a mark of his esteem that he allows her own good sword-hand to stand at his defense in turn, despite the black patch that stands out stark against her sun-bronzed skin.

(politics, always politics!)

Yes, but politics mean things, however much Lucanis may despise the game.  Back home in the Lighthouse, they can be only ever just as they are, without artifice or pretense.  Here in Antiva the appearance of things matter, in this den of foxes who will smile and lick the blood from their chops even as they kiss your cheek in greeting.  If Lucanis is to be First Talon in truth, as Caterina so eloquently commanded him to be, then he must begin as he means to go on.  And he will not have some petty cuchillo look at his lady as anything less than the warrior who slew Tyranny with her own ruthless mortal hand.

The doors open as they approach, causing a minute start to run through Rook's sturdy frame, unaccustomed as she is to the habits of greater houses.  He gives a reassuring squeeze to the hand under his until she can see the doors move not by some strange magic but by the stern-backed elven man who now stands just inside them, face a mask of graven stone, folding at the waist into a deep bow of greeting.

“Master Lucanis.  Welcome home.”

“Giuseppe.”  Lucanis very nearly sways forward with the force of his relief, only Rook's grip stopping him from an ill-considered gesture.  “It is good to be home."

(lemon soap. linseed oil.  is this what. home smells like?)

Giuseppe's stern gaze softens fractionally.  “It is good to see you well, monsignor,” he says softly, as close to approbation as Lucanis has ever heard - and then his face is smooth again, and he is on the move, ushering them through the doors and into the foyer.  “We have prepared your old rooms in the family wing, of course,” he says, deftly relieving them both of their luggage and passing it off to a waiting footman.  Rook gives Lucanis a wide-eyed look to find herself so divested, to which Lucanis can only shrug helplessly back.  “Monsignora was unfortunately called away on business to Antiva City.  She is not expected home until tomorrow.  She will be sorely disappointed to have missed your return.”

Oh, Lucanis has no doubts about that.  “If I had known, I might have taken Teia up on her offer of hospitality.”

Giuseppe ignores that sally as thoroughly as only an Antivan butler can do and moves swiftly on.  “My apologies, monsignor, I was not notified of your traveling companion.  I will, of course, open the guest house at once-”

(no! keep her where we can see, where we can protect!)

And just as importantly, where no one can mistake her place here.  “That won't be necessary, Giuseppe, but thank you.  Rook is here at my personal invitation.”

Giuseppe's black eyes skate over Rook's small, shabby form, taking the soldier's march of earrings decorating her long ears, the scuffed but serviceable hilt of her saber, her tattooed throat.  His face does not change expression.  “Signora, it is a very great honor to make your acquaintance.  If there is anything I can do to ease your stay, you must only ask.”

Rook, to her credit, looks like she only very briefly considers making a joke before replying, appropriately grave, “Thank you, that's right kind.”

Giuseppe nods sharply.  “This way, please,” and he leads them through the villa at a brisk pace, detailing the work that has been done to maintain the property since the occupancy was ended.  Lucanis listens with half an ear to all the repairs and redecorations that he's approved via letter, trying not to listen for any notes of disapproval in the dry recitation.  Why anyone would seek his opinion on color or style is beyond him, but apparently that's just another one of those things he is supposed to handle now that he is First Talon.

(could always. set it on fire.)

“Here we are, monsignor,” Giuseppe says, arriving at Lucanis's own doorway before he can let himself consider Spite's suggestion too thoroughly.  The door next to it is firmly closed and locked, but his stands open in silent invitation, a fire already crackling in the hearth.  “Your bags will be up shortly.  Dinner will be served at the usual time.  Do you have any dietary restrictions, preferences, or requirements, signora?”

Rook blinks to find herself suddenly involved in the conversation.  “Ah, no.  Eat anything, me.”

“Just so, signora.”  He folds his hands at his waist and bows - to Rook, not to Lucanis.  “Welcome to House Dellamorte.”

“Huh,” Rook says, watching his departing back.  “Is everyone in this house fucking terrifying?”

“You've met Illario,” Lucanis sighs, nudging her forward into his room. “Come now, you've barely made fun of my money in hours, you must be bursting.”

“I'll have you know I'm saving it up,” she informs him.  “I can't be using up all my best material bang out of the gate, it's a marathon, not a-  Shite, look at that bed, you could drown a bronto in that thing!"

“There she is.”  He kneads affectionately at her shoulders before starting on the catches to her cloak.  “I was starting to worry you were replaced by a simulacrum.”

“Shut your face.”  The second the cloak is pulled from her shoulders she turns and flings herself backward onto the bed, arms akimbo.  “Maker's tits, what did they make this from?  Laughter of children?  Tears of the departed?”

Lucanis laughs softly and kneels to start working on the laces of her boots.  “Goose down, primarily.  Mostly I cared about how it felt after a very long job when I had a great many bruises.”

“Right, which is why you've been sleeping on a cot made of straw like a Chantry monk, you fucking numpty.”  Her hand comes up to comb through his hair, one thumb rubbing idly at his temple.  “Where did that thing even come from?  You know the Lighthouse just manifests…  Wait.”

Her tone is so urgent that he looks up sharply, hands going still on the laces.  But it isn't worry that he finds on her face, only a kind of dawning, unholy glee.  A sinking sense of unease brewing in his stomach, Lucanis follows her gaze to-

“That is an exact replica of the napping couch in the dining hall,” Rook announces, as if Lucanis could somehow fail to recognize the bane of his existence.  “You owe me twenty fucking silver, you bold-faced liar.”

“It's a very common design here in Antiva,” Lucanis tries to argue, even as she bounces off the bed and across the room, boot-laces trailing beneath her.  “There's nothing to say that it came from-”

“It's got the same fucking dent in the middle!”

(hahaha! she's got you now!)

Lucanis sighs and rolls to his feet.  “The Lighthouse was not expressing my inner desire to take a nap, querida.  I assure you, napping was the very last thing I wanted to do.”

“I said it was trying to make you take a nap, actually, which I stand by doubly now that I know for sure it came from your bloody memory!”

“I was not the only one haunting the kitchens at midnight, mi amor.”  He comes to stand between her thighs where she is sprawled out on the chaise, enjoying the way her chin tilts up and up and up as he looms over her, holding him fast with that challenging stare.  “Did it occur to you that it might have been manifesting my desire for you to take a nap?”

“Bollocks.”

“Sleep,” Spite confirms, cheerfully switching sides now that Rook was the one worked up and irritated.  “We'll keep watch.”

About to snap back a rejoinder, she pauses, brows drawing together as memory filters in.  “Wait.  That's… what I said to you, right?  Back when you and Spite-”

“Yes,” they both agree.  Lucanis cups her cheek in his palm, thumbs at the ship-mark inked below her eye.  “But you were not the only one who wanted to offer.”

Her expression softens.  “I wouldn't have taken you up on it.  Couldn't.”

“I know, tesoro.”

“So instead you dreamed me up a cozy chaise in front of the fire and lured me into it.”  She turns her cheek into his palm and smiles up at him. “You sneak.”

“Assassin,” he reminds her, smiling helplessly back.  “It's part of the job description.”

[truths33k3r4]

CHAPTER 25 - Grieving Cadence

The room burst with chaotic energy in a matter of milliseconds as Leo ran into the dojo to grab his twin katanas. For a normal person, such a stressful situation would leave the barer with a scrambled mind, floundering through the room and tripping over themselves as they try to process what just happened.

But Leo has never been normal. His eyes remained focused as his feet ran with purpose and will. His expression had gone into full ‘ Leader Mode ‘, leaving behind any traces of ‘ teenager ‘. His ‘oldest brother’ side still shone brightly, but it mirrored the image of a stoplight; Flashing and pulsing with warnings of danger, and no warmth in its vibrant hue.

When Leo sprinted back into the Living Room, Mikey could see the panic shrinking his pupils. The eldest was still very much aware of his surroundings, and was even still forcing a steady heartbeat. But his eyes gave away the facade the leader always carried.

Without thinking, Mikey flung the afghan off his legs and pushed himself off the couch, dropping the bag of frozen broccoli to the floor with a crunch.

He made it about two steps before the adrenaline rushing through his body slightly dissipated, allowing a tightening pressure coiling around his right ankle like a boa constrictor squeezing its prey. With a piercing screech, the youngest fell onto the floor holding his leg tightly to his chest.

Well…. That was stupid. He mentally groaned.

“ MICHELANGELO HANTEN! “ Yelled the leader, whom was quickly rushing up to the side of his once again fallen brother.

Ok…. Now I’m dead.

Leo grabbed Mikey’s shoulders and raised him up off the floor, then slid his arm around the youngest’s waist while leading him back to the couch.

“ Mikey I don’t have time for this- “ the leader rushed, nearly dropping Mikey haphazardly onto the cushions, “Just… Just stay here- I’ll be back as soon as I can- “

“ - No way, dude! You are not leavin’ me here like some cripple- I’m coming with. They’re my brothers too! “

To enforce his statement, Mikey pulled off the afghan Leo just placed back on his legs, and began sliding off the cushions again. This action was met with a silent but DEADLY whack from his brother’s calloused hand to Mikey’s right knee.

“ No, Mikey. “ The oldest solemnly stated as the youngest groaned from the impact, “ You are staying HERE. “

After the brotherly-inflicted pain faded in his knee, Mikey raised his head in defiance at the leader.

“ I’m.. coming.. You can’t stop me, Leo. “ Mikey tried very hard to sound as tough as he could, while still also struggling under the intensifying ache in his ankle. It didn’t come out as a pathetic squeak, so he’ll call it a win in his book.

The eldest’s eyes sparked as a war was fought between feelings of annoyance and respect for his little brother. Mikey watched as Leo sank deep into thought, probably trying to think of a plan to get Mikey off his back so he could go search for their missing brothers.

Leo growled as he reached for the built in power panel and clicked one of its many buttons, finally ending the horrible cacophony of the panic alarm.

“ - I can’t THINK with all this noise.. “ Leo grumbled as he rubbed his fingers into his temples.

As the leader tried to make a plan, Mikey was also attempting to figure a solution to his problem.

How bad does it REALLY hurt-

He tried to wiggle his foot, but abruptly stopped the motion as the ache returned with a vengeance. He was VERY lucky that the only noise that escaped him was a low rumbly hum. Had he shouted, groaned, or yelped again, Leo would have had him in his arms and off to bed in a second.

Alright, maybe I shouldn’t walk just yet… OW.

Mikey let out his own quiet growl as he could hear the grandfather clock tick away in Sensei’s Study.

They were running out of time.

The panic button carried a graven heaviness to it. One of the reasons the alarm’s song was so frightening to Leo and him was the fact that they’d never heard it before. Don had only just installed it on the day that Master Splinter finally allowed the brothers to go to the surface on their own. That was like two weeks ago.

Mikey slowly turned to look at his leader.

Leo’s expression finally revealed the torment running rampant through his mind, as he grew more and more tense with each failed phone call to his lost brothers. Mikey could hear the annoyed sound of Raph’s voice as his message played again and again in Leo’s ear.

‘ “ How does this stupid thing work…….what- what do you mean it’s already recording?! GRRRR DON SHOW ME HOW TO WORK THIS PIECE OF- [ BEEP ] “ ‘

When Raph first recorded his answering machine message, the brothers would all burst into laughter whenever he missed their calls. But now, Leo only grimaced and shrank at the harsh sounds of his fiery brother, almost as if the recording was taunting him.

REMINDING him.

“ Come on.. COME ON. “ The eldest bit his lip as he tried for Don’s cell again. With each failed call his mind became more and more unclear, as his voice was failing to conceal his shame and anger, his sadness… and his regret.

‘ “ Sorry, this is Donatello Hamato, I’m not at the phone right now, please leave a message, and if I have time I might call you back. [ BEEP ] “ ‘

“ - GRRRAHHH!! “

Leo raised his phone as if he were about to throw it into the ground, his arm stretched and taught like a band on a slingshot. Just as he looked like he was about to throw it with all the force he could muster, his arms went limp to his sides as he lost the battle to hold back his tears. The leader in blue, the one with the plan, the one who should never fail his family, fell down on his knees and began….

.. to pray.

Mikey could barely hear his brother as the oldest’s voice clashed and strained from the guilt and shame that swirled in his heart. The youngest could make out a few words through the chokes and sobs, the most used being “ please” and “ help them”… But the rest was grief-stricken gibberish that only God Himself was able to understand.

That’s good..seeing how He can actually do something for our brothers.. Mikey thought to himself, his inner voice tinged with bitterness.

Mikey looked down with hate filled eyes at his swollen ankle. He could feel his own tears now beginning to stream down his face as he gulped down the growing anxiety bubbling up his throat.

I can’t do anything.

His bitter heart added a sting to the tears as they pricked the corners of his eyes.

I can’t do anything for them.

He looked up.

…. But… I know You can.

With a strained voice, Mikey called to his brother, but all that sounded was the same pathetic squeak he was trying to avoid from before.

Dang it.

Mikey tried again, this time clearing his throat the best he could.

“ Leo…”

The oldest’s bowed head slowly rose from the ground to look up at his youngest brother. Tears had stained his royal blue mask, and his eyes were rimmed with a soft red. Choked sobs still weaseled their way out of Leo’s throat, as his gaze met Mikey’s.

“ Come.. *hic*.. Come here, bro. Pl- pl- lease..”

Without a word, Leo walked to his brother’s side. And Mikey, in one smooth motion, leapt off the couch one last time.

“ M- mikey n- no- “

The oldest never finished his sentence as his body was met with a crushing hug from his little brother.

The two stood there for what felt like hours, embracing each other as their shoulders trembled, and nestling their heads deep into the other’s neck. Their arms clung tighter and tighter as their separate sobs melded together into a cadence of fear and grief.

Their fight from earlier had no place in either of the brothers’ thoughts as they continued to try to comfort each other. The two boys’ minds were far too busy being filled with reasons of why Don and Raph sounded the dreaded alarm. What could have happened to them. If they were both alright.

..If they would ever come home.

“ We- we’re run-n-ning out of ti-ime.. “ The oldest whispered as he rubbed the tears from his eyes into Mikey’s shoulder.

The youngest’s chest tightened as he took a sharp inhale.

He knew what he had to do.

And he hated it.

“…G-go…..Go fi- find the- them. “ Mikey whispered back, “ I- I’ll only s-slow you do- down.. “

Leo lifted his head to look his youngest brother in the eyes. The oldest’s expression was filled with child-like fear and nervousness; He looked like a kid again. He had that same look that all kids wear when something scary happens:

WHAT DO I DO?

And with that question, a child would usually go to the closest adult in the room.

Leo is seventeen.

And he’s the closest they had to an adult until Splinter came home from scavenging in Central Park.

But with the call to leadership, Leo’s face and posture changed. His slumped shoulders straightened, and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He gave the weakest of smiles, rubbed his eyes one last time, and then nodded as he gently pushed Mikey back onto the couch.

“ I’ll f- find them, Mikey. “

Leo placed his hand on the back of Mikey’s neck, and lowered his forehead to the youngest’s.

“… I promise. “

As Leo picked up his katanas and began to run to the Lair’s main doorway into the tunnels, Mikey remembered something.

“ W-wait- Leo, hold up! “

The eldest quickly swiveled his head to be in Mikey’s direction, as the youngest leaned over and pulled some kind of secret drawer out of the coffee table. He grabbed something shiny and then threw it to Leo. With a quick flick of his wrist thanks to his ninja skills, the blue clad turtle caught the energy bar with ease. After a slight glance at the snack, he looked back up to Mikey with a “ you know what you did “ grin. Mikey responded with the widest of grins Leo’s ever seen.

“ .. Thanks, Little Brother. “

In a blur of green and blue, Leo had vanished sprinting down the tunnels.

Mikey gave a long, weighted sigh as he wiped away the remaining tears on his face.

… It’s ok….Leo’s got it… He’ll find them….

As he sat on the couch, not sure where to land his eyes, he noticed the wooden picture frame hanging on the wall next to the hallway. The words written inside the glass echoed in Mikey’s mind as his heart finally shattered.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. Acknowledge Him in all your ways and He will direct your paths. “

They’ll be ok…. Mikey thought as he fell deep into the cushions of the couch, once again letting his tears stream freely, Leo will find them.. God will help him find them..

Mikey closed his eyes.

Lord… Keep my brothers safe.. Please, Lord..

PLEASE bring them home.

That's it for this chapter! :) Hope you enjoyed it! ( Or it made you sob your eyes out, either way as a author I win XD )

To God be the glory!

~ Melissa

MASTERPOST <- PRIOR CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ->

[catcas22]

Prehistory of Elden Ring

I can't rightfully call this a theory. This is somewhere between a fanfic and an elaborate headcanon. But it accounts for a lot of little lore-tidbits that I don't really have enough canon info to do a proper theory on.

            Eiglay was the first of the gods, the World Serpent who held all potential for life within himself. Having consumed the world that came before, he birthed a single egg and then laid down to die. While the egg slumbered deep within the molten core of the world, Eiglay’s corpse lay unburied. The Twinbird descended to peck out his eyes, and where the cold blood spilled there sprang up a sapling.

            The sapling grew tall and black, beset by thorns. This was the birth of the World Tree -- the Lampwood Tree, vessel of souls. The Twinbird roosted in its branches.

            As a being of twinned natures, the Twinbird gave birth to two broods. The Deathbirds, corpse-eaters who embodied the decay of the flesh, and the Angels, winged maidens who embodied the immortality of the soul.

            When the Numen sailed from across the fog, they found the Lampwood Tree and its ghost-light towering above all. They built their city of Helphen at its roots, and they both feared and worshipped the Twinbird. For they were a long-lived people, and they dreaded the end all the more for it.

            Far across the stars, a spawn of the void fixed its eye upon the Lands Between. It sent forth soldiers graven from stone, raining as a shower of meteors upon the Lands and led by generals of onyx and alabaster.

            The greatest amongst these were the dragons, animate stone armed with the power of the storm. They were the teeth and claws of the void, and none could withstand them. In a final desperate stand, the angels met them in a great battle in the sky. In an early mirror of the Dread Communion, the angels allowed themselves to be devoured. In doing so, they granted the dragons the gift of free will.

            Now imbued with souls of their own, the dragons took names for themselves and turned against their former masters. Led by the mighty Placidusax, the Lord of the True Storm, they hounded the lords of the void from the Lands Between. They raised up beasts to serve them, giving the gifts of will and reason as they had been given in turn, and they raised up their city of Farum Azula to the south of the Lampwood Tree.

            When they looked upon the eternal dragons, the Numen resented their own mortality all the more. In all things, they sought to cheat death. They built great stone golems to fight their wars. They hid away within their walled city, prolonging their years through alchemy and dark hexes. And at last they created beings made by hands, the children of silver. They sent these thralls out to do the work of the living, to risk and to struggle, while the Numen hid away as if already entombed.

            As the dread of death consumed every waking moment, the Numen dwindled in splendor and in number. They built grand mausoleums to house their dead while the homes of the living stood empty. They embalmed their forefathers and set them in places of honor while their sons died childless. They spent their years seeking the riddle of immortality, and all the while they left the business of living to their silver thralls. And at the end Helphen became a mausoleum in truth, street upon street lined with manors for the dead while those few who still lived lingered in ruined houses and dark corners.

            The Numen remnant who rejected this slow entombment intermarried with the children of silver, and their descendants were the Nox. These were a people equal in stature and nobility to the Numen of old, and where their fathers had cowered at the shadow of death, the Nox looked to the stars.

            Having seen the calamity that had once fallen from the stars, the Nox set themselves to study the movements of the firmament. They raised the Eternal City of Nokceles atop the dead city of Helphen, and in the years to come they established the sister cities of Nokron and Nokstella.

            As their crowning achievement, the Nox constructed the Black Moon, a gravitational well of such magnitude that it could guide the paths of the very stars.

            It came to pass that the Twinbird hated the dragons. The great raven coveted the warmth of the living, and it sought to gather all souls back to itself. While the Deathbirds continued to bring it ashes to eat, with the loss of the angels all the souls of the newly dead were left to roam free. Most of all, the Twinbird hated the ancient dragons, for they lived without fear of death and refused to relinquish their souls.

             In the midst of this, a great ember fell to earth, the burning core of a red star. A giant by the name of Uhl took it up, for the giants had ever worshiped the flame. He sought to carry it down to the Lampwood Tree, to break the hold of death and lay the seed of a new age.

            The Twinbird descended upon him in great fury, cold ghostflame in its wings. It would have snuffed out the ember and Uhl with it if not for the intercession of Placidusax. Twice the dragon and the raven clashed within the storm, and twice death was beaten back. At their third meeting, the Twinbird cast down Placidusax and ripped away one of the dragon’s five heads.

            Uhl might have fallen then, but the lords of the Nox raised up their Black Moon as a shield. For a few precious moments, they confounded the Twinbird. Then Uhl split open the black tree of souls and planted the ember within its heart.

            As souls once frozen and calcified mixed into a great molten core, the World Tree changed -- no longer the Lampwood, guide of souls, it became the Crucible, the wellspring of life. Uhl carved the face of the Fell God upon his breast and named himself the god of the Age of Fire, and he welcomed Placidusax as his lord and consort.

            Now the Nox were consumed by envy, for they were proud, and while they were permitted to exist within Uhl’s order they were given no place of prominence. As their bitterness festered, they fell to the vices of their forefathers.

            They delved once more into alchemy, seeking to thwart the very laws of nature. They raised up thralls of their own, silver tears as warriors and albinaurics as menial slaves. They denied that they had ever been born of silver, and they were all the crueler to their creations for it.

            At the height of their hubris, they called out to the void that they had once sought to hold at bay. For it was whispered amongst their most gifted scholars, if a Black Moon made by hands could sway the paths of stars, then what power had set those paths in the beginning?

            Might there be a god of the void, a Dark Moon of whom their Black Moon was only a paltry imitation? Might this god be beckoned, coaxed to inhabit a mortal vessel as the Fell God had inhabited Uhl?

            By the labor of their greatest alchemists, the Nox crafted a vessel for the Dark Moon, an Empyrean born of silver, a Lord of Night to challenge the Lord of the Crucible. But in the end they were taken by the very void they had beckoned, dragged beneath the earth and left to grow low and stunted.

            And as the age of the Nox perished in its infancy, a new star fell to earth. An unnatural thing, a beast of light that despised the chaos of the living, a beast of void that denied the primacy of death. And from the ruined scions of the Numen, the Beast plucked an Empyrean vessel.

[madameriascreenshots]

Graven Deep P6

"I chose the impossible... I chose Rapture"

[insert dramatic violins]

[llamamamarisen92]

The Wolf and the Lion

Chapter 1 - A Wolf Snuck into the Lion’s Den

Chapter 2 Link:

https://www.tumblr.com/llamamamarisen92/760433510540541952/the-wolf-and-the-lion?source=share

Named Dark Urge

Pre-BG3 Dark Urge/Gortash Head Canon

Warning: Violence

Characters: Johim (Durge), Gortash, Orin, Sarovek

Word Count: 1,800ish

By: Jesh Llamas

Bored. He sat bored upon the throne of Bhaal. Long ago he had mastered his domain. Celebrated among those who thirsted for blood. Idols of the white dragon beginning to show up in homes of partriars who dabbled in cruelty and debauchery. For years he sat on this throne. Picking up the pieces of Sarovek's failure. Building something much more than a temple of murder. Growing an empire of his own designs in the name of his father. Divine blood flowing righteously through him.

Orin stood atop the altar chanting as wails of terror filled the ceremony hall. Hammers crashing down upon mighty drums. Building a cacophony of anguished horror in honor of Lord Bhaal. In honor of him. Johim Ba'elwyn, chief scion of the dread god. The last victim was stretched upon the stone slab. A high elven maiden who seemed no older than 40 years. Her eyes were beautiful. Hazel panic filled eyes danced in silent beseechment of him.

He stood up slowly, holding his hand in the air to stay Orin's blade. Unhurried as he walked down the dais stairs towards the terrified woman. A stalking lion making its way to a lamb tied to a spit. He stood above the woman now. Eyes softened as he placed a gentle hand on her cheek. For a moment the terror fled from her. Tears of relief flowing as he smiled gently down at her. He bent over brushing his lips against hers. An intimate lovers gesture. Little whimpers escaped her, body relaxing slightly. He chose that moment to dig his dagger deep into her heart. Watching her face as confusion and anguish were her last expressions. When the light in her eyes dimmed he thrust his bloodied fist into the air. Roaring as he transformed into the dread dragon's form. A trick he used to stir the worshipers into a zealous frenzy.

Orin was now kneeling on the ground bowing deeply. This was her role. Submission. His sister, the granddaughter of Sarovek showing obeisance to his rule. The graven crimson eyes of Bhaal flickering above him. A sign of pleasure from his divine father. He turned away from the crowd of worshipers. The echo of vile cheers followed him as he made his way to his private quarters. He made a few short commands to the sentries at his door. He did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening.

Closing the door and turned back to his normal form. Handsome leonine features set upon sun-kissed skin. Thick red hair that fell like a river of blood down his shoulders and back. He had been alive for a thousand years, but he looked no older than thirty five. A benefit of being the spawn of a god he supposed. His beauty was a mark of his status as Bhaal's perfect scion.

Thankfully a basin had already been filled with water. He walked over to wash the blood off of his hands. Dully scanning the bowl as the blood washed off. How many times had he performed this ritual? It had become automatic. Hardly having to think about or calculate how proceedings would go. It was always the same. A fear stricken victim. A false sense of hope. And a crowd cheering at the illusion of a dragon.

When he was finished cleaning up he settled at his desk. A pile of letters filled with requests from various lords and ladies of the land. Desiring for support in this venture or that. Someone requesting to hire his assassin's blade. Another wishing for an intimidating presence. Some of them simply dinner invitations with the intention to keep in Bhaal's good graces. What better way to stay unmurdered than to appeal to Bhaal's charismatic and indomitable son.

Outside of the temple when he was representing Bhaal he was always the dragon. When he took over he had seen fit for the temple to present a more diplomatic face. To slither into the upper class and puppet the rulers of the land. It wasn't that hard. The good and great of the sword coast often debauched and thinly veiling their own personal evils.

Sifting through the letters until one of them finally caught his eye. It was sealed with the black mark of Bane. Raising his eyebrow in curiosity at the oil stained paper he unfolded it. Banites did not send appeals to Bhaal's temple. Their gods were similar and at times their objectives aligned. But their desire for the outcome of the world was very different. Their differences often landed in deadly quarrels between their respective cults.

His curiosity was peaked further a half smile curving his lips as he read the letter:

"Beautiful son of Bhaal." The letter was off to a good start. "How long will you sit upon your fathers throne. Growing stagnant in the shadow of your father's power. Surely one such as yourself craves more. I see the way you control the inner workings of your realm with an iron fist. But perhaps it is time to loosen your grip on the shadows and reach towards higher elevation. Not to simply sit contented as the son of a god, but to be in truth a god entirely of your own. Perhaps it is time to shed the dragon and instead become the lion."

His brow furrowed at that last line. Very few outside the temple were privy to his true form. And one did not simply step into the temple without very careful vetting. It served him well when he wanted to walk the city streets discreetly. Watching and listening for information from crowds of people that may prove useful. A salaciously whimsical smile masking the monster inside. Seducing his way into the beds of important men and women for a multitude of reasons all designed to further his kingdom.

The letter ended in a peculiar sign off.

"May we obtain absolute glory in the light of our own ambitions, Gortash."

Setting the letter down he puzzled out the words. The motives that may lay behind them. Getting up he walked towards a shelf of books on the gods of the realm. It was important to be studied on the entire pantheon and its histories. But Johim truly found pleasure in knowledge and was as devoted to his scholarly pursuits as he was to his brutal acts of worship. Constantly drinking up knowledge as if he was on the cusp of dying of thirst.

He selected a volume recounting phrases of power and declarations in the name of Bane. Searching for something within the text that matched up with the strange phrase. Banites were often ambitious, but the mechanical nature of their thinking often limited them. Frustration built as nothing jumped out at him as he flipped through the pages. He put down the book and sifted through his own knowledge for anything that may prove familiar.

A thought struck him and he walked back to the vast shelf of books. At the top was an old tome. It was a second hand recounting of the life and destruction of Karsus. The priceless book was given to him by a calamshite mage who enlisted him to personally slaughter a rival of his. Johim smiled a bit at the memory of Orin's rage when she found out her brother took on a contract for a book. Raging that it was beneath him to do anything for dingy worn out pages.

He flipped to a page near the end of the book reading the passage that came to his mind.

Karsus lay broken and bloody upon the floor of his own half constructed temple. Mortal once more, his life rapidly flitting out like a candle in the midst of a tempest. The failed child that would be a god grasped by the oppressive hand of Mephistopheles as he was dragged down into the depths of the hells.

He continued to read until he came to a final stanza on that same page. 

Karsus cried to the heavens in one final display of defiance, 'May I still obtain absolute glory in the light of mine own ambitions'.

It was famously the last words Karsus spoke before his kingdom and godhood was snuffed out. His artifacts were rumored to be kept in the volts of Mephistopheles himself. Karsus was an infamous figure in history. But not many outside a handful of powerful mages and perhaps clerics of Mystra were well read on the subject.

Suspicion filled him as he pondered how Gortash would not only know his true identity but also be keen enough to put in a reference to a rare passage about Karsus. But suspicion was also accompanied by a deep curiosity and the spark of a fire that had been simmering out at the monotony of his own success.

He sat back at his desk with the book in hand. Clearing a spot so that he may write a letter in response. He dipped a quill in ink and simply wrote:

"Ambition is what distinguishes between those who would remain mortal and those who would reach above the divine."

Another reference from the same book. He signed it, 'Your roaring lion'.

Eager to catch a glimpse of this Enver Gortash he donned a dark hooded robe as he walked through a door that led to a secret tunnel that connected to the docks of Baldur's gate. There was no address. Nothing to indicate where Gortash may be. No. But judging by the oil stains on the paper it was likely it came from the steel factory that sat next to the docks. He slipped into a dark corner waiting for any sign of the man that wrote to him. A group of artificers walked out of the factory gate. He perked up as one of them waved to a man in an ornate set of robes.

"Your ingenuity will cause you to outpace the Master Artificer in no time Gortash. Safe travels home."

Johim grinned as the young black haired man walked into the dark streets. Presumably to go home. Johim followed him quietly, keeping to the shadows. Gortash turned the corner onto a walkway that was lonely at this time of night. Taking the opportunity he quickly covered Gortash's mouth as he held his dagger to the man's back. Just enough pressure to warn him against calling for help.

"It seems a wolf has been playing in my den." He whispered softly into Gortash's ear. He sheathed his dagger and slid his response letter into one of Gortash's pockets. Before Gortash could respond or turn around, he slunk back into the shadows undetected.

Johim was all too ready to play whatever game this clever wolf was setting in front of him.

[blaiddfailcam]

I wonder... The crystals in this room have the same shade as those near Graven School artifacts. The figure in the chair also wears a dark violet robe.

The Graven School was founded in hopes of restoring the primeval current, and thus was expelled from the academy when Rennala, a Carian Queen, positioned herself as headmistress. Sellen is of course the most notable member and possibly its very founder, but was tutored by Lusat. Both Lusat and Azur were likewise expelled for their investigations into this forbidden realm.

Despite this taboo, glintstone was born of the primeval current. Long before the sorcerers arose, the astrologers of the Mountaintops cleaved to the stars to interpret fate. One such astrologer gazed deep into the abyss, producing the Founding Rain of Stars, a dark shower that brought the amber of the stars raining down upon the Lands Between.

Miyazaki has said the Land of Shadow doesn't take place in the past, but is a separate world that was somehow split from the Lands Between... but when? Logically speaking, it must have been long ago, perhaps before the birth of the demigods. If so, might the Land of Shadow have developed independently, without the influence of our familiar lore figures?

In which case, Rennala couldn't have claimed her seat at the academy, nor prohibited study of the primeval current. So what if this new character is more closely related to the astrologers of old? Will we be seeing more of their abyssal magic, and perhaps how they relate to the Fire Giants?

[tathrin]

5, 18, 30 for the fic writer asks!

Questions from this list.

5. first sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

But a future without the elves.

18. if you keep them, share a deleted sentence or paragraph from a published fic

I don't often, but sometimes I do. I'm going to share one that was going to go into And In The Darkness To Unmake Them during the Fellowship's journey, at some point between their departure from Rivendell and their arrival in Dol Guldur, but just never found a good spot in the story to actually fit.

I'm sharing it under the cut at the end for length-reasons.

30. share a fic you’re especially proud of

Ahh okay this is I think genuinely the Best Thing I Have Ever Written, I love it so much, I am delighted to get to throw it at people again, thank you:

The Dark Reborn.

Thank you so much for asking!

Your context is: Celebrimbor is talking about how Sauron loved him, and destroyed him anyway. And how he loved Narvi, and yet betrayed Narvi with Sauron. And how there is a poison in love that cannot be trusted. Because love does not know how to let go, even when it should; because love is chains and grief and doom. Because love is the weight of oaths on bloody hands, and betrayal in grieving hearts, and loss, loss, always loss. No matter how tightly you cling to what you love, in the end you will destroy it out of your very love of it; your refusal to ever let it go. Love is the breaking of your own heart around the spirit of another.

Legolas: That is not what love is.

Everyone turned to stare at the younger elf.

Legolas looked back firmly, his eyes bright with surprising confidence.

"What would you know of love, child?" Celebrimbor asked. His voice was not accusatory, nor even defensive; he only sounded tired, a bone-deep tiredness so heavy that it surely could not be borne by any living thing. "The love of two souls joining, choosing to entwine themselves amidst all the darkness of the world; of choosing to seek for the light of one another together amidst all the blood of bad choices and darker fates. A love that you are not born into, but which will be with you, graven in your bones, until the breaking of the world. A love that will, inevitably, break you too." Celebrimbor's gentle smile was very sad and it did not reach his eyes. "What would you know, little one, of that kind of love?"

Legolas looked back steadily at the great, broken smith. "My mother was poisoned in a battle with orcs many years ago," he said. "She was dying of it, and none of our arts in Mirkwood could save her. Her only chance of survival lay on the other side of the Sundering Sea. Still she lingered long, wasting away slowly and in great pain, for she did not want to go there. She did not want to leave our people; did not want to leave my father or her children or our forest.

"My people have never seen the Undying Lands," Legolas explained, "and we know no kin upon those shores, nor any communion with the Valar; we prefer to live in our trees, even under the Shadows that now beset them, rather than seek the peace that we are told waits for us across the Sea. But Angmeril was dying, and so my father begged for her to go and seek the chance of survival far from our great forest, even though it broke his heart to lose her.

"My mother would have rather died in the Greenwood, I believe," Legolas said quietly, and somehow his light voice did not waver under the weight of his words. "She would rather have died beneath the Shadows of our Mirkwood than seek the healing of the Sea. I am certain of it. But for my father's sake, and for mine and my sister's too, she chose to leave the home she loved in hopes that she would live—in hopes that my father would not have to grieve her death, but rather her departure. And someday, if he lives so long, I know that my father will follow her across that Sea: will leave the forest that he loves, the forest that is half his heart, and find joy there in seeing her again—but not yet, and not too soon. She made him swear that he would not leave Middle-earth only to follow her, even if that meant he stayed here forever sundered from her heart. Thranduil stayed, for love of our people and our trees; Angmeril left, for love of him; and he sent her away, for love of her.

"That is love," Legolas said, and his voice was as certain as the strong unbending heart of an oak. "To care for someone enough to leave them, to let them go, if that is what is best for them; to fight to stay by their side, even through a thousand agonies, until you realise that you will hurt them more by staying, and only then to leave. Love is caring for the sake of someone else more than for yourself; love is when another heart, another soul, matters so much more than your own that you will sacrifice even yourself to save them.

"Love does not rot. Love does not weaken," the young Wood-elf said, and his voice was fierce and fey and his pale eyes shone like stars in the night. "Love strengthens you, because with love one never stands alone. Even when there is an entire ocean between you, still you do not stand alone. That, I think, is love."