#had to watch her best friend turn into a dragon god and die

[writinginatree]

Daggers & Distractions

Relationship(s): Bodhi Durran & fem!Riorson!reader, pre-relationship Garrick Tavis/fem!Riorson!reader

Summary: Your best friend Bodhi teases you about your crush on Garrick, which has you a little too distracted on the mat.

Warnings: Swearing, blood & injury, a tiny bit of self-depreciation if you squint. Set when Bodhi and reader are in their first year.

(Prequel to Kisses & Confessions, but can be read independently)

"You're doing it again," Srian drawled in your head, voice dripping with annoyance.

You blinked, snapping out of the almost trance-like state you'd been in and forcing your focus back on your sparring session.

"I'm not doing anything," you lied, even as your gaze already drifted toward where Garrick was sparring with your brother once more. You just couldn't help it.

"If you don't stop ogling the male—"

"Why don't you just mind your own business?" you interrupted her.

"It is my business if my rider fails at her hand-to-hand training."

"I'm not—"

Your back collided with the mat, knocking the breath out of you. Gods damn it.

"You're distracted." Bodhi stood over you, eyebrows raised and the hint of a smirk playing around his lips.

"Srian won't shut up."

"I don't think Srian is the problem," he said with a pointed glance a few mats over.

The tiny smirk turned into a shit-eating grin when you only glared at him in response. There was no point denying it when he knew damn well what — or rather who — had distracted you.

"I hate you."

Bodhi laughed and extended his hand to help you up, before getting back into a fighting stance. "Maybe we should switch to a mat with a less interesting view, huh?"

The view had had his back to you so far, but now he spun around as he pushed Xaden to the ground, and your eyes met for a second. You quickly looked away, cheeks burning.

Bodhi was right. Being in plain sight of a shirtless Garrick was detrimental to your ability to focus. Not that it was much better when his shirt was on. Even when he wasn't anywhere nearby, he was always on your mind. It was starting to turn into a serious problem, if you were completely honest with yourself. What had been nothing more than a harmless crush at the beginning of the year was rapidly progressing into something much more serious. No amount of avoiding Garrick or pretending to be interested in other random guys seemed to help.

"Or you can keep staring at him and hope he notices."

Bodhi's words brought you back to the here and now.

"No!"

Anything but that. You would die of embarrassment if Garrick noticed your interest in him.

Bodhi rolled his eyes. You could only imagine how annoying it must be for him to watch as you pined after Garrick without ever making a move, but it just wasn't that simple. Not just that being your brother's best friend made him off limits, you also had to admit — if only to yourself — that the second-year was way out of your league. Besides, you were still hoping this pathetic crush would eventually fade.

"What a wonderful world it would be if it did," your dragon sighed. "I do wish you would hurry up and get over him. Or fuck him. Maybe if you knew what it's like you wouldn't have to constantly think about it."

"What I do or don't think about is absolutely none of your business, Srian! None!"

"Then do us both a favor and get better at shielding."

"I'm working on it! Now get out of my head and let me get back to sparring."

"I'm not the reason you're taking a break," she huffed, an unfriendly reminder that it had been you who'd distracted yourself.

But now you would focus. For real this time.

You pulled your daggers. What you and Bodhi had been doing so far was just the warm-up — now it was time to get serious. No more fooling around, no more distractions. You had to take this seriously. The next round of challenges was only two days away, and last time you had almost gotten your ass kicked. You desperately needed this training session.

"Let's get on with it."

"Sure," Bodhi laughed. "If you're done staring at Garrick."

You didn't bother responding to his teasing, and attacked instead.

A few minutes into the fight, movement behind Bodhi caught your eye, and you made the mistake of glancing past him for a second. It was Xaden and Garrick walking past, apparently done with their training for the day, and despite their shirts being back on, you couldn't help the way your gaze lingered on Garrick. He was watching you and Bodhi, a slight smile on his face, and you wondered what he was thi—

A sharp pain in your left arm brought your attention back to where it should be: on Bodhi and the dagger in his hand, which was now dripping blood.

The cut on your arm was about as long as your hand, but thankfully didn't seem very deep. Still, the amount of blood flowing out was considerable, and you quickly put your hand over it, cringing at the pain.

"Shit! Are you okay?"

"See? This is exactly what I was talking about earlier," Srian quipped in your head at the same moment.

Instead of responding to her, you slammed your mental shields into place, blocking her out as best as you could, which admittedly wasn't all that well yet. Luckily she decided to leave you be.

"I'm fine," you told Bodhi. "Just a scratch."

"Doesn't look like a scratch to me," your brother said before Bodhi could answer, having approached with Garrick.

All the blood that wasn't currently flowing out your arm shot to your face at the realization what a fool you'd made of yourself. You could only pray they didn't realize why it had happened.

"Well... a big scratch," you conceded. "No big deal, though."

Big deal or no, Xaden had that look on his face that meant you were about to get a lecture. Sure enough you barely finished the thought when he already started. "What the fuck were you even doing?! That attack would have been easy enough to block."

"Wasn't paying attention I guess," you muttered, giving Bodhi a pleading look. You knew he knew exactly why you hadn't been paying attention. Helping you out of being questioned about it by Xaden — right in front of Garrick, no less — was the least he could do to make up for accidentally cutting you.

Bodhi rolled his eyes, but slung his arm around your shoulders and said, "Come on, I'll take you to the healers. I think that scratch might need stitches."

"And whose fault is that?" you retorted, glaring at him.

"Your own."

Xaden doubtlessly wanted to scold you more, but allowed Bodhi to lead you away. He'd probably come find you later to give you a thorough talking-to about not letting yourself get distracted, but as long as he didn't do it in front of Garrick, you wouldn't mind. You supposed you deserved it. This kind of shit could get you killed around here, especially in the middle of a fight. It was about time you got this stupid crush under control — preferably before something like this happened again. As handsome as Garrick was, if you got yourself killed because you were too distracted staring at him, you wouldn't be able to look at him at all anymore.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you saw him talking to Xaden, their eyes on you. Talking about the idiotic way you just hurt yourself, no doubt.

"Kill me, Bodhi," you whined as soon as you were out of earshot.

"No, thanks."

"Please! That was so fucking embarrassing!"

Your asshole of a best friend just shrugged. "That's what you get for staring at Garrick all the time. I honestly don't know how no one else noticed it yet. You're, like, obsessed!"

"I'm not obsessed! I just have a tiny little crush, okay?!"

"Right... As tiny as that cut on your arm."

"Fuck off."

You went to take the turn that would lead you to the dormitories, having no intention of actually seeing a healer for your injury. It might have been a bit more than a scratch, okay, but it was nothing you couldn't handle on your own. But Bodhi grabbed you by the back of your shirt and continued on into the direction that would get you to the bridge connecting your quadrant to the main college.

"Bodhi—"

"Nuh-uh. We are going to the healers, and don't even try to argue with me."

"But I hate getting stitches! And it's not even that bad, so—"

"You either let me take you to the healers or I'm telling Garrick that he's the reason you were so distracted. I'm sure he'd love to hear all about your little crush."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?" Bodhi challenged, continuing down the hall with you in tow.

"That— That's blackmail!"

"Mhm, I guess it is."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. You said that already. But I have some chocolate in my room, and if you let them patch you up without being a baby about it I'll share with you."

"Hmm, okay... In that case... Let's go!"

[nomie-11]

Chapter 19 - Shadows of Secrets

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A knock on Liam’s door startled Violet from her sleep, with tired eyes and heavy limbs, she gently pushed herself out from under Liam’s protective arm and prodded her way to the door, grabbing a dagger on the way. 

Gently opening it a crack, she was surprised to be met with a familiar face. 

“Genevieve,” Violet groans, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “What in gods’ name are you doing? It’s two in the morning.” 

It was three days after Montserrat. Violet had received news that Mira didn’t die yesterday, but there was still no news or sight of Xaden, and Genevieve couldn’t sleep. 

“You owe me answers.” She said firmly, her eyes tired as she peered into Violet’s bedroom, Liam asleep softly on the bed, his boots haphazardly thrown against the foot of her bed. “How did Dain find out about my mission, better yet, how did you find out about my mission, because I never told you. And what’s the deal about Andarna and Astrape? I know you’re channeling something from that smaller dragon and you’re hiding it from me. And…” her voice drops, handing Violet her sister’s death record. “What’s a Venin?” 

Violet’s eyes flickered back to the sleeping form of her loving boyfriend, then back to Genevieve, who stood in the doorway, dark blue eyebags overwhelming her features. 

“I can’t tell you about Dain or Andarna.” she quickly says, shaking your head. “Dain’s signet is classified.”

“Classified or not, somehow he knows something I never told either of you, so spill.”

Violet’s face tightened, her hand resting against the doorframe as if it could support the weight of Genevieve’s demands. “I told you, I can’t.” She whispered, casting another glance to Liam, who stirred but didn’t wake. “It’s not that simple.”

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. 

“How my squad leader, who has never spoken directly to me, knows one of my deepest secrets, needs to be explained to me. How you know in the first place is beyond me!”

Violet's hesitation was palpable, her fingers twitching as if itching to leave the conversation entirely. For a moment, it looked as if she would deny again, but then her shoulders sagged in defeat. 

“When you pushed yourself to burnout, when you were healing me after the fight with Barlowe, Dain must have touched you, and-” She starts, but Genevieve cuts her off almost immediately. 

“He touched me. What does that have to do with him knowing what’s going on in my past?” She questions, pressing Violet further and further. 

“Dain’s signet…” She began, her voice barely audible. “He can watch your memories with a touch of his hand. He sees what you’ve seen when he touches you.” 

Genevieve’s blood turned cold at the revelation. He can see memories? The implications make her stomach churn. “And you didn’t think to warn me?” She hissed, her voice sharp despite her low volume. “You just let me walk around, vulnerable to that?”

Violet winced, guilt clear in the tightness of her expression. “I didn’t know he’d do that to you,” she whispered. “And I couldn’t tell you, it’s classified.” 

Genevieve’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, the edges of her nails biting into her palms. “Classified,” she repeated bitterly, the word tasting like poison on her tongue. “My mission is classified, too! And I’m guessing Dain told you about my mission, too, because you didn’t look surprised at all when he exposed me in front of everyone! He didn’t care that it was classified. You’re supposed to be my best friend, Violet. What has Dain really done for you since you got to Basgiath?” 

Violet flinched at the sharpness in Genevieve’s tone, guilt and frustration clouding her expression. Her fingers tightened around the doorframe as she watched dark and blooming vines creep up Genevieve’s legs. “Genevieve, it’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” Genevieve snapped, stepping further into the room, her body tense with anger. “He violated my trust, our trust, and you’re defending him?” 

Genevieve watched as Violet’s face softened, her voice laced with exhaustion. “Dain thinks he’s helping me… he’s always been overprotective.” She let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t ask him to tell me or to read your memories. And I didn’t know about your mission until he told me, I wasn’t even curious. I swear, he said it was for your safety, that he needed to know.” 

Genevieve’s heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of betrayal and anger threatening to choke her. “My safety?” She spat, incredulous. “You mean General Sorrengail’s idea of my safety. The same woman who locked me in a cell for over a year and made me her weapon?” 

Violet looked away, the silence between them thick with unspoken truths. “I know, you’re right, I’m sorry. Dain was wrong for stealing your memories, but I didn’t know how to tell you about his signet. I was scared you’d shut me out and I didn’t want to add anything to your plate.” 

Geneveive’s voice trembled with what Violet could only assume was controlled fury. “I’m not the one who’s shut anyone out, Violet. You knew I was being spied on, and you didn’t say a word.” Genevieve shook her head, disbelief settling in. “You already added to it.” She tossed the death record onto the small table beside the bed, the sound barely louder than a whisper in the stillness of the room. “And you still haven’t explained what a Venin is.” 

At the mention of the word, Violet paled. She opened her mouth, then hesitated. “They aren’t real, Genevieve. Venin are just folklore, something from old riders’ tales. They’re not—”

“Not real?” Genevieve cut her off, eyes blazing. “Then why does Quinn’s death record list one as the cause of death?” 

Violet froze. Her mouth opened, but no words came out as she stared at the documents Genevieve had just tossed onto the table. “What?” 

“I stole them from General Sorrengail’s office. These official papers stamped with your family crest list Venin as the cause of death for my older sister, who—last time I checked—died in a petty combat situation, not in a fairy tail.” 

Violet’s face drained of color as Genevieve’s words sank it, the pure and utter desperation in her eyes told Violet everything she needed to know. Genevieve wasn’t angry at her, she was desperate. She would be, too, if her sister died with a mythical creature being the cause of death. 

“I… I didn’t know,” Violet stammered, taking a hesitant step closer to the papers, her fingers trembling as she reached for them. “Venin? That’s impossible. My mother would have—” She stopped short, her mind racing. “No, she wouldn’t lie about something like this, not to me, not about Venin.” But even as she said it, doubt crept into her voice. 

Genevieve’s eyes were cold, fury bubbling beneath the surface. “Well, she did. You want to explain that?” She gestured to the death record. “Or are you going to tell me it’s just another ‘classified’ secret I’m not allowed to know about?” 

Violet’s gaze lingered on the document, her heart pounding in her chest. Everything she had been taught, every story her father had told her, had been rooted in old, forgotten tales—stories meant to scare children, not kill real people. And now, the undeniable evidence was staring back at her in black and white. 

“I don’t understand.” Violet’s voice was barely a whisper in the air. “They’re not real, they can’t be. We would’ve known—” Her words trialed off as she tried to make sense of it all, the doubt palpable. 

Genevieve crossed her arms, her frustration barely contained. “Well, they’re real enough to have killed my sister. And apparently, your mother knew. So, are you going to help me figure this out, or are you just going to keep pretending like everything is fine? Like you’re not picking up on discrepancies between battle brief and actual war reports?” 

The room was thick with the unpleasant taste of tension. “We’ll figure this out,” Violet said, her resolve strong and her hunger for knowledge dripping from her every word. “But please, understand that I didn’t know about any of this, and I’m so sorry about Dain.” 

“I know,” Genevieve said, her words soft as the vines retreated beneath the floorboards. “I shouldn’t have expected you to have the answers to everything. But right now, I don’t trust anyone. Not after Dain, not after finding out this about my sister’s death. So forgive me if I’m being a bitch.” 

Violet didn’t respond right away, guilt weighing heavily on her shoulders. “I know as well,” she said softly. “And I don’t blame you. We’ll figure this out the same way we figured out your signet.” 

Genevieve remained silent, her expression hard. “I hope so,” she said finally, her voice the most detached than Violet had ever heard it. 

As the silence settled between them, a distant rumble of thunder echoed through the night, the storm outside matching the turmoil swirling within the room. Neither of them noticed the shadow that flickered in the corner, just out of sight.

———————————————————

Xaden rubs his hands over his face as a knock resonates through the door to his dorm. He needed to get to Genevieve before curfew, she was waiting for him to go to sleep. What in gods’ name was so important that they needed to interrupt him right now. 

Groaning, he rose from the chair at his desk, tossing his night clothes back into their drawers before opening the door. 

And it's… Genevieve. 

“We’re sleeping in my room tonight?” He asks, slightly taken aback but his words teasing. 

“We’re playing 21 questions.” She said confidently looking him right in the eyes. 

Xaden blinks, surprised by her directness, and then snorts. “Playing games now, are we? You sure you’re not just here to drag me into bed?” 

“Not tonight,” Genevieve shrugs. “I had a revelation that I actually know nothing about anyone, so tonight, we’re talking.” 

He studies her for a moment, trying to read whether or not she’s serious or not. She’s carrying herself with a confidence that only comes when she’s on a mission. “Alright,” he says, stepping aside to let her in, his curiosity piqued. “Shoot me with the first question.” 

“What’s your favorite food?” 

“Easy. Chocolate cake.” 

Genevieve flops down on his bed, enveloping herself in his soft blankets and warm smell. 

Xaden leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He watches her settle into his bed, her hair fanning out like a halo of light against the sheets. The sight pulls out something inside him, an unfamiliar warmth that mingles with the teasing tone of their conversation. 

“Chocolate cake, huh?” she muses, looking up at him with an amusing glint in her eyes. “Is that your secret weapon for winning my heart? A slice of cake?” 

“Hey, it’s worked on others,” he quips, pretending to shrug nonchalantly. “What can I say? I have a lot of layers.”

“Clearly,” Genevieve replies, rolling her eyes playfully. “Alright, ask me a question now.” 

Xaden pushes off from the doorframe, grabbing his chair and sitting facing Genevieve, propping up his feet on the bed right in front of her, causing her to laugh and grimace. “Okay, let’s see…” he says, his voice low and teasing. “What’s something you’re afraid to admit to anyone else?” 

Genevieve’s playful expression falters for a moment, the question striking deeper than she’d expected. She glances away, fingers toying with the edge of the blanket as she considers her answer. “And all I asked you was your favorite food.” she mutters, her voice softer now. 

“You wanted to talk,” Xaden reminds her, though his tone has shifted, too—gentler, aware of the weight behind his question.

She sighs, brushing her now grown out hair from her face, the jagged tips brushing her shoulders. “I’m afraid… of losing control,” she admits after a beat of silence. “Of what I’m capable of. That one day I’ll push too far and won’t be able to pull back.” 

Xaden’s teasing smirk fades completely. He knows what she’s talking about—the weight of the power she holds, the constant tension of trying to keep it in check. It’s something they’ve never really talked about openly before.”Genevieve,” he says quietly, leaning forward a little, his dark eyes searching hers. “You don’t have to worry about that. As long as I’m here, I’d never let you fall that far.” 

Her eyes flicker to him, something vulnerable, raw, and unspoken hanging in the space between them. For a second, she almost believes him—almost. But she quickly shakes it off, the mask slipping back into place as she gives a small, forced smile. “Your turn again. What’s your guilty pleasure?” 

Xaden doesn’t press her, though he knows there’s more she’s not saying. He leans back on his elbows, letting the tension ease. “Guilty pleasure, huh?” Xaden taps his chin in mock thought, but the gleam in his eyes shows he already knows the answer. “Alright, but you can’t judge me for this.”

Genevieve raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, I definitely will, but go on.” 

He grins, leaning in as if he’s about to share the world’s biggest secret. “I love terrible romance novels. The more cliche, the better. Bonus points for ridiculous plot twists and melodramatic declarations of love.” 

Genevieve’s eyes widen in disbelief before she bursts out laughing, clutching the blankets to her chest. The sound is like music to his ears, and his heart swells with pride knowing his words brought her this joy. “No way! Xaden Riorson, Mr. Dark and Brooding, is secretly a hopeless romantic?” 

“I am not a hopeless romantic!” He says, laughing with her. “I just appreciate a good love story.” 

“I never would’ve guessed,” Genevieve says between giggles, wiping a tear from her eye. “But your secret’s safe with me… for now.” 

“I’m trusting you with this one,” Xaden says, narrowing his eyes in a playful warning. “Now your turn—spill something embarrassing.” 

Geneveive sits up, crossing her legs as she considers. 

Xaden can’t help but think that she looks perfect right now. Tousled hair, an unfamiliar smile etched onto her face, night clothes, his sheets. 

“If we’re sharing embarrassing secrets, I have one that haunts me to this day.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “When I was 13, I tried to write a love poem to this guy I had a crush on. I thought it was a masterpiece of literary genius—turns out it was so cringy, he showed it to everyone.” 

Xaden winces sympathetically but can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “Ouch. How bad was it?” 

“I compared his eyes to a muddy river…” she groans, hiding her face in her hands. 

Xaden snorts, trying to stifle his laughter. “A muddy river? That’s… poetic.” 

Genevieve peeks through her fingers, glaring at him. “I was very serious about it at the time, thank you very much.” 

“Clearly,” Xaden teases, poking her in the side. “I bet he thought it was secretly adorable.” I know I would. 

She bats his hand away, smiling despite herself. “Alright, alright, enough of that. You get another question, that one was bad.” 

“Another question, huh?” Xaden leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze lingering on her face for just a beat longer than necessary. There’s a mischievous spark in his eyes as if he’s about to push the boundaries of their lighthearted game. “Alright, let’s make this interesting.” 

Genevieve narrows her eyes at him, already suspicious of whatever he’s plotting. “Interesting, how?” 

“You have to answer honestly—no dodging.” His voice lowers, his smirk deepening. “What was your first impression of me?”

Genevieve blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift in their playful banter. Her first impression of him? She hesitates, the memory of their earlier encounters flooding her mind—how he seemed so infuriatingly aloof, always hiding behind that smoldering exterior. 

“I thought you were annoying,” she admits with a grin, watching his expression darken in mock indignation. “You walked around like you knew everything, acted all high and mighty, like no one could touch you. It was infuriating. I wanted to fight you so badly.” 

Xaden chuckles, shaking his head. “Infuriating, huh? And now?” 

Genevieve can feel the tension between them grow, the air in the room thickening as the question hangs in the air. She knows exactly what he’s asking, but she’s nowhere near ready to admit how deeply her feelings for him have shifted. He knows just how physical her attraction is, but she’s never verbalized anything beyond that, she’s only ever shown it.  

“And now,” she says slowly, her voice softening, “I still think you’re annoying. But I also think… there’s a lot more to you than you let on. You’re not as untouchable as you pretend to be.” 

Xaden’s eyes darken slightly, something intense flickering behind his teasing expression. He’s silent for a moment, as if weighing her words, and then he leans closer, closer than she thought was possible, so close she can feel the heat radiating off of him. “You see right through me, do you?” 

Genevieve swallows, feeling her pulse quicken. “Maybe.” 

His gaze drops to her lips for just a second, the tension between them crackling like static in the air. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, the touch sending shivers down her spine. “Your turn,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet. “But choose carefully. I’m starting to think you’re asking questions you already know the answers to.” 

Genevieve’s breath catches in her throat, and for a moment, she forgets the game entirely. The heat between them is undeniable, the air thick with unspoken and spoken desire. But she’s never been one to back down from a challenge. “What do you really want from me, Xaden?” 

The question comes out more serious than she intended, and she can see it takes him by surprise. His teasing demeanor falters, and for a brief second, his guard crumbles completely. His hand lingers near her face, his thumb grazing her cheek softly. 

“What do I want?” He echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. His dark eyes bore into hers, as if trying to convey something he can’t quite say. “I want…” he pauses, searching for the right words. “I want you to trust me.” 

Her heart skips a beat, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He isn’t playing anymore. Neither of them are. 

Genevieve’s breath comes quicker now, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that mirrors the thundering of her heart. She knows that she should pull away, that the last time they had sex it was a heat of the moment thing, and all of their other kisses have been fueled by external emotions. She knows that she’s walking a dangerous line with him, but the gravity between them feels impossible to resist. 

“You already know I do,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “But that’s not what you really want, is it?” 

Xaden’s eyes darken further, and in a flash, he closes the small distance between them. 

“Fuck it.” Her voice rings clear in his head as she snakes her arm up, grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him in before he can second-guess herself, his lips crash against hers with a hunger that takes her breath away. 

The kiss is fire—raw, intense, and filled with all the tension that’s been brewing since December. Genevieve melts into it, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulls him closer, needing more of him, needing all of him. 

Xaden’s hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of her waist, sliding under the hem of her shirt, his touch igniting skin in a way that makes her dizzy. He pulls her onto his lap, their bodies pressed together in a way that leaves no room for hesitation, no room for doubt. 

The playful banter, the teasing—it all dissolves in the heat of the moment. All that’s left is the raw, undeniable connection between them, a force that neither of them can control. 

Genevieve pulls back for a breath, her lips swollen, heart racing. “This… this is what you really want, isn’t it?” She gasps, her eyes searching his. 

Xaden’s gaze is molten, his hands still gripping her waist as if he’s afraid to let go. “I want you, Genevieve,” he says, his voice rough with truth and emotion. “All of you. No more games. No more pretending.” 

Her heart clenches at his words, the vulnerability in his voice shaking her very idea of who he is. She’s wanted him for so long—fought against it, denied it, but now, there’s no denying what’s between them. 

“No more games,” she whispers back, before her lips meet his again, with a fierce intensity, silencing any last traces of doubt between them. This time, the kiss isn’t just about desire—it is slow, passionate, filled with the lingering effects of discarded love. Every secret, every unspoken feeling, every moment of recent tension that’s built up between them crashes down in the heat of their embrace. 

Xaden’s hands trail up her back, pulling her closer, and Genevieve can feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips. There’s a desperation in the way they both cling to each other, like they’re both afraid of what will happen if they stop, if they let go. She presses against him, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, her breath mingling with his as the kiss deepens, the world outside forgotten. 

He breaks away first, his forehead resting against hers as they pull for air. His eyes are heavy, his hands cradling her face as if she’s something precious, something fragile. 

“Gen,” he murmurs, voice thick with something she’s not sure she’s ready to name. “You have no idea what you do to me.” 

She can see it in his eyes, his words sinking into her like a stone. For a brief moment, she wants to pull away—to protect herself from whatever this is, whatever they’ve just opened between them. But then she looks into his eyes, and she realizes that she doesn’t want to run anymore. 

Instead, she brings a hand up to cup his face, her thumb tracing over the scar that runs through his left eyebrow. “You scare me,” she admits quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I think you see too much of me. More than I want anyone to see.” 

Xaden’s expression softens, his fingers tracing a path along her jawline, soothing and tender. “I see all of you, Gen,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her. “And I’m not afraid.” 

Her heart stutters in her chest, the sincerity in his words cutting through her like a blade. She’s spent so long being afraid—afraid of her powers, of her feelings, of the risk that comes with letting someone in. But here, in Xaden’s arms, she feels something different. 

For the first time, she feels safe. 

Swallowing hard, she leans in closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, a gesture filled with something quieter, something deeper. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.” 

Xade’s grip on her tightens slightly, as if in response to her vulnerability. “Then don’t be,” he whispers against her skin, his lips brushing her forehead in a tender, almost reverent gesture. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The truth of his words settles between them like a promise, solid and unshakable. Genevieve closes her eyes, and brings him to her again, tongues dancing as he moves to shift them to the bed, her legs hooked around his waist.

Xaden’s weight settles over her, and for a moment, all Genevieve can sense is him—his body aligned perfectly with hers, the warmth of his skin, the familiar scent of him filling the space between them. It’s a closeness she feels down to her bones, a pull that has been drawing them together since the start. She tries to remind herself of her own danger, the reasons she should pull away, but it feels impossible when he’s this close. 

His lips hover near her neck, teasing her with the warmth of his breath, before he plants slow, deliberate kisses along her throat. Each one sends a ripple of heart down her spine, and she arches into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body reacting instinctively to every touch. His hands trace her sides with an agonizing slowness, and she’s caught between the fear of wanting to disappear and never wanting him to stop at all. 

“Xaden…” His name slips from her lips, a soft, pleading sound, and he responds with a low groan, his teeth grazing her collarbone, setting her on fire. Every inch of her is aware of him—his weight pressing her into the mattress, his hands on the map of her body as if he were exploring familiar territory. 

This feels different from the last time. There’s no hurried urgency, no frantic passion that threatens to consume them every moment they are apart. This time, it’s deliberate, measured, as if they both know what exactly is at stake. As if they’re not just giving in to a fleeting moment, but something far more significant. 

Xaden moves with a certainty that leaves her breathless. His hand glides beneath her shirt, fingers tracing her line of her spine, drawing her closer as his free hand grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it off over her head in one move. Genevieve lets herself get lost in his touch, arching into him, her breath catching when his lips trail down her neck. 

“You’re beautiful,” he mutters against her skin, his voice thick with desire but laced with something softer, something that takes her by surprise. 

She shifts beneath him, pulling herself up to him, her pulse racing. Her hand slides to the back of his neck, holding him closer until they’re practically touching. She presses a kiss to his jawline, before she gazes up at him, her heart hammer against her ribs.

Is this… Genevieve’s breath caught as he stared directly into her eyes as if he was looking into her very soul, seeing her very essence. Is this love?

His mouth moved down to another kiss, hesitating for half a heartbeat. 

“Gen,” He whispered, and she could feel his mouth move as he spoke, he was so close, practically locked in a kiss. His hand tangles in her hair, “I’ve been smuggling weapons out of Basgiath. You were right.” 

A moment passes, nauseating silence overwhelming her. 

Her heart shatters. 

The world seemed to tilt, the air sucked from Genevieve’s lungs as Xaden’s words echoed in the silence of the room. her pulse hammered in her ears, drowning out everything but the sound of her own racing heart. 

He was smuggling weapons. And he admitted it. 

Genevieve pushed herself back, her hands slipping from his neck as if they were burned. “What did you just say?” She whispered, her voice barely audible but sharp with disbelief. 

Xaden’s eyes flashed with something unreadable—regret, fear, resolve. He didn’t move to close the distance this time, didn’t try to touch her. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “But I couldn’t risk it. Not until I knew where you stood.” 

The betrayal slammed into her with the force of a crashing wave. After everything—after the tension, the desire, the promise of trust, of sincerity? It had all come crashing down with a single truth that she already suspected.

“You had to find out where my loyalties stood.” She repeated, her voice trembled with barely contained rage. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time finding out where my loyalties stood?” She shot up from the bed, putting distance between them, grabbing her shirt and tugging it on, covering her marks, her scars. 

Xaden stood slowly, his movement cautious, as if approaching a wounded animal. “It’s not what you think,” he began, his tone pleading, though his eyes were hard with the weight of unspoken truths. “I wasn’t lying about how I feel. I wasn’t lying about us.” 

Genevieve shook her head, taking another step back, vines and flowers sneaking through cracks in the stone walls, blooming around her as if they could protect her from the truth. 

“You know where my loyalties stand!” She hissed, her voice guarded and hard, the same way it used to sound. “I’ve been lying to General Sorrengail every time she interrogates me about what you’re doing! And you have the audacity to question where my loyalties lie? Ever since I got here, my loyalties have been to myself!”

Genevieve’s voice cracked as the words left her, the weight of her confession hanging heavily in the air between them. The tension was palpable, almost suffocating. She could see the flash of surprise in Xaden’s eyes, quickly replaced by a dark understanding. He stepped toward her, but she held up a hand, dark vines stopping him in his tracks. 

“I didn’t come here to be some pawn in another person's war,” she continued, her voice growing steadier, though her heart felt like it was breaking all over again. “I came here to survive. And you—“ she pointed at him, her voice laced with venom. “You used that. You used me.”

Xaden’s jaw tightened, his hands clenched at his sides. “You have no idea what’s at stake, Gen. This is bigger than us. Bigger than anything you could imagine. 

“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp now, cutting through his excuses. “Don’t try to justify this. You could have told me. You should have told me.”

She could feel the familiar surge of her power bubbling just beneath the surface, the vines creeping further along the walls, the flowers blooming darker, sharper, as if reflecting the turmoil inside her. She had trusted him—maybe not fully, but enough to let him in. And now, he has shattered that fragile trust. 

“I didn’t want to involve you,” Xaden said, his voice low, as if trying to contain the rising storm between them. “I was trying to protect you.” 

Genevieve let out a bitter laugh, her eyes flashing with anger. “Protect me? By keeping me in the dark? By using me like everyone else? You think I need protecting, Xaden?” Her voice trembled as she took another step back, the distance between them growing, not just physically but emotionally, a chasm opening wide. “You don’t get to decide that for me.” 

His expression faltered, but only for a second. “This isn’t just about you. There’s a war coming, and we’re on the edge of it whether you like it or not. I made choices I had to make to keep you safe—whether you agree with them or not.” 

Geneveive shook her head, tears burning at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She couldn’t let herself be vulnerable again—not now. “I can count the amount of people I truly trust on one hand. But I can’t trust you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the truth of it rang loud and clear in the quiet room. 

Xaden’s face hardened, his posture stiffening as if bracing himself for Genevieve to launch at him with the intent to kill. “I am trying to do the right thing, Gen. For you. For us.” 

She let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the truth settle in her chest. “But you still lied, knowing fully well that I was completely and utterly loyal to you. I can forgive a lot, but I can’t forgive that.” 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled with unspoken words, the weight of everything unsaid. Xaden’s gaze never left hers, but she could no longer read his eyes. She couldn’t see the pain or hurt, she could just see the lies swimming behind his onyx irises. 

Finally, he broke the silence. “I didn’t want this to happen,” he said, his voice rough, almost pained. “But I won’t apologize for trying to protect the people I care about. Even if it means losing you.” 

Genevieve’s breath caught at the finality in his tone. She felt her heart breaking all over again, but this time she knew there was no going back. There was no way to undo what had been said, no way to erase the betrayal that now hung between them. 

“Don’t call me Gen anymore. My name is Genevieve.” She whispered, her voice hollow. And with that, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Xaden standing alone amidst the wreckage of what they once had. 

The moment the door closed behind her, the vines and flowers retreated, their vibrant bloom withering away. And Genevieve, for the first time in a long time, felt completely and utterly alone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hey everyone!!! so… xaden's finally revealed the truth… and Genevieve has planted the seeds of venin being real in violet's mind. The plot is progressing!!

anyways~ thats really it in the ntoes for this week. pretty interesting chapter tbh. It started off as an attempt at writing smut and then i was like oh! this is prime time for traumatizing gen! and it worked. she will literally never get over this (a blatant lie, btw)

thats it for now! see you all wednesday with chapter 20 (holy shit stuff actually goes down in chapter 20) and let me know your thoughts? will genevieve forgive xaden for ripping her heart to shreds? And who do you think are the five people Genevieve trusts? let me know! as always, please leave a like, comment, or kudo if you enjoyed!

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taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo

[seeker-ophelia]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Ophelia’s Review, Part 1: The Emotion

Like most people on tumblr, I went into Veilguard for Solavellan. I needed a happy ending for them. I had obsessed and freaked and theorized for years. But before I delve into VG I need to explain some backstory. This is going to be as much a biography of me as it is a tale of my rook. And its going to be long, so you know, heads up. And Veilguard Spoilers.

I have been really struggling to get my thoughts into a coherent string after act 2 of VG. I feel like I can’t even review the game because I’m so emotionally wrecked, all I can do is tell a story. If you want to read this, be forewarned, its long, also, obviously spoilers, Veilguard. But… holy god my Rook. 

[Part 2 is here]

My first Dragon Age game was Origins, in 2009. I torrented it off Pirate Bay and played on my aging laptop that could barely handle it. And I loved it. I had never played a game like this before and loved the emotional and story-telling aspects of the game. I played as a Dalish rogue, Lelianna and Zevran were my best friends. Morrigan was the awe-inspiring yet traumatized goth-girl, and I fell for the golden-retriever bastard king of Ferelden.

I did not only watch on in broken-hearted horror as he ascended to his throne beside Anora without me, but I had him lie with Morrigan, the weirdo-turned-friend, because I trusted her, and frankly, I didn’t want to die.

And it broke me in a way the fantasy books I inhaled like oxygen as a child never did.

Because I chose to do those things. I made the choice. For right or for wrong, I was the one who decided their fate, even if those choices came back to bite me in the ass later.

I played Origins three more times over the next 5 years, through what I now call my University Years. I was broke, stressed, and overworked, and Origins became a comfort to me. I even properly bought the game with the DLCs the last time, because I had a little more money, and I figured a game that I had played and loved so much deserved it. (Never played 2, and that was my own fault). I discovered Fan Fiction because of Origins.

Then… I did some life things that I’m not going to air into the internet, but I kind of got my life together around 2016/17. I had a good job, a career even, and while I was by no means wealthy, I was okay.

And I heard about Dragon Age Inquisition, and remembered my old love for Origins, and gave it a go. I’ve always been a fantasy stan (I grew up with LotR), if you give me the option to play as a mage or an elf I’m going to do it. I wanted to romance Leliana, especially after her bad-assery in Redcliffe, but that turned out to be impossible. Because I never played 2, I didn’t know who Cullen was, and I romanced him (my love letter to Alistair). And while I liked the game, loved it even, I didn’t feel that emotional pull that Origins made me feel, and I put it aside. I’ve played some other games I’ve liked throughout the years, Fable, Skyrim, The Witcher, and I liked them all, but none of them really gut-punched me like that first fated Origins playthrough.

Cut to 2020, covid, and fuck if I didn’t have anything better to do, so I played DA2.

Oh man, I laughed at the graphics, oh it was so bad after Inquisition, how did anyone play this? And then I walked Darktown with Anders, walked slaver dens with Fenris, helped my Merrill with her Eluvian, and Isabela with her relic. And I helped my friend Varric in the deep roads. And I began to feel a tendril again of what I had in Origins. Who cared about the graphics, the gameplay, the locations, these people’s stories were what was driving this tale, and that was amazing and rare.

And I went into Inquisition with new eyes. I could not touch Cullen again, not after how he acted in Kirkwall. I knew Solas left, so I wanted to try and romance Bull (I’ve seen the youtube videos; ‘So you want to ride The Bull’). But I slowed down my playthrough this time, talked to everyone, actually spoke to Solas over and over in Haven. Indominatable focus indeed, hahren. What a curiosity you are. And I fell for fucking Solas.

A bald fucking hobo apostate, are you for real? Brain, get your head in the game. And my heart said, wait.

But he leaves! You know he leaves!  

Well, maybe I’m just destined to fall in love with emotionally unavailable fictional people.

And I played Descent and Hakkon for the first time, which were fantastic. And then I played Trespasser.

And Trespasser broke me. Just like Origins did.

And my Casual Dragon Age Days were done. I was feral.

But I also had a very demanding job. I could not just play video games for large chunks of time. I worked. A lot. I mean a lot. And in the fall of this year, I burnt out. I quit. I’ve got Real Shit going on in my life right now, and I’ve worked so much I can afford to take some time off.

And Dragon Age was there to welcome me, arms open wide, with Escapism 4.0, AKA The Veilguard. I spent hours crafting theories, making connections, playing Inquisition again, playing DA2 again, writing, actually writing Fics again. I read the comics, read TN, watched Awakening (twice).

I joined tumblr to stop being a lurker and actually participate. Joined Caitie and Kala’s patreons, just loving the hype and the theory crafting and the love for Veilguard. I love the Dragon Age world. It has helped me through so many tough times in my life, and its going to get me through this one, too.

I found community online. In tumblr, in reddit, in discord.

And I breathed Dragon Age for almost 2 months before Halloween. Solas this and Lavellan that and Fade and Magic and Titans and Gods and Love. Remember this, don’t forget about that, did you hear this theory, well what about the connection between…

To quote myself, Like most people on tumblr, I went into Veilguard for Solavellan. The companions came out, and I didn’t feel super strongly about any of them. I didn’t even feel strongly about my Rook. I had a general idea, especially because of Trick’s IGN interview, Rook/Mirror/Solas, but nothing really concrete.

And then Nadas-Dirthalen asked me about my Rook a few days before Halloween, and I had to think about it. I had to put down Solas and Lavellan, I had to put down my theories, put down the lore, and pick up this new thing. This Rook.

And I looked at it.

What did I want her to act like? What did I want her to look like? How did I want her to be? What drives her? Where is she from? What are her goals? What does she like? What does she hate?

And I weaved a new friend. Danivas (Dani, for short). Escaped rabbit slave out of Minrathous, her magic the only thing that saved her from hard labor in Dock Town or the mines, and then it was the only thing that saved her from the unwanted advances of the Tevinter Nobility. Rescued by the Dragons in her teens, she sought connection to her elvhen heritage with the Veil Jumpers, falling hard (platonically) for her mentor, her sister, Bellara. Everything she hated about herself, Bellara loved, and Bellara was flighty enough to need protecting, especially after Cyrian, so that’s what she became. Bellara’s protector. Arlathan’s protector. Protector of the small, and defender of the powerless. She will never apologize for saving Varric and the others at the cost of some stupid magic map, she would pay that price a hundred times over to save living beings.

And I made her in CC, I walked her through the streets of Minrathous, through Solas’ ritual, through Arlathan forest. My heart sang when I saw Harding again, and knew that Rook and Harding would be best friends. And I began to fall for the characters.

My Veil Jumper sister Bellara, poised but wickedly intelligent Neve, violent and troubled Lucanis, steadfast and resolved Davrin with playful Assan, towering yet growing Taash, and mystifying, immortalizing Emmerich, with his weird but I guess acceptable Manfred.

I helped Harding, Paragon of her time, discover her new mystifying magic, to find peace through pain, just as Bellara had done for Dani.

I learned all their stories. Their loves. How to interact with them, what they liked and didn’t like. And I fell, for Assan. That fucking griffon. Is so cute. How can you not love him? He’s just like Dani. Forced through circumstance to fight terrible evil, not necessarily against their nature, but certainly not what they would prefer to be doing. They are powerful and special and fierce and playful.

And, like any child, rebellious.

Dani helped Davrin through parenthood. He was a soldier, a commander, not a father, or a teacher, and though she was brash and sarcastic, she had been Bellara’s protector, she knew honey over vinegar, and pushed him to be gentler with Assan. Watched them grow together and felt such unhinged joy through their path to tulum. And then she looked up from digging her fingers into the feathers in Assan’s neck one day to see Davrin staring down at her, and thought, oh.

Her heart stuttered. And they flitted about each other for a long time. Teasing and testing, flirting and ribbing.

As she walked the steps of the Cobbled Swan to meet Morrigan, she told herself she would bring Davrin to Arlathan again, without Assan, and without any gingerwort tea. Just the two of them, and she would tell him what he meant to her.

But the Gods had different plans.  

And they had to move, NOW.

Davrin, the Grey Warden constantly surrounded by death and destruction, tried to warn me.

What if one of us doesn’t come back?

I actually let myself imagine the future.

Our future.

With our half-bird, half-cat kid.

And Dani, who had never had much hope for anything before, brought her hand to Davrins face with a soft smile, and soothed her Griffon Daddy, Var Lath Vir Suledin, Davrin.

When we win, when we beat this thing, we will come back here, and I will show you how much I love you.

Every Solas fresco I uncovered, I cried. Every memory, every revenant, even the ones I saw coming. I felt so much emotion for Solas, even as my love for Rooks Companions grew. Dani’s love for Davrin grew, in a very real, fast, surprising way.

But the Gods Eclipsed the Sun, and we had to move, NOW.

Of course I chose the Grey Warden to lead the charge against the Antaam. I needed Taash and Harding with me, and he was better suited to the roll. Harding is a scout, not a commander, and Davrin would have Lucanis for any sneaky mischief he would need, with Emmerich for any quick heals.

Imagine my relief when we met up again. I made a choice and he didn’t die, thank you, BioWare.

No, Neve, Bellara is better suited to deal with old Elvhen Magic.

And then Elgar’nan took her from me. Dani’s sister. Her home.

And she blasted through darkspawn and Blight to get to Elgar’nan, to get to Bellara.

But they had to get through Ghilan’nain first.

Fuck you Ghilan’nain if you think I’m fighting alone, my strength is my team, and I will move Fade and Titan to get to them. And Dani frees them, only to have Lucanis foiled, again. How do we get out of this? What do we do?

Upside down, she watches Davrin scale a crumbling tower, and their eyes meet.

No.

Whatever it takes.

Davrin, No.

His voice is deep and commanding, resolute and resolved.

“Assan!”

And Dani’s scream tangles with Assans as her son smashes into Ghillan’nain’s back.

The Blighted Goddess stumbles, and Lucanis and Dani fall to the ground, but Ghilan’nain’s blight is lightening, and when Dani looks up at Davrin two tentacles have speared him, his eyes wide and unseeing into the dark sky.

She screams again, Ghilan’nain forgotten, and as she watches Assan dive to the aid of his fallen partner, Dani is knocked back by a concussive blue blast; the Crow has fulfilled his contract.

The air is charged, the veil tearing here, Emmerich is yelling something at her, she must remove the dagger or this world will be torn asunder.

And then there’s overpowering, pressured silence. Grey and fog and stone and loneliness surround her, and all she can see or hear is Solas.

You were never ready to make the sacrifices that leadership requires.

Davrin. Assan. Bellara. My family. Is GONE. Because of ME.

Well, shit, kid. Haven’t you learned anything from this place? I made the choice, even knowing the risks. My decision, my sacrifice, and you don’t get to take that from me.

And Emmerich and Lucanis pull her from her prison of regret, and she knows she can’t blame herself, that would be taking away Davrin and Bellara’s agency, but you know who she can blame?

Solas.

The man my Lavellan loves. The man I swore to save. The one I started this game for. The one who made me feral for Dragon Age.

He did this to me.

Solas took away my love. By not being able to face his regrets.

And Dani became Hardened.

“Are you certain you’re alright, Rook?”

“We’ve still got work to do. I can collapse when this is over.”

“You needn’t carry this burden on your own. The rest of us will send word to our allies. You must take care of yourself in the meantime. We’ll speak again soon.”

But she was fine. She would be fine. Had to be fine. They had a job to do. Gods to kill. People to save.

It was walking past Assan’s spot in the courtyard that broke her.

Mourn Davrin?

To the Void with that.

I will avenge him.

I will kill the Elf who started all of this, forget Mythal, forget Lavellan, forget the Blight.

Mirror.

Solas cannot blame himself, that would be taking away the agency of his friends, but you know what he can blame?

The Veil.

I will end the curse that started all of this, forget Mythal, forget Lavellan, forget the Blight.

Mirror.

I will defend the small.

Mirror.

I will free the enslaved.

Mirror. 

You were never ready to make the sacrifices that leadership requires.

Mirror.

Its easier to play the villain, because that means you didn’t fail, all the damage you’ve done, all the people you’ve hurt…

Mirror.

It becomes a choice.

Mirror.

Remind yourself who you really are.

Mirror.

But will you listen?

Mirror.

Rook lays on the cold cobblestone, eyes wide, fist white-knuckled around the lyrium dagger, a battered and bruised Solas standing behind her. Her anger got her through her battle with Elgar’nan, but it will not help her here.

Rook will have to live with the choices she made. The successes and the failures. She can’t blame Solas. It's easier to blame Solas. But that’s exactly what Solas did, place blame where it did not belong, and it destroyed the world.

And her anger and hate and grief and despair swallow and consume itself into the tiniest, smallest fleck of a wisp.

Of hope.

She rose slowly, meeting Solas’ gaze, and places the dagger in his outstretched, bloody hand.

I don’t want to see any more pain on top of what Elgar’nan has done.

(Hope)

Your prison is made of regrets, and you are trapped in yours.

(I’ll not be trapped in mine)

Destroying everything won’t erase your mistakes.

(Killing Solas won’t bring Davrin and Assan back)

You have the chance, right now, to save the world. Bind yourself to the veil and stop it from failing.

And it takes the Mother, the Maiden, and the Mirror, for Solas to accept his past.

As Lavellan walked the din’an shiral after Solas, Rook walked it for Davrin.

As Varric released Dani from her regret, Mythal released Solas from his.

As Solas turns to the Eluvian, the Magic Mirror named Rook, he is forced to see his faults, and how to fix them.

His corrupted purpose is repairable. And he passes his torch to the Mirror, vowing to seek atonement for the sins of his past, sins grown and amplified because he refused to face the truth of them.

And that will probably hit everyone, because I’d wager good coin that if you’re playing video games, or reading fantasy, you’ve used escapism before, but it hits especially hard for me. Right now. At this point in my life. When my own personal veil I’ve constructed to hold back my own evils is crumbling around me because I have not faced the truth of my own past sins, my memories as demons grown and amplified and slipping through cracks because I refused them for so long. My choice.

And when Solas and Ellana walked into the sunset, I cried. And cried. And cried. Because this whole time I thought I was my Inquisitor, bare your blade and raise it high, look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come, var lath vir suledin. Bellanaris. Perseverance, endurance, outlive, outlast, that is what you need.

When in reality I am my Rook. Let go of your regret. You don’t need to hold on to this, you need to let it go.

We all have to face our regrets. Accept them, and then let them go. Running from them only makes them worse.   

And I leave with the lyrics of the Veilguard Credits song, “Roll The Credits,” by Danielle Ponder:

I could feel it, I won't come down I could see it, oh, with all eyes Hold my head and saw the whole sky I never felt so damn alive And if there's smoke, then I'll be water If there's fire, I'll be rain

We were lost, but we weren't stranded We were dreamers on the run I gave my all, it was commanding And we just did this shit for fun I could feel it, I won't come down Found myself above the sky Tell my mama, tell my daddy That love is falling from the sky

Good God Almighty, I done opened my mind These holy waters left a chill down my spine

[isa-ghost]

If you're still doing Philza headcannons, how about some specifically about Phil, Chayanne, and Tallulah? I miss the kiddos...

qPhil headcanons masterlist

(NOT) SINGLE DAD EDITION LETS GO

Those two are the light of his fucking life ok. If you were someone that had something against him, they're how you get to him. They're how you hurt him. He will do ANYTHING for them. He'll kill his friends, he'll fly on broken wings, he'll die for them. Nothing matters more than those two kids.

He's not typically a very physically affectionate person. But to the kids? Suddenly he's a cuddler. Suddenly he's head kisses and carrying them on his hip just because he can. Suddenly he's braiding hair and painting nails and playfully tormenting them with tickles. They flip a switch in his brain.

Nothing could ever make him waver on how proud of them he is. Both of them. Chayanne so brave and strong, stressed to the teeth like his dad but persevering like a true warrior. Lullah is so loving and open, even in the face of so much pain and adversity. She's been through so much, largely alone, and yet she still has the strength to smile and be silly after everything. Ideally he wishes they would've never experienced any pain at all, but Quesadilla says Damn You All

Chayanne & Lullah can make him laugh until his stomach hurts, and they can do it faster than friends he's known for YEARS. Lullah especially is the queen of comedic nonverbal timing. All it takes is a certain look with a slow turn after Phil says something stupid and he's Dying.

His favorite thing is when either of them fall to pieces emote bc smth stupid happened. Or whenever they Orange Justice after smth fucked happens.

Listen. LISTEN. Don't be fooled by this man. He LOVES adventures with the kids. He loves them. The reason he refuses to venture out with them or go dungeon raiding with them super often is because survivalist brain is like if the worst happens, the Feds do not have your back. If you lose the kids you have nothing much to live for on this island. Do not risk their lives, even if it sounds fun.

He fucking loves watching the kids talk to the other eggs. The constant taptaptaptaptap of signs being placed while they chat together makes him giggle. He also loves watching them just crouch and silently communicate.

Dude Rose's love for the two of them makes his heart so full. Like legit the first time she told him "they're under my protection" he nearly cried. And not just from relief that they'd be safe from EK.

And related: Oh my GOD does he fucking love the term "fledglings" for them. It's SO CUTE. Rose was so right for that. Something about it drives home the thought of "these are MY kids" even more. He just 🥺

Chayanne's mask reminds him of Techno's boar one sometimes and it makes him wanna cry /pos. If Chayanne ever mentions being guided by Techno's spirit to fight EK Phil will never recover

He loves this "new era" of Lullah, between her cutting her hair short a while back and now dying it + changing her hat. It feels like she's getting more independent despite everything and considering Phil used to have to Really hover around her to help her out, he's the world's proudest papa about it

He's told them stories about all the hardcore gods (that he knows of) at this point. Rose bc ofc he did. EK bc he kinda had to. The others bc at this point he's expecting them to poke their heads around at one point or another too. Chayanne loves Blaze. Lullah still loves Rose the most. She's gone on a rant about "Papa how the fuck is Ocean Overlord a god when he fumbles things so badly???" He wishes he knew, Lullah.

He wants to take them on a flight so bad it hurts. Literally. He's more angry EK fucked up his wings maybe permanently bc he robbed them of that than he is that EK did it to spite him.

He really really really hopes they do hatch some day and become lil dragon hybrids bc then he can watch them fly and teach them how to do it well (the best he can while he's grounded) (he might get a little envious)

He fucking LOVES sparring with the kids. He goes easy bc he's insanely skilled and experienced compared to Two Literal Children but they catch on and improve So Quick and it makes him so unbelievably proud and excited to see them demonstrate their skills in a real (hopefully non-lethal) situation.

[speckledfiction]

But Thou Shalt Be Alone No More

What would the Baldur's Gate characters' daemons be, if they had them?

*

You watch as they insert the tadpole into your daemon’s eyesocket, feeling sick. Not just at the ordinary transgression of having your daemon touched by someone else, but at the teeth that tear through your soul. Over the next few days, your daemon will begin to slough off its skin, its muscles twisting into new forms. Eventually, it will become illithid. Then, it will eat you, all of you, right down to the last scraps. This is how mindflayers are made. This is how you are going to die. Except, of course, that that’s not what happens.

Shadowheart’s daemon is a wolf. She is afraid of her daemon. You don’t understand how anyone can be afraid of their own daemon, but she is. When she finally talks to you about Shar, she explains that Shar sees daemons as sinful. In a religion focused on darkness and loss, how could there be space for a constant companion, a part of your soul that you can see and talk to? Followers of Shar collar their daemons, and when they truly ascend through the ranks of the cult, that becomes a permanent shackle. Their daemons are essentially killed, made placid and tranquil and unthinking. You feel a shiver run through you at the very thought of it, and you feel deeply sorry for Skiateros, who follows Shadowheart so patiently, who licks her hand when it hurts, but who never speaks. You only hear his voice for the first time after the Nightsong is freed. It is low and rumbling, as he backs up Dame Aylin’s words, confirming the truth of what was done to them. Shadowheart kneels down and buries her face in his thick, black fur, and you want to cry.

Gith daemons are as strange to look at as their other halves are, an observation Lae’zel is quick to make in reverse. You don’t know the name for what Lae’zel’s Kssaru is. He is reptilian, perhaps unsurprisingly, but more cat shaped than lizard shaped. He has a fine ridge of spines down his back and beautiful blue scales, and he tempers Lae’zel’s fierceness with patient observation and thoughtful consideration. Lae’zel tells you that gith who please Vlaakith and achieve Ascension have their daemons turned into dragons. But even before you find out the real story, Kssaru seems hesitant about the idea. He does not need to be a dragon to be deadly, as you discover when he spits poison at your enemies. When Lae’zel turns her back on Vlaakith he sits at her side and tells her stories of brave warriors, bolstering her courage.

You might expect Gale to have a cat daemon, since his best friend is a tressym, but he doesn’t. As you walk away from his portal, you realise that tucked in against his neck, blending in with his hair is a small orb of a bird. A wren. She is sweet voiced and cheerful, and a compelling reason for Gale to stay out of the range of enemies as much as possible, though he would never let her come to harm. At first Galatea seems like an odd choice of daemon for someone like Gale. So small and inconspicuous and unassuming. It’s only as you get to know him better that you see the irony of it - both the legends of the wren, king of the birds, that made her the perfect choice for someone of his ambition, and the way that her plainness exacerbates that ambition, makes both her and him even more desperate to prove themselves special. When the orb in his chest gets bad Galatea starts to look very strange, her being fraying to darkness around the edges, until Gale eats an artifact and stabilises them again. If Gale chooses to ascend, Galatea vanishes. Gods do not have daemons. She never gets to be part of what he becomes. If he doesn’t, then she settles happily back into their tower home, where the windows let her fly as far and high as she can without straining the bond, and she and Tara can play little games of chase when Gale is cooking.

Astarion’s daemon is a dog. A plain, mid-sized brown dog. She wags her tail amicably and doesn’t seem particularly bright. Astarion’s daemon is a dog right up until you wake up with him hovering over you, fangs bared, and realise that the snake curled around his neck is Citheris, and now there is nothing stupid-looking about her at all. Vampires’ daemons regain the power of shapeshifting, and Citheris has been every form imaginable. Adept at seduction, she can be a beautiful slinky white cat, or a charming raven, or a sharp-eyed fox. You will learn, eventually, that she does not remember what form she originally settled in. The two hundred years of torture washed it away. It becomes dreadfully easy to guess how Cazador used her to torture Astarion, hurting her to hurt him. Touching her himself, the vilest transgression you can possibly imagine. In universes where Astarion ascends, Citheris takes on grand, powerful forms: dragon, lion, unicorn. Majestic and fantastic beasts. If he stays a spawn, she begins to spend more and more time as a porcupine. Astarion complains that he has to be careful not to roll over onto her when he sleeps, but you watch him pet her gently when he thinks no one is looking, scratching under her chin where she likes it best.

When Wyll bounds over the wall outside the grove, it is on the back of Patricia, his huge and splendid horse daemon. The long white hair that covers her hooves is in beautiful contrast with the glossy chestnut of her hide, and her deep brown eyes are as serious and kind as Wyll’s. Later, you will find out that the warlock pact protects her from mortal injury unless Wyll himself is killed, making it safe for him to take her into battle. It binds her too, a golden bridle and bit in echo of Mizora’s jewellery, an insult to her wild splendour. Horse daemons are rare in a city as dense and chaotic as Baldur’s Gate, but Wyll never acts as though the restrictions Patricia places on his life are any burden. If anything, he seems happy that the form she settled in gave him another excuse to justify leaving the city and embarking on his career as the Blade of Frontiers. And Patricia never complains when Wyll asks her to carry his backpack. She is the equal of any burden. It is terrible to see Mizora touch her, though she only ever touches the bridle, not Patricia’s fur. Even that is too much. One more reason to long for Wyll’s pact to be broken.

Karlach’s daemon is a thing of beauty and terror. Once, Brant tells you, he was a goose, with a brown back and a dark head. Then Zariel did her experiments, and he became a pheonix. It only compounds the tragedy that Karlach’s suffering made him resplendent. He is gold and red and orange, always ablaze. He need never fear that anyone will break the taboo, because Karlach is the only one who can touch him. Even after Dammon repairs her heart, Brant remains shimmering and aloof. When Dammon warns Karlach of her impending death, Brant asks whether his change means something. “We die and return, don’t we?” he says plaintively. “That’s what a pheonix does. So maybe we’ll get to come back.” But daemons do not work like that. If Karlach does not return to Avernus, he burns with her, and leaves no egg behind. And you miss him forever, kind, brave Brant with his fine tenor voice and his playful humour. Better that they go back to Avernus, where his white hot flames scour hordes of devils and demons, until Karlach finds her cure.

Halsin’s daemon is a bear, of course. She vanishes when Halsin wildshapes into a bear, though you wonder if really it is the man who disappears, and the daemon who becomes complete. Halsin fears the taboo less than others, and when Thaniel is rescued, you see him curled up against Mara’s warm side, her long-clawed paws folded lightly over him. She licks him a few times for good measure, like any fond mother with a cub.

Equally as predictable is Halsin is Minthara, whose daemon could never be anything but a spider. And she is female. Minthara is too firm a believer in drow heirarchies to accept anything else. Ven’vera is deadly poisonous, and beautiful once you look past the initial terror. She is such a stereotype that you almost roll your eyes at it, but she is also one of the few open displays of tenderness that Minthara allows herself. To love a daemon is to love oneself, after all, and that is a virtue for the matriarchs of Menzoberranzan.

Timaeon, Jaheira’s daemon, is a huge and splendid vulture. Plain brown in colouring, but so large that he could never be missed. Though age has dimmed the lustre of his feathers, his eyes are as sharp and bright as ever. He is a survivor, like Jaheira herself, practical and adaptable. He soars over the battlefield, able to go much further from her side than most daemons can, and calls out targets to her when she is engaged. And you learn quickly that you can get on his good side, and thereby Jaheira’s, by offering him slivers of meat from dinner.

As for Minsc, if he has a daemon other than Boo, you never see it. It’s possible that he does, if his daemon is also a rodent, or an insect, or some other small creature. It’s possible that Boo is his daemon, and that the brain damage made him see the hamster as a separate creature. Or it’s possible that the damage done to him destroyed his daemon, and that Boo has chosen, in some way, to serve as a replacement. It’s not a question you can ever ask, and so you never truly know.

*

You can also read this on a03 if you like.

[quietpagan]

What if Vimes couldn’t go home?

AO3

In belated honor of the Discworld fandom’s ‘Feelings Day’, and in order to cause some more Feelings, I’m curious about a version where Vimes doesn’t go home. The hole opened and closed, and will stay closed; the cards are shuffled and cannot be unshuffled. The Glorious 25th of May happens and keeps happening, and Vimes lives by the skin of his teeth and sees the dawn of the less glorious 26th of May, and the cleanup of its bloody yesterday. There are six new graves to be dug up in Small Gods, and Vimes looks at the grass where the seventh should be and feels sick.

The monks are very sorry that this has happened to him, and endure his raging and his ranting with the sad patience of people who know the volcano is going to erupt and where the pyroclastic flow will have to land, and have to deal with it anyway.

And Vimes does the only thing he knows how to do, and goes to work. He weathers the punishments that come with laying his captain out and fields the rest that come with commanding a barricade against the military in a city-wide demi-revolution, and is commended for his efforts toward the future of the new administration. He stands before the newly-appointed Lord Snapcase and salutes as best he can without wincing, and leaves as soon as he’s allowed, twitchy and eyeballing every guardsman all the way back to the watchhouse. Sam Vimes the Current follows him all the way and he realizes that he has a responsibility to this boy, one that now lasts more than just a few days. The only watchman who knew his secret was dead; the monks keep to themselves. John Keel lives now, and Vimes has thirty years of knowledge to try and put things right.*

             *Or, at least, thirty years give-or-take the two decades where his memories swam in a sea of alcoholic blurr. He’d just have to fish out whatever bits he could from there.

He makes a List. There are various watchmen who die who don’t need to, crimes remembered that he can now predict, and as time goes on Sergeant Keel of the Night Watch gains a reputation for being disconcertingly there, present at just the right time. He catches a young lad before a cart runs the boy over; Sergeant Maroon doesn’t take an unfortunate dive onto the upturned pike of a belligerent thief, because Keel is there, grabbing the back of his armor just in time to haul him up. He sees the directions the city turns in before it even moves its head; Madam and her friends are fascinated with him but he denies her anything, right up until it’s suddenly five years into the past and he sees Sam take his first drink outside of the social sphere, and realizes that he’s actually allowed to change, really change things. Big things. And personal things, as well.

Vimes watches Sam like a hawk and steers him well away from the bottle when failed romances (Vimes watched with cringing sympathy, but the poor bastard had to learn somehow) or the dirty hands of the city begin weighing on him; they talk, instead, and Vimes desperately looks around for something he had never seemed to have time to acquire before: a hobby. It leads him to Schoone Avenue where, upon the notice of the death of Lord Ramkin and the beginnings of the dragon sanctuary, Vimes drags Sam along to inquire about getting a watch-dragon for Treacle Mine Road. He’s worked hard to see to it that watchmen are no longer back-door visitors, but he shines Sam up just the same.

Sybil looks so young; at twenty-five she already towers over Sam Vimes the Younger and Older both, and hasn’t quite acquired that middle-aged forthrightness of someone who knows it’s late and is determined not to care. Sam is enthralled, and Vimes takes the opportunity to volunteer him to help at the sanctuary, extracting himself as quickly as he can before anybody notices his eyes getting red.

He’s built up the reputation as a dedicated husband; everybody knows that his cigar case was a present from his wife, and he’d mentioned once that when he’d arrived she was about to have a baby. But there are no letters, no notes saying how the baby is and when is he coming home and what the big city is like. Ol’ Sarge didn’t like to talk about his wife, and looked rather wretched when she was brought up. So the men decide that Mrs. Keel had died in childbirth, and that ol’ Sarge was still too heartbroken to tell about it. Vimes has to go up to his room and sit in the dark for a very long time upon hearing that rumor, clutching the silver cigar case until his hands ache.  

Carcer is a problem. He’s stuck, same as Vimes, and has no compunctions whatsoever about doing absolutely anything he wants to anybody who gets in his way. Vimes works and works and works, night and day until he nearly collapses, trying to find something to pin the bastard with, something to tear him down from the pillar of terror he’s affixed himself to, and can’t. The city isn’t ready for a watchman who can arrest the unnerving head of the remains of the Particulars, even when the man comes up for murder. Nobody cares about murders; certainly not when an Authority is doing them, and particularly not when said Authority is known for making people disappear. But the Particulars, though they’d been granted another base and were endorsed by Snapcase, were just as much afeared of Sergeant Keel as they were Captain Carcer, and when the time comes and it’s Sam, of all people, who manage to arrest Carcer for murder, nobody stands to speak for him. Poor Constable Battock exits life almost twenty years too early during that mess, but they have Carcer for his murder and for an attempted murder on Vimes himself, and Snapcase, who is insane but at least could read the mood of a mob, sentences the man to swing.

Sam the Younger is making rather some headway into his gentle Understanding with Lady Ramkin the Younger when she introduces him and his mentor to her very good friend, the bastard himself: Havelock Vetinari, fresh from his Grand Sneer and ready to grab Ankh-Morpork by the horns or, knowing Vetinari, to gently steer it by way of a sharp instrument on a more sensitive body part.

Vimes isn’t expecting the black-clad kid in front of him to watch him with an admiring eye, and he certainly isn’t ready for him to call Vimes ‘sir’. And Havelock and Sam get along, all under the smiling eye of Sybil, who’s looking entirely too smug at what’s supposed to be a friendly tea and chat. And Vimes knows the boy now as Havelock, because that’s what Sam keeps calling him. His new friend. It’s eerie.

And there’s the good bits about being stuck in the past, and the bad bits too – and then there’s the very bad bits. Sam wheedles and huffs and side-eyes Vimes until the man finally gives in and lets Sam drag him to Cockbill Street for dinner, under the aching need to put the horrible rumor of him being Sam’s runaway father to rest, and the even more painful ache of getting to see his mum for the first time in nearly twenty years. The familiarity is awful; Vimes had moved out of Cockbill Street when he’d first taken the badge and had only visited briefly over the years, in the bare, somewhat put-upon dutifulness of a son who didn’t realize that his mum wouldn’t be around forever. His mother – younger now than Vimes is, and isn’t that just the worst realization – serves everything that he’d been dying to taste just one more time, and it all turns to ash in his mouth. Young Sam is visibly disappointed to find that Sarge is completely unknown to his mum, and Old Sam finds that lack of recognition distressing for another reason entirely. He urges the boy to take better care of his mother, and sees that he visits her at least once a week.

It's about this time, or a little while afterward, that the silver cigar case disappears. Vimes had built a nervous habit of patting his pocket, and took it out just to look at it often. Twelve years through the past runs by and Rust has finally seen to boot (Vimes’s cardboard-soled boot, to be specific. He’d caught the bastard having indecent and altogether unwilling relations with a maid in the man’s manor, and Vimes had worked very, very hard to impress upon the city that being a nob didn’t mean you were free to fuck around and not find out. Rust, being nobbier than most, wasn’t arrested, Ankh-Morpork just wasn’t there yet, but he was encouraged to leave the city in disgrace, and Vimes supposed that it would just have to do for now). The office upstairs is Vimes’s once more, and has already accumulated a familiar forest of paperwork. It’s late, and he’s alone, and that’s what makes it hit so hard. If he’d been on the street, or even downstairs in company, and the possibility of the case being pinched was even fractionally available, he would have kept hope. He would have grabbed that possibility with both hands, treading red-eyed through the city year after year, holding onto the notion that he’d eventually find it. But he’s in his office alone, and when he habitually reaches down to pat it he feels the solid weight of it disappear under his hand. He checks his pocket, checks all of his pockets, nearly tears his trousers checking, and then throws up. He pulls on his cloak and runs into the night without a lantern, dodging the hustle of the city with unseeing eyes as he lets his feet walk him up to Schoone Avenue, where Sam is having dinner with young Sybil. Vimes can see only vague shadows in the windows from his spot on the distant street, only hear muffled laughter, and feel only lint and broken pencil lead in his pocket, and that’s it. That’s the only future now, up in the huge house ahead. The anchor that Vimes had held onto, even after Sweeper had told him that he could never go back…that one shining, delicate thread connecting him to his world, is gone. It’s all gone.

Vimes walks. He walks over the bridges, across the streets, and the shadows welcome him home. He notices nothing of the city around him; a thief from the newly appointed Guild hops in front of him, waves a knife, and then says ‘Er…sorry, wrong person,’ and hops all the way to the other side of the street; Vimes has pulled the night in around him, let it seep into his bones, and it shows on his face.

Everything is gone. Sybil, the baby, Detritus, Carrot, Vetinari, Angua…even Dorfl and his slowly-growing army of free golems, even Buggy and Cheery and Willikins and the little old lady who brought them biscuits on Hogswatch because they’d carried her husband to the hospital after he’d fallen, it was all gone gone gone. Was it all disappeared? Was everybody dead, an entire future erased as if it had never been? Or was Sybil waiting for him in a distant dimension, alone in that house with the baby, telling it stories about a father who disappeared into a storm, never to return? He doesn’t want to know. Each is as horrible as the other, and it doesn’t matter now because it’s all gone…

Sergeant Keel returns to the watch house at noon, several hours after he was supposed to have signed out for the day, and when he returns the watchmen note that he’s missing something, like a layer of skin has been flayed away. And in the cemetery of Small Gods, the tiniest plot has been paid for. It’s nothing but a small box, empty and the size of his hand and damn had Leggy First objected, but it was there, filled with the remains of Sam Vimes the Elder, and the future he had left behind.

He digs in, the way he had held off digging in before, because what else was there, now? Captain John Keel becomes nearly a force of nature. Thieves walk on the other side of the street, licenses clearly visible. The Assassin’s Guild raises his fee to over a half-million dollars, after the incident with the last fellow and the ornamental topiary. The Watch opens its arms to its first dwarf officer several years before Cuddy’s time, and with it comes the call for a troll officer, and though it’s not Detritus yet Vimes feels something slot into place. A female officer (human) follows, and it’s like the opening of a floodgate; suddenly the Watch isn’t just some rude men, but your neighbor Thor Thorsson’s in uniform now, and your daughter’s making noises about getting some chainmail. Vimes feels the familiar headache that comes with new recruit chittys coming in every week, but this time without Carrot here to prod him into organizing the files. And Havelock takes power far earlier than he had originally; Lord Snapcase had yet to commit something that Vimes could stick him with without getting nailed to a dungeon wall by his ears, but the guild leaders and even some of the nobs could sense how the wind was blowing through the streets, away from the idea of a cruel, insane tyrant who deplored upon a city that was opening its doors to new people and new ideas and, most importantly, all the money that they brought in. Havelock took up the robe of office nearly ten years ahead of time, right from the cooling body of its previous occupant, backed by the majority of the guilds and, for the first time, the surprisingly reputable City Watch.

Things are going well for Sam. There’s no way to avoid being torn down, when you’re a person with such an open heart and all the anger required to want to kick the gods for trespassing, but in this time he has a support system and a mentor who don’t let him do it alone. Vimes feels like he’s given the young man a proper education on all the reasons why the nobility as a whole is a festering parasite on the populace, and now he’s marrying one and is, uh, very good friends with another. Very good friends. Vimes wouldn’t have noticed except that he went to pick up Sam from the big house a bit early one shift, and noticed Havelock there, just relaxing in the sitting room with a cup of tea and a book, in the middle of the settee with Sybil on one side and a recently-vacated spot on the other. Vimes tried and failed to work his way around the question of ‘Are you and your wife fucking the Patrician, Sam?’ and instead spent the entirety of his patrol examining every ‘Ah, Vimes’, and every covered smile or invitation to stare thoughtfully out of the window and that one time where Vetinari had called him ‘my dear Vimes’ and how often he’d visited with Sybil and – and – how to possibly compute all of that while remembering this Havelock asking him, Sam Vimes/John Keel, for tips on how to disappear better into the shadows. He still takes in their invitations to dinner or tea on the regular and little details suddenly start to make sense, especially when Sybil looks at him over her teacup the next day and simply remarks that it was about time. Her and Sam have a baby well ahead of Vimes and his Sybil, and the little boy is dark-haired like neither of his parents, at opposites to his fair-haired sister, who comes a few years after. Vimes is named godfather to both, to his proud disquiet, his heart wrenching somewhere in the region of his stomach as he holds the children that, if not for a freak storm, would have been his own.

It all comes to a head, of sorts, when it’s been twenty-five years and Sybil says ‘Sam, dear?’ and Sam and Vimes both answer. He’s about two weeks from retirement, everybody knowing full well that ‘retirement’ for Ol’ Sarge will actually mean remaining exactly where he is, just with helping the new Commander Vimes (and doesn’t that just stab his proud, proud heart) with the paperwork instead of wrestling with it himself, and being less shy about falling asleep in his chair. He’s pushed it off for as long as possible, but even Havelock has started to become gentle in his persistence, and Vimes is…tired. Policing is hard on a body and soul, and Vimes has policed Ankh-Morpork for sixty damn years. Completely incognito, too, until that one tiny little misstep, and now Sam’s looking at him funny. It should be an easy enough mistake to attribute to age and familiarity, but Vimes knows the look of having Figured It Out when he sees it on his own blasted, blasted face, and Sam is coming up to it fast. The mannerisms. The voice. The way they look like father and son, if father and son happened to look and age and smile and frown exactly alike, with the same color of eyes and hair, the same hands, the same knob on their right pinky from a broken finger in childhood. Sam’s mother hadn’t recognized it but Sarge looked so stricken when he’d met her, like he’d seen a ghost. Sam had sneaked a look at Sarge’s cigar case once, had seen the writing and never made sense of it. Sarge had introduced him to Sybil. Sarge had met Havelock without surprise, Sarge had figured out that whole Leshp business before anybody could even organize an army, Sarge knew things. Sarge had nearly started weeping when they swore in Sergeant Detritus, and had made friends with him instantly. Sarge was the only one not surprised by Captain Carrot’s indelible manner, or by young Cheery’s fashion choices. Sybil and Havelock sometimes looked between Sam and Sarge like they were waiting for either to answer a question, like the answer would be the same no matter which man it came from, and Sam realized – probably thirty years behind everybody else, dammit, that it really wouldn’t matter which man the answer came from, because they were the same. Damn. Man.  

Sam corners Sarge in his little room above the watchhouse, shoves a chair under the door, and asks him what his name is.

And Sam Vimes, after a very long, long moment, sighs, and answers him.

[antaresr]

So, I was rambling when my head remembered the prompt that @liberationwasboundtohappen proposed and my brain decided to do it.

So a post-canon where everyone is friends, with game nights and stuff like that, however Ryou every night has nightmares about the shadow realm, things chasing him, the hunger he went through, the hiding places he had to find.

Until he sees him, Zorc, Hunting him, chasing him, cursing him, he hides and finds some water that he drinks, and his reflection is not his pale face with soft eyes, it is a sharp face with terrified eyes, a scar running down his right cheek, large and calloused hands, Ryou is not dreaming of his memories, Ryou does not have nightmares.

Ryou is watching TKB being hunted by things and by Zorc.

He wakes up with a scream when Zorc finds TKB, and it just so happens that it had been a game night, his friends wake up because of his scream and ask him what the hell is going on.

"The spirit of the ring, the thief, he, oh god, I think he's dead."

"Well old man, it's old news, it's been years since that" Jounouchi tells him patting his shoulder, thinking Ryou is just having a breakdown from a bad dream.

"No, I just saw him, Zorc is there, with him."

"Like the giant thing with a dragon thing?" Honda shudders, remembering the past encounter with the dark god.

"I need to call Marik, I need to save him" Ryou hurriedly gets up from his bed, turns on his computer and calls Marik, when Marik answers Ryou doesn't even let him say hello. "I need to enter the shadow realm."

Everyone yells at Ryou for the stupid thing he just said, Marik who doesn't have all the information asks him if he had a screw loose.

"The spirit is in danger, Bakura is in danger."

Marik considers the information "Give me a few hours, I know what scrolls we need and I can find a quick flight there."

Marik hangs up, Ryou trembles in and drops into his desk chair, everyone looks at him like he's crazy for wanting to save the spirit that made his life miserable.

After almost 24 hours Marik arrives in Japan, he doesn't take a break, he goes straight to Ryou's house, everyone is still there, Marik takes out from his suitcase THE BOOK that started all this mess, he opens it directly to the necessary page and Ryou and Marik study the text.

And they realize that there is a problem.

For the spell they need someone who can speak ancient Egyptian and is a magic user, and only Marik can speak ancient Egyptian and only Ryou is a magic user, neither can enter the portal that will come out of the spell because they will have to stay outside to keep it open and stabilized as there are two people and not one.

They need a third one to enter.

They explain what is going on to the others, they all look at each other because why the hell would they sacrifice their life for the guy who was willing to kill them in the dark RPG? Jou and Honda refuse, Anzu apologizes but says she won't do it.

"You guys couldn't anyway, the shadow realm would kill you quickly, you weren't carriers of the sennen Items."

"I'll do it" Yugi straightens up, more serious than anyone would expect.

"You can't be serious" Jou grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him off.

"Yugi is too dangerous, you heard Ryou about the stuff in there" Anzu tries to talk some sense into him, she won't lose her best friend, she'd rather do it herself than let him go alone.

"It's just me left, I don't speak Egyptian, and I don't know how to do magic, but I used the puzzle, I'll survive."

"I won't ask you to do that, I'll find another way and bring it..."

Yugi doesn't let Ryou finish "No, I'll do it, I owe it to him".

No one understands why the heck Yugi says that, but he doesn't have to explain to them the times that The spirit of the ring, Bakura, kept him safe, Yugi will pay his debt, he will save Bakura, he will bring him back.

And if he can't save him, then at least he won't let him die alone.

[kyndaris]

Preaching to the Chorus

About three years ago, Troy Baker pitched the idea of a video game musical called Chorus. What struck me, beyond the fact it was asking for donations as it was a crowdfunded project, were the high profile voice actors taking part, the art style, the bringing on of composer Austin Wintory and that it was being developed by an Australian developer! Years later, there was almost no word or hint of the game and I feared the worst. For a good long while, I wondered if I had just imagined the game being announced. Until, of course, Summerfall Studios announced the upcoming release of Stray Gods in August 2023! Suddenly, we had a release date and songs to enjoy after years of what had felt like absolute silence.

Yes, Chorus had changed its name but it was still the same premise I was promised: an urban fantasy Greek-mythology inspired musical where I got to make decisions on where the songs went. Needless to say, I was excited!

Despite it releasing in August, I didn't get to play the game until much later in 2023 when I finally got a bit of a breather between all my lengthy video games sucking up most of my time (and the fact I work full-time and commit to writing my stories and watching endless TV shows to be up-to-date on whatever is popular). Well, no. That's a lie. I've put a few games on the back burner like Octopath Traveler II and Like a Dragon: Ishin! (they are totally going to be played soon, I promise!)

In any case, I purchased the game while it was on sale (a measly 20% or so) and then stepped into the shoes of Grace. And almost immediately connected with her feelings of being cast adrift. Like so many people who have graduated university, and who didn't immediately apply for graduate programs, she's a little lost and unsure of her direction in life. Enter Calliope.

After the two share a duet together, Grace returns to the apartment she shares with longtime best friend: Freddie. As she rests, there's a knock on the door and lo! Calliope staggers through clutching a ghastly wound. With her last breath, she passes on her eidolon (the soul? and memories of an Idol) before dying in poor traumatised Grace's arms.

As Grace, understandably, panics, at the sudden turn of events, Hermes steps through the front door and tells Grace she needs to meet the Chorus. Within moments, Grace is taken to an upscale office room where she is greeted by Apollo, Persephone, Aphrodite and Athena. Before Grace can get a word in edgewise, these Idols (as the Gods now call themselves - although it makes me wonder if other pantheons exist in this world created by Summerfall), decide to execute Grace for the crime of maybe-possibly killing Calliope. That is until Apollo protests.

And protest he must consider later plot points. Such as him divulging the prophecy leading to Calliope's murder!

Honestly, so much of the story could have been resolved if Apollo stopped being a sad boy and actually used some brains to more cleverly resolve Grace's predicament. Instead, we have Grace run around the city for a week in a bid to prove her innocence and figure out the truth behind Calliope's death.

But what a wonderful week it was as several Idols help out, from the fast-talking Pan to the scary Medusa (with a very cute monster voice from Anjali Bhimani). But who can forget, and forgive me as a I fan myself and swoon over, the dommy mummy: Persephone. The design! The voice! The attitude? Gosh, I just wanted Persephone to step all over me. And considering the height difference she had over Grace?

Just...

I'm just going to die in a corner over here now.

Anyways, diversion aside, the plot was serviceable. It wasn't the most mindblowing story to be told but I liked how it introduced us to many of the Greek Gods and mythological creatures hiding in America, whilst weaving it in the murder mystery plot at its core. While the game threw out new leads often, I didn't ever feel an urgency to solve the crime or fear I'd not be able to figure out the murderer. Sherlock Holmes, this is not.

Rather, no matter which scenes you may wish to complete first (and I always went back to the Underworld to chat up Persephone), I feel like the end-point is almost always the same with our villain being unmasked as the smiling cookie-giver!

From a gameplay perspective, Stray Gods doesn't offer much. It's pretty much a visual novel where the player selects dialogue options or the next part of the song they wish to sing. There's no walking around or exploring the wondrous set pieces you find yourself in. Nor is there any random clicking on background objects for some light commentary or to pocket away clues to be presented at some other time.

In fact, there's no real animation to the game either. Most of the characters are stills, changing their posture as the dialogue or songs demand. Like flipping through a comic book or going from pane to pane.

But what does make Stray Gods stand out are the songs. Yes, there are some where I felt like it faltered: Asterion and Hecate's song (with the volume turned way too low) and some of the weaker blue options in Challenging a Queen. To me, it just wasn't as melodic as they could be and sounded a little jarring. Still, these were glossed over by several other standout songs like The Throne and the Ritual.

Speaking of The Ritual, while I did feel for Aphrodite, I didn't much like her selfish actions of dying and passing her trauma onto another poor soul. Like, either go to therapy and work on your issues or just die permanently and stop inflicting someone else with your trauma! Forgetting is not the path forward. And maintaining the cycle of the next Aphrodite reawakening to your traumatic memories of the Second World War whilst your son, Eros, deals with the fallout is NOT healthy.

On a side note, I liked how the melody of Adrift was used in the background of the game and was also revisited during The Trial.

As for the actual singing, I'm still impressed by the singing of so many of the voice actors. I mean, I wasn't surprised by Troy Baker considering he was a musician before he was a voice actor. And Felicia Day...well, considering I'd stumbled upon her back in her The Guild days, knew she could sing because of the songs she released. And the fact she appeared in Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog alongside Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion.

While I did like Laura Bailey, there were moments when I felt her vocals were just a little too raw and weren't able to hit the notes as well as could be. No shade on Laura, though. I love Laura Bailey! And she had a tough task with so many variations to sing!

Still, I did like her rapping. MORE LAURA BAILEY RAPPING PLEASE! Especially in the Challenging a Queen song.

But I do wonder what Stray Gods might have been like if we had actual Broadway actors brought in for the singing with stronger vocals and/ or melodies.

But I must say, my absolute favourite singer was Mary Elizabeth McGlynn. How could I not? She voiced Persephone! And I so wanted to romance her!

In the end, though, I foiled my chances because I was trying to play in-character by asking myself 'What would Grace do?' in most situations, especially when she was down in the Underworld and was especially traumatised by her best friend's death.

So, yes. I obviously brought Freddie back and the two ended up getting together in one of the more wholesome relationships there is in the game. Because, if you ask me, Pan? He just shows up out of the blue and is all sneaky-sneaky. A girl with her head on her shoulders wouldn't immediately fall for him, even if his intentions were good.

And Apollo? I know my friend @mrsarmageddon likes a 'I-can-fix-him-sad-boy' but he was too set in his ways and a little too unwilling to be of any proper assistance until all his secrets had been unveiled.

As for Persephone, she's a very angry woman and also wouldn't have been a healthy choice considering her romance with CALLIOPE in the past. Still, I couldn't help but want her step on me.

I don't know what that says about me. I'm probably secretly a sub/ omega who just wants someone to take care of me.

But let's not dwell on what this revelation could be and instead talk about how Stray Gods pushed the gaming genre to try and be more inclusive in ways no-one had thought of before. Beyond that, I loved the characters. The narrative, while simplistic, was entertaining enough to pull me through my initial playthrough of six and a bit hours. So, it's not even all that long. Which is perfect when you're gainfully employed and have a ton of time-consuming hobbies.

The one major downside to me was the fact it didn't have a chapter select after the first playthrough. If it did have it, allowing me to skip ahead to say 'Act 3' to redo my conversation with Persephone so I could romance her, or skip to certain songs so I could try out different combinations or variations, it would have heightened the gaming experience for me. Instead, Stray Gods forced me to play through the entire game again just for the occasional tweaks I wanted to do in my playthrough.

And now, during The Game Awards 2023, there's been an announcement for ANOTHER musical game called Harmonium. And it features sign language! So, it's definitely something I want to keep an eye on!

YES! TO MORE VIDEO GAME MUSICALS!

But also, don't let it become too overly saturated. During the Game Awards, I couldn't help but notice more Souls-like battle systems, using Japan as a setting (for Western developers) and more mechs/ robots.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and admire the Queen of the Underworld a little bit more. For perfectly REASONABLE purposes.

[its-to-the-death]

Godddamn this competition has consumed so much of a time over the past week.

Bracket H thoughts:

Both of the first ones were good so I chose "Attack at the Wall" out of personal preference.

Darla had a point, people do love things that are "Big and Loud." The reprise is better with the context of the original.

...I know everyone is gushing in the notes about "I'm the Villain in My Own Story" and "Playing With the Big Boys Now" isn't the best villain song in that movie, but I honestly enjoyed it more? Probably because of a combination of nostalgia and *Megamind voice* PRESENTATION! Also probably doesn't help that I haven't watched Crazy Ex-Girlfriend in forever.

"Marley and Marley" is a darkly awesome bop.

"Molasses to Rum" is such a weirdly cool callout of Northern hypocrisy that I voted for it, but I was really tempted by "When the Chips Are Down" because I do think that one is better musically.

After much deliberation, I voted for "One Step Ahead" because I am a sucker for the homoerotic power of swordfighting and calling someone "old friend". Also the soundtrack version of "Made in America" is better than the live performance because everyone was kind of sick when they did the Black Friday proshoot and it really shows.

The lyrics of "Why We Build The Wall" are so good, damn.

"Descole's theme live version" just sounded better to me, IDK.

Oh my god "Countdown." Dawn's singing. The hidden countdown in the lyrics. "The tick-tock of my flintlock's hangfire." The Western guitar. Vote for "Countdown," PLEASE. Everyone needs to hear Dawn sing right now.

"I Love You (As Much As Someone Like Me Can Love Anyone)" doesn't even seem that evil to me, that's just an aromantic trying to clarify the nature of her relationship with her fuckbuddy (joking). Anyway, try watching the actual Omega Flowey boss fight and tell me "Your Best Nightmare" doesn't deserve the win.

...I love "The Ballad of Sara Berry," but "God-Shattering Star" is one of the few redeeming factors of the rushed clusterfuck that is the final stages of Verdant Wind*. Anyway it's still a really badass song with a badass title.

"Friends in Low Places" is a kickass rock number. Also why are FernGully's villain songs so weirdly horny.

THAT FUCKING PIANO. VOTE FOR "BATTLE! POKEMON WIELDER VOLO."

Ok guys I know we all love PnF but "Evil for Extra Credit" is not as good as Bernadette Peters' villainous yet tragic performance in "Stay With Me."

THE PLATYPUS SONG IS NOT A VILLAIN SONG. HE'S NOT DOING VILLAINY OR SINGING ABOUT VILLAINY. HE'S JUST DJ-ING A PARTY. I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL.

The essay in the notes about "Eternity Served Cold" convinced me to vote for it. Join us filthy Homestucks in turning this one around.

*Why does nobody talk about the antisemitic implications of the eeeeevil conspiracy of underground people (who you genocide) that are secretly ruling the world with blood magic+infiltrating society and were responsible for killing Crystal Dragon Jesus. I mean, I know why, but come on guys.

Aaaa I’ve loved hearing your opinions on all these even though that probably took so much time!

[motheatenscarf]

Beat Heavensward!

It's getting harder and harder to stop and post my thoughts as I come across them because... idk, I'm in a bit of a funk. And also because I find myself more and more just mentioning these thoughts to my friends who are also playing through the same story as I am and we all appear to be enjoying it differently and are having lengthier discussions there and I wind up not having the energy to post it here.

So, I'm gonna make a few posts in a row based on some screenshots I'm going through!

My most recent/immediate impressions are as follows;

I REALLY liked Ysayle and I was sorry to see her die but I saw that one coming a mile away. Also, god forbid they have any interesting women in this game. Sigh.

Lucia, all my hopes are on you, don't die, and Alisaie, maybe don't grow up anytime soon, I don't think they'll kill a little girl but all of the interesting women are doomed :T

But yeah, Ysayle did nothing wrong, she had nothing to atone for, her death makes sense from a character perspective, I understand why she FELT like she had to make up for her mistakes, but she did nothing wrong and I liked her a lot and am sad she's gone. I wish the narrative acknowledged her passing as sorrowfully as it acknowledged Haurchefant's, but I also get why it didn't do that.

At least Estinien commented on her passing favorably.

And uh, yeah, lol, the Estinien thing getting overtaken by Nidhogg's fury thing kinda came out of left field. I know it was something that had been telegraphed, but I was talking with my friends moments before I watched him turn into a dragon and saying, "Yeah, I really thought there would be more of a thing with him struggling to control his rage, but I guess they had other things they wanted to focus on." And uh... then he transformed out of no where once he had the second eye of Nidhogg.

And rather than taking it seriously, I just made.... .SO MANY jokes about Estinien and his balls because it was a deeply unearned dramatic moment.

But yeah, I was coming around on Estinien, we'll miss him, oh well lol.

Speaking of coming around on characters, I DID, grudgingly, come around on Aymeric and it makes me so angry lol.

I really wanted to hate him because he was a cop, but he's a good dude. It's a fantasy story, we can ride dragons and there can be ONE good cop who is actually tragically idealistic and morally upstanding. And we have to protect him or Isghard is gonna stay in the dark ages forever. I really wish we could have seen him confront his father in the final showdown, but that's an old issue I have is making the WoL face enemies alone.

I liked Y'shtola's mentor as well, but she was there for 5 seconds and my favorite thing about her was her enchanted broom that quoted Mr. Sparkle (there are A LOT of good classic simpsons references in this game, the Fates especially Jesus Christ), and also she uhhhhhh didn't matter apparently. I hated that whole time wasting detour and the fact that Y'shtola is here and she is as unflappable and emotive as a fucking rock despite essentially getting a terminal diagnosis for her time in the lifestream. Just not a single emotion behind those dead, dull eyes.

Which, to me at least, speaks to the VAST improvement in the quality of writing that Y'shtola, the best character from ARR's scions, is notably the weakest element here. Alphinaud's gone through some great character development, Tataru is utilized well as an endearing element, and the new characters from Isghard are all of them genuinely interesting and compelling, even the cop whom it took me forever to come around on, I like Aymeric, I liked Estinien and Ysayle and Haurchefant. I LOVED the Dark Knight class story. The Paladin class story sucked, but even just regional questlines like the hunters in Tailfeather and the Vath and the dragons and the soldiers in cloudtop or Falcon's Nest or even the moogles in Moghome were all interesting!

Which is I think why I get so frustrated by the pacing sometimes is because it has all these fantastic elements if it would just give them the attention they deserve and not bounce around like crazy or handwave things that deserve time and focus.

It's fun and it's pretty good but it could be AMAZING if it would just fully commit to itself.

[padme789]

This story is rated E

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Characters: Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Dustin Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, Erica Sinclair, Maxine “Max” Mayfield, Mike Wheeler, Eleven | Jane Hopper, Will Byers, Jonathan Byers, Argyle (Stranger Things), The Party (Stranger Things), Holly Wheeler, Additional Tags: Background Relationships, Bisexual Nancy Wheeler, Lesbian Robin Buckley, Canon Compliant, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Robin Buckley has ADHD, Dungeons & Dragons References, Graphic Description, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Open Relationships, Friends With Benefits, Eddie Munson Lives, Maxine “max” Mayfield has recovered, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Are Best Friends, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson Friendship, Steve Harrington & Nancy Wheeler Friendship, Eddie Munson & Nancy Wheeler are Best Friends, Post-Stranger Things 4 Vol. 2, Time Jump, Pathfinder 1st Edition, Blades in the Dark, Fluff and Smut, Dirty Talk, Vaginal Fingering, Grinding, Established Relationship, Multiple Orgasms, Semi-Public Sex, Phone Sex, Cunnilingus Series: Part 3 of A Strange Universe Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16  - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - INTERLUDE - 22 - not finished Steamy Fluff: 1 - 8 - 18 - 19 - INTERLUDE Good stuff: 5 - 7 - 13 - 18 -19

CHAPTER 22 Excerpt: A throat cleared as the door to the building finally shut.

She’s the same and completely different all at once. Nancy and Robin watch each other closely. She should have considered what she wore to pick Holly up from school. The brunette looked at the blonde, and the blonde looked back just as intense. Her hair still shagged, which was not a surprise. Robin liked to keep some consistency to her appearance. Tailored corduroy, a vest, and a jacket. Her makeup’s less heavy, but this was the woman she etched permanently into her mind the day she watched Robin pack away the last bit of the things she kept at Nancy’s previous residence.

“Hi,” said Nancy.

“Hi,” responded Robin.

PART I: “The goal … should not be to destroy Vecna … but to stop the evil plans carried out by his mortal servants.” – Vecna Reborn

It’s the winter break of 1988. Now a junior in college, Nancy has not returned to Hawkins since the spring break of 1987. Nancy and Robin decide to revisit the situationship started as friends with benefits before the summer of 1986.

INTERLUDE: Relationships are complicated, and not defining the obvious would twist anyone to knots. Good or bad life moves on. PART II: “Once upon a time lost to history lived a mortal man called Vecna … Vecna schemed, laying audacious plans designed to transform himself into a true god” – Die Vecna Die. It’s the late fall of 1999, and with one midday phone call Nancy’s back in Hawkins. A relationship starts again, had it ever stopped? Ask their friends, ask their families, they’ll all say no with a roll of their eyes. Because Nancy and Robin might twist and turn, but there was no end in sight, yet.

or What if Nancy and Robin were canon for season 5 and They also play Tabletop

[anankelotus]

OMG Hi!

grimstalkr:

"Truthfully? Everything was strange waking up. I worry after everything I'd seen. I doubt that is the last we will see of those beings and of that world. I have the horrid feeling that the dead will not rest quietly." Tharja said, giving Anankos her true feelings on the matter. She couldn't share it with her other friends. She couldn't worry regular people about what she felt was on the horizon. Anankos had seen so much surely he would understand her fear.

"It's alright. Things have been too much on everyone. So I don't blame you for coming to speak with me." Tharja said, giving Anankos a small tired smile. "Even if you cannot die you can still feel stress and struggle. It is only fair to have someone check on you once in a while."

Tharja placed the pies on a nearby crate and sighed quietly. She really couldn't shake the awful feeling that sat in her chest. How long would it take for things to reach a head again?

"My dream was of a world flooded with water. When the rains came it felt like I was going to be swept away. I never did learn how to swim, you know." She said, turning her head to look at Anankos. She looked tired. "I thought that by coming to the academy I could escape war and suffering. I suppose that was a fool's wish. Out of one war and fallen into the middle of some other war that seems to be incredibly old."

She paused briefly.

"Maybe I'm overthinking things and it was just ancient magic lingering from a time well past."

Guilt lingers in Anankos' heart after the dream, guilt that he had not been able to do anything more than he had managed to. Others may have said that he had done his best, but he knew that his best was never enough. He would never be able to protect humanity again the way that he had once been able to. He was a washed up old dragon, a pathetic excuse of a former god, with no power or virtue left to his name. If his name slipped from someone's lips, it was more often than not spat with poison these days. The agony of this world that he was still forced to live in.

"I... I'm glad you're alright at the very least. I do not know how much my heart would have been able to handle, hearing that you had gotten hurt or... even worse..." The splinters of his shattered heart seem to break a little bit more every day that goes on, every time that he has to watch someone he cares about get hurt. He does not know how much he can take, how much before everything breaks for good.

"At least... you were not forced to be the villain... to fight on the side of those who were in the wrong... and then be betrayed by those very same people while trying to escape. But, it seems everyone's dreams were terrible in their own ways... a nightmare for each and every one of us..." He feels like crying, just forcing himself to remember all that pain. It may be too much, and he can already feel some burning pouring down his cheeks, salt dripping into the eyes that remain there.

"It did not... feel that ancient though... and if it was old magic... it certainly was not older than I am. If everything there was within a dream, then the spell itself could not have been more than a few hundred years old. Though... I suppose there's no way to know for certain... I'm sorry, but I don't think we'll ever know."

[les8ean]

queen of repressing emotions

[see-arcane]

i feel like the novel dracula is like step by step "how to make a monster" story, t has all the beats for it.

because jonathan harker in his quest now is no knight in shining armor to slay the dragon, duty-bound and honor-driven with the others' safety in mind, solemnly risking death for his duty. he was a pure and innocent polite young man, but one who has been turning into a wrathful, cold, hopeless lovesick killer who for vengeance would sell his soul, welcome the rope, and dive into hell to inflict judgment himself

i'm glad you can see this because god. the Potential.

The thing is, Dracula was a pioneer novel for a lot of possibilities in horror. Whether Stoker was intentional in all of it or just snuck in a bunch of happy accidents for future readers to catch is up in the air, but they are there.

The combination of different genre lenses--gothic horror start in the castle, dwindling party log on the Demeter, psychological thriller in Whitby, supernatural medical mystery in Lucy's illness, fully aware-conversion/infection threat with Mina's attack, hunt/exorcise the monster after that--all of these stand alone as their own novel-in-potentia, but also all make sense together as perspectives and intel for the characters evolve. It's an amazing medley of narratives to make the Big Narrative, and I can believe that Stoker had true intention behind all of them.

But not with what I--and a ton of others!--are uncovering with the Jonathan Harker Could Be/Become a Monster vein.

The implications for Jonathan and his potential change for the worse in mental, moral, and monstrous states are obvious to us because we get to enjoy a lot of media dedicated to the "How to Make a Monster," genre of horror/thriller. The closest I think Stoker's era had was the old tragedies where the hero trips and falls on their own hubris or some cruel circumstances forcing them into an ugly ending and evil actions.

But where a tragedy is meant only to be sad, and like Lucy and Mina's harrowing and choice-free dragging into undeath is frightening without any moral qualms, something like our good friend Jonathan standing at the edge of selling his soul for love and--overlooked by everyone else in the book!--slipping into a literal physical metamorphosis wholly unaware of the change? That had never been done. That wasn't even a possibility.

Stoker shows Jonathan is willing to exist as a monster with Mina. He's willing to deny her double-death and, quite likely, defend her from the others if they make a move to keep their oath. While holding his kukri. While the rest of the crew have no idea what kind of threat is sitting among them and what might happen if they fail to save Mina. But, spoilers, it's all bluff! Because of course it is! Happy endings abound!

If not?

Well, that would mean we really were watching the cruel foundation of something so twisted it hadn't really slipped into the literary realm at the time.

Love as corruption. The Good Man made into a Horror despite doing everything as right as he could until God seemingly tore all His protection away from his assaulted and Wafer-burned beloved. The steady slip of morality and humanity off a precipice that, in the best horror movie form, only the audience is allowed to pick up on while the heroes go on clueless about the invisible danger in their midst. Worse, there's the implication that, in true cyclic tragedy fashion, Jonathan is willing to cave to Mina the Vampire; which would imply Dracula has survived and must also be bowed to.

"But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula."

Can you imagine? Risking his mortal life to avoid the Brides' embrace, to die a man rather than be kept in the Count's cage of a castle. Only to have his traitor heart drag him spiritually blasted and red-handed back over its threshold and under the thumb of the same monster who imprisoned him to begin with. For love.

Damnation complete. And why? What brought him to such a point?

Because he was doing his job. Because he did his best to help end the monster. Because he went along with the others' societally 'proper' lead in closing Mina off, chafing all the while. Because he was, he is, always will be in love with Mina, cherishing her above God and all the things that had failed her--including himself.

How depressing. How richly, horrifically depressing.

It is ripe with potential. So much of the psychological and supernatural elements Stoker sprinkles throughout the book are. As to the particular form of monstrosity Jonathan turns to in Barking Harker? I hope to realize something unique in his transformation beyond simple vampirism. Likewise for others.

Van Helsing and the Suitors Three are due a little fresh perspective, I think. A drastic one.

[dishesoap]

god, i just - can you imagine what zelda went through on her seventeenth birthday?

this is her last chance to awaken her powers. she’s spent her whole life begging to her goddess, the one whose blood runs through her veins, to help her, and she’s had nothing but silence. all of hyrule, all its peoples, are relying on her, watching her, and all she can do is disappoint them. she knows what she’s good at, what she excels at - zelda is a scientist, a researcher, a genius, and she knows this ancient technology will save them. it has done so before. but the world isn’t looking for another scientist. the sheikah are awash with those. they need the princess of legend, and this sixteen year old child is failing them, and she doesn’t know how to fix it.

so this is her last chance. finally allowed at the spring of wisdom. you know, when you climb mount lanayru as link, if you aren’t wearing proper, thick clothing, you die within an hour. zelda sits in the freezing waters for hours, in only a thin white sleeveless dress, and begs to a goddess who does not answer. this is her spring, naydra is her dragon, wisdom is her triforce. nothing. her best friend, her loyal knight, stands behind her, silent as always, and he is not disappointing the world. he wields the sword that seals the darkness, and he is a master of his craft. there too are her other friends, champions of their people.

and zelda is pulled away, shivering, because hylia isn’t answering her. she’s failed, again, and it weighs unbearably heavy on this child’s mind. she’s supposed to be the next in the line of chosen princesses, a rich history of powerful and grand women who wielded magic as easy as they breathe, and this zelda is powerless. those talents she does have she clings to her chest, and her father the king bats them down with a sneer.

and then ganon wakes up.

they should be prepared, zelda or no zelda - link has the master sword, ready to defend his people. the champions have the divine beasts, huge and powerful machines that could each tear down an army on their own. hyrule has gathered to it guardians, weapons, towers, and it will stand strong as it did ten thousand years ago - zelda knows this, zelda helped rebuild this army. this is what she has given to her people.

what zelda has given to her people turns against them. no help comes from the champions, spread across hyrule, as the grandest warriors hyrule has to offer are torn to shreds in the places they thought safest. armies of unstoppable machines tear through villages like wet paper, rendering so much of hyrule a wasteland. zelda fixed those machines, tuned those gears, led the sheikah to repair them. demise is screaming over zelda’s home, and zelda knows it is her fault. she did not only fail to wake her powers - powers that could stop ganon - but she aided him in his destruction of her home. link has to tear her away. she has to run.

it is her seventeenth birthday, and in a field surrounded by an impossible amount of guardians, she watches her best friend die saving her life.

of course, this is when her powers wake up. too late, of course, for the champions, for link, for hyrule. all she can do is entrust her best friend’s body to purah and robbie (they’re all but children too, all of them, these teenaged heroes tasked by fate with the weight of so many lives) and pray that the chamber of resurrection will save him someday (because her prayers have done her so much good so far).

she follows the voice of a sword in her head - no sword meant for her. this is the sword that will kill ganon, and she cannot use it. the one who can is dead. it’s her fault it’s broken and burned, and all she can do is lay it at the feet of the great deku tree, older than time counted, and promise it that link - memories or no memories, she has to believe he will come back.

and then she turns around.

zelda has been seventeen for so short a time and it has cost her everything, those few things she could claim were both hers and good. and she turns around and heads to her shattered home - the broken castle already crawling with demons and monsters, with malice and poison and glowing eyes creeping through the once warm halls, and an immortal evil clouding around it. zelda cannot kill ganon. the sword is broken, the hero dead, and the chance of either coming back are slim, and still zelda marches up to her home and she raises her hand.

it is zelda’s seventeenth birthday for a century. time is nothing in her eternal locked battle with ganon, just barely enough to keep him tethered to the castle. even still, he can reach out - the blood moons keep the hordes of monsters alive, keep the guardians and the divine beasts possessed, keep naydra (her dragon) poisoned.

what must it have been like, that century of seventeenth birthdays? zelda’s own magic keeping them locked in the cycle (though haven’t they been locked in this cycle throughout all their lives), eternally fighting? do you think she ever faltered in her faith in link? a hundred years is a long time to hope a dead man will wake up.

and even then. even knowing link woke up, then, able to stretch just far enough to see him, unable to help beyond a watchful eye... link doesn’t remember her. at all. eventually, flashes, seconds of recollections, but he never remembers fully. and it takes time to reach her, to gather his strength again. longer still that zelda has to wait, eternally just barely seventeen years old, watching the boy who was once her best friend age by the day, gather new scars, remember the feel of a weapon in his hands, rescue the spirits of her dead friends.

link was always a better hero.

god. and then he comes to save her, and in a century, all she could do was hold him back. link draws his sword, charges, and ganon is defeated so soon after. oh, she can give him a weapon, can pick up the remains of ganon and seal it away, but link does in the course of a few hours what zelda would never have been able to.

and then what? then it’s over? not really. the sun is setting on her seventeenth birthday, and zelda is over a century old, and her once best friend turned feral wild warrior is looking up at her, and zelda has to decide how to rebuild a kingdom. what to do next.

im just saying. the poor girl had probably the worst birthday ever.

[irrlicht-writes]

of Rex Lapis and a young boy

“Do you love her?” “What do you want me to say?”

Say yes. Say yes so I can tell myself to stop. If you love her still, then there is no way that there’s place for me in you. Say yes so I can stop thinking, stop pretending. Say yes so I know that you don’t care for me. Say yes so that I know, once and for all, that mortals and gods are not supposed to be next to each other. Say yes so I can try to forget that you are my friend. Say yes so I can forget that you are my only friend. Say yes so I can slap myself and laugh and make a joke about how stupid I am. Say yes so I know that anytime you looked at me, you didn’t look at me at all. Say yes so I know that I’ll never be curious or kind enough. Say yes, so that I know I never mattered at all. | Zhongli would never love him. Zhongli could only love things that were long past, and Childe walked ever toward the future.

Ao3

*

Azhdaha.

Zhongli-xiansheng and the Traveller had left the Harbour for a while to go look at some stones – or something, Childe didn’t ask – and now they’ve returned.

It had stung, just a little bit, when he realised Xiansheng had just dumped him for their meal but that was okay. That was perfectly, absolutely fine. He hadn’t sat there for hours upon end, waiting for him and then heading to the Funeral Parlour just to learn that Zhongli had left the Harbour entirely. That was cool. It wasn’t like they told each other everything, right?

It’s not like Zhongli knew everything Childe was up to in Liyue.

But now they were back, sitting at the Storyteller’s. Zhongli-xiansheng looked great, even. Like he hadn’t missed Childe at all. Yeah. That was cool. Perfectly cool.

He wasn’t even interested in rocks, so no wonder they didn’t ask him to come along. Yeah. Right.

Zhongli told him about Azhdaha in a quiet tone, and Childe knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. The Traveller sat beside them, silent as ever. It was cool. Childe got the picture. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t as dumb as they thought him to be. Childe had heard that tone in Zhongli’s voice many times. For some reason, that tone had always struck him, but he had never been sure why.

He thought he knew, now.

It sounded like Zhongli was talking about something incredibly dear to him.

Not long after, Zhongli left, the Traveller close behind. They barely said good-bye and Childe smiled at them. He was acutely aware of the fact that they left without paying their tab. Yeah. That was fine, he’d just cover it.

“Storyteller,” he requested as he ordered himself the strongest drink this bar had, “can you tell me of Rex Lapis and the Mountain-Dragon?”

And so the Storyteller did.

*

The next day, Childe ventured into Nantianmen. He had seen the tree there before, but had thought little of it. Now, it was different. This is where Azhdaha had been sealed away, right beneath his feet. Zhongli’s friend.

Zhongli’s lover, even.

Back then, hearing about the Goddess of Dust had felt weird, like a mortal Zhongli pining for a Goddess dead way before his time. Now, after everything, it made more sense. When he talked about Azhdaha, Zhongli-xiansheng had the same look in his eyes. A soft, far-away look in his eyes that had always made Childe feel small and unimportant. Which was why, whenever he’d catch that look, he’d crack a joke, or point out a merchant stall.

He stepped closer to the tree and put his hand on the bark.

Did Zhongli come here, to be close to his old friend?

Zhongli never came to him, just to get him.

Always, it had been a matter Childe would have to settle with Mora somehow.

Had he ever been Zhongli’s friend, at all?

“What makes you so special?”

The tree, and the dragon hereby-under, don’t answer.

“Zhongli-xiansheng is rather busy, I apologise.”

To her credit, the Ferry lady did actually look sorry. It did little to stifle Childe’s mood, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. He wondered, idly, why it’s always him that reached out to Zhongli. Why was he the one clinging to a God that lied to him?

Well, maybe he was stupid after all.

He smiled at the Ferry lady and left her. He didn’t tell her to inform Zhongli that he’d been here. Somehow, he doubted that Zhongli would care either way. He pretended it didn’t hurt something in his chest, and returned to Northland Bank.

At least Ekaterina and the others there were forced to care about him. Oh, the luxury of being a Harbinger.

*

Despite him talking about her all the time, Childe knew next to nothing about Guizhong. There also wasn’t that much to find in books. Despite what people might think, Childe actually was a vivid reader. Granted, it tended to be adventure stories, not dry history, but he could expand.

But she had been Morax’ best friend.

And while the dry history books didn’t say it outright, it was clear as day: they all suspected the two to have been lovers in some capacity. The all-powerful Morax, and the sweet, gentle-hearted Guizhong. The perfect pair, even. He was strong where she was weak, and she was wise where he was not.

Childe wasn’t a romantic where it counted, but even he could see the potential in writing stories about a couple like that.

And she died, leaving Rex Lapis behind.

Childe looked out the window.

To be fair, he wasn’t sure why he read about Guizhong in the first place. What was he hoping to achieve? All the books he consumed about Rex Lapis have had a clear goal in mind: stealing the God’s Gnosis.

Not that that had worked, but semantics. Maybe Childe just wasn’t meant to steal someone’s heart.

He went to Guili Plains the next chance he got. He wasn’t sure why, but this place had been named after Guizhong and Zhongli. For all its historic worth, it look desolate. Rationally, Childe knew that a war has taken place here, but still, he had expected more, somehow. He had expected Rex Lapis to try and restore this place that he and his lost lover shared.

He was also a bit disappointed that there were no Glaze Lilies here. The books hadn’t shut up about Guizhong and Glaze Lilies. So much in fact that Childe had had his doubts on whether or not she’d really been the Goddess of Dust or Glaze Lilies.

He wondered what kind of man Zhongli would be today if Guizhong had not died. What kind of man he’d be if he hadn’t needed to seal the dragon away.

If that had been the case, then he probably wouldn’t have cared about Childe at all.

The hole in his chest hurt and he didn’t like it.

With his past dead, Zhongli’s eyes would glance across Childe.

If they had been alive, he wouldn’t have looked at Childe at all.

Wanting to stop, he killed the abyss mages.

*

There were Glaze Lilies blooming in the Harbour. He’s heard that they were cultured there artificially, because they were dying out. Zhongli must hate that fact. But that also meant that Childe of all people would probably not be able to actually approach the stupid flowers.

It had been days since they’ve last met, and Zhongli hadn’t come to him.

Childe felt like a broken tool. He wondered how long it would take him to get used to that feeling.

He wanted to see the flowers, so he snuck out at night. He knew there were some blooming behind the house on the Terrace, so he hoped he wouldn’t be spotted by the Millelith. It’d be hard to explain himself to Lady Ningguang for this, so he’d rather not.

Childe climbed the wall easily and quietly and sure enough, there they were – two Glaze Lilies, blooming under the moonlight. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Did he want to pick them to present them to Zhongli? Probably not.

He reached out with one finger, gently touching one of the petals. Somehow, he was afraid they’d wilt under his touch and die. But nothing happened. Childe sighed and lied down beside the flowers. The sky was clear and bright. When he closed his eyes, he could hear a soft humming in his ears and it filled him with longing for... something. Not a fight, not a victory, not even a loss, just – something. Something he couldn’t have.

“How did you do it?” He asked the flowers.

How did you make Zhongli fall in love with you? How did you make him look at you proper? How did you make him see you? How do you put that tone in his voice and how do you put that look in his eyes?

Childe sighed.

The flowers didn’t respond.

He thought of Azhdaha, who had looked upon the world with curiosity and had learned to love it through Morax.

He thought of Guizhong, who had looked upon her people with endless kindness and had taught Rex Lapis to do the same.

He was neither curious nor kind.

No wonder that Zhongli didn’t care to look at him.

*

Why had the Tsaritsa sent him here? Why couldn’t he have been in on the plan? He could’ve caused a havoc even knowing where Morax was. Why couldn’t he have taken the Gnosis after a done deed? Why did it have to be Signora?

He was Her Majesty’s vanguard, was he not?

Didn’t she think him capable enough?

Why couldn’t Signora have wrecked the city?

Why him?

Was he really only good for front-line mayhem, and nothing else?

The God he had spent so much time with hadn’t even looked at him when he handed his heart away.

The God Childe had believed to be his friend.

He had no friends, now.

Childe put his report away and left the Bank.

It was late, and everything in him yearned for his home.

His home, where his parents would watch him with wary eyes.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come back, when he’d fallen.

When will he hurt Tonia? When will he take Anthon and Teucer, and turn them into monsters too? When will he reveal that our son has never come back at all? How long will this facade last?

He would smile at them, and pretend he didn’t know. He’d pretend that these months had never happened and that they still loved him unconditionally.

He reached the pier and sat down. He wanted to go fishing again.

The water gently dipped at the stone and Childe sighed. He wondered, did Morax laugh at him? Each time Childe had thought he’d been sleek, getting more information from Zhongli, had the God laughed at his ignorance?

But Zhongli had seemed so content, so willing to answer all of Childe’s questions.

It’s an important part of Liyuean’s cuisine, Childe. Please use the chopsticks.

Had Morax been making fun of him?

He’d never hear the end of it, back home in Snezhnaya. He could already hear Scaramouche’s snicker in his ear.

His mark had been right there next to him, ever-correcting the Harbinger’s grip on the chopsticks, and Childe had never known.

A one-way tool of war was probably the best thing he could ever be.

He could neither be curious or kind.

How would a guy like him ever gain the affection of the divine?

“You cannot sleep?”

Childe didn’t turn around.

What did it matter, anyway?

Zhongli sat down beside him with a small sound, reminding Childe how old this man truly was. He’d been a fool. How could Zhongli ever be his friend, with all their differences?

“Tell me a story.”

“What do you want to hear?”

Childe was silent for a moment.

Tell me how I can make you look at me. How can I be kind, or curious enough for you to gain your affection? Tell me how I can make myself significant to you. Tell me how I can be a friend that you’ll remember. Tell me, please. Tell me how to be important to you.

“I don’t know.”

Childe was staring at the water down below. Zhongli’s contract was fulfilled. There was nothing more they had to talk about. Why did Zhongli even acknowledge him? He should’ve just kept walking.

“You have gone to Guili Plains.”

“...yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see,” Childe replied in a hushed voice.

Truth was, he didn’t know. Maybe he had expected the ghost of Guizhong to descend upon him and tell him everything he’d need to know. A stupid, childish thought. She hadn’t come, and his questions have been left unanswered. A god would never descend for him, anyway.

“What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Childe said. “Why didn’t you restore the Plains?”

“Why would I?”

“Because of Guizhong.”

“It’s the place I lost her in. It is difficult to go there, even after all these centuries.”

What did it feel like, making such an impact on an immortal being?

Every time he returned home, he ventured out into the woods again. Some part of him wanted to find the crack in the earth again, where he lost himself and found himself at the same time. Maybe he also hoped he’d find a little Ajax lost in the woods. He didn’t know.

“Do you love her?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Say yes. Say yes so I can tell myself to stop. If you love her still, then there is no way that there’s place for me in you. Say yes so I can stop thinking, stop pretending. Say yes so I know that you don’t care for me. Say yes so that I know, once and for all, that mortals and gods are not supposed to be next to each other. Say yes so I can try to forget that you are my friend. Say yes so I can forget that you are my only friend. Say yes so I can slap myself and laugh and make a joke about how stupid I am. Say yes so I know that anytime you looked at me, you didn’t look at me at all. Say yes so I know that I’ll never be curious or kind enough.

Say yes, so that I know I never mattered at all.

“...say yes, then.”

Childe didn’t remember when he drew his legs in and hugged his knees. He felt smaller and younger than he had in years. Skirk would kill him for this position but she’d never know.

“You’re in pain,” Zhongli said instead and Childe almost wanted to laugh.

“No,” he responded, “I haven’t been in a fight in days.”

“Not all pain is physical, Childe.”

What did he care? Childe wished he’d stop. It was these sorts of talks that put Childe in this situation. If Zhongli would just stop pretending he cared, it’d be all so much easier.

“Kun Jun gave this to me,” Zhongli said and held out his hand, a pretty rock upon it.

For the first time, Childe turned his head. It was a pretty thing, he thought.

“Kun Jun?”

“One aspect of Azhdaha.”

Ah. Yes, the other lost lover. Childe tensed his jaw. Why was Zhongli showing this to him? Was he mocking Childe?

Look, all these pretty things you bought me, and still I value the rock my old lover gave to me more.

There it was again, the pang in his chest. Zhongli never carried around the things he made Childe buy. And now here he was, carrying around some rocks this Kun Jun picked up from the ground?

“It’s pretty,” Childe said then. He didn’t know what else to say and Zhongli clearly cherished this rock.

Mora couldn’t buy someone’s affection. It could buy him any favour he’d ever wanted, but he could never buy genuine feelings. Their friendship had been a farce from the start. Zhongli had used him, just like Her Majesty and Signora had used him.

“It was good, seeing him again,” Zhongli sat, gently holding the stone in his hand. “But it hurt, as well, knowing I’d have to seal him away once more.”

“I’m sorry,” Childe said and he wanted to take the rock and throw it in the ocean.

He bought Zhongli so many things, and he valued none of them. For all he knew, Zhongli had thrown them aside the second Childe had turned his back. He’d never be important enough to Zhongli, so why did he even try? Why did he ever bother? He had wanted to invite Zhongli to his home, to meet his family. He had wanted to show his parents that he was still good, still their son, and that he made a genuine friend.

He couldn’t do that now. At best, Zhongli was a former business associate. Not his friend. Never his friend.

Zhongli didn’t say anything and Childe suspected he was deep in memories. He wanted to stand up and leave but he couldn’t.

“Liyue Harbour exists today because of Guizhong,” he said then and Childe curled up in himself. Just rub it in. How would Childe ever compete?

A curious dragon with pretty eyes and pretty rocks, and a gentle soul of a Goddess with beautiful, humming flowers next to her, an entire city dedicated to her?

What was he against them?

A reckless, arrogant toy soldier. The only thing he was good at was fighting and even then, Morax would be able to beat him blind-folded.

“Without her, I would have never been able to appreciate humans. To me, they were barely a duty, a responsibility, not something worthy of love. But she walked among them, empathised with them and through her and for her, I was able to do the same.”

Childe was a human. But he wasn’t part of the humans Zhongli spoke about. He wished he could take that part out of himself; the part that made his chest hurt. He’d rather endure the pain of his transformation.

“When she died, I was devastated and I wrecked havoc on my enemies. They had killed the gentlest soul I would ever know and they did not deserve mercy for it. But I knew, I knew that that wasn’t what she’d want. She’d want me to protect our people, to become the leader she never got the chance to be. So I taught them to build houses, I taught them to make stoves. And these days, I believe she would be proud of what I achieved.”

He was saying yes, and it hurt. Everything Zhongli had done had been for her. But maybe – maybe that was a good thing. He could let go now, right? He knew know, he had audible confirmation that Zhongli would never look at him, would never care for him. He wasn’t good enough. Nobody would ever build a city for him.

He had to go. He had to leave. He couldn’t see Zhongli again. His feet itched, but he couldn’t move. Zhongli would never love him. Zhongli could only love things that were long past, and Childe walked ever toward the future.

“Why are there no Glaze Lilies in Guili Plains?”

“They are a delicate flower, and Guili Plains turning desolate was too much for them to handle. But if you want to get poetic, then Guizhong’s demise surely had something to do with it.”

Childe wondered. If he died, would – would something wither for him? The seashells he was so fond of, would they crack?

“You miss her.”

“Yes.”

Will you miss me is a question left unasked.

Childe took a deep breath. He would fill the gaping hole inside his chest with blood and glory.

“I have something for you.”

Childe blinked. He didn’t remember buying something. He looked over to Zhongli, who held a sword out to him.

“I have been meaning to give it to you for a while but ah, things got in the way.”

Childe reached for the handle and held the sword up against the moonlight. The blade was green. He’d never seen a weapon like that before.

“I crafted it myself long ago. The blade is cut from the purest jade. I made it for a friend, but sadly, they never got to use it.”

“I...” Childe didn’t know what to say. He didn’t use a sword much these days, but he could appreciate good craftsmanship. And really, he could never have enough weapons.

“Thank you,” was what he settled on and Zhongli smiled at him.

“You wished to hear a story,” Rex Lapis said and Childe nodded, holding his new gift close.

“Once, a long time ago, Rex Lapis encountered a boy. The boy would never learn to fear the God he met and instead, would always smile brightly at him. Some might say the boy was ignorant of who he met, but Rex Lapis greatly enjoyed the company of the boy, unburdened by the past. It’s the tale of Rex Lapis, a god feared for his wrath, and a young boy with kind eyes and a gentle soul, ever ready to overtake the world and unafraid to walk in front of a god he ought to fear.

Once, a long time ago, Rex Lapis encountered a young boy who showed him the light of the sun again.”

Perhaps this was alright. Maybe Rex Lapis would always be stuck in the past and Childe would always walk ahead into the future. As Childe listened to Rex Lapis tell him an ancient tale, he fell asleep next to his friend Zhongli, a green sword tightly hugged to his chest.

He dreamed of a field full of flowers and a god and a boy, holding hands, walking towards the gentle brushing of the sea at the shore.