#he’s a saint reborn

[daeneryseastar]

people let their true colors shine through their consumption of media. case in point an adult man in a position of great power can rape his way through a numerous amount of serving girls in the castle he lives in and through the streets he frequently visits, but if he’s nice to exactly one member of the small folk due to said small folk member stroking his ego while he sits the throne suddenly *all* of his past evil actions are forgiven and he would ‘make a great king.’ in the same breath these people will cut to a moment twenty years in the woman claimant’s past where she stated, “their wants are of no consequence,” after stumbling upon a play that blatantly makes fun of her for being born a woman and being a girl heir, which in turn upsets her because it’s an insecurity she’s dealt with her entire life, something she’s never been able to forget. SHE isn’t forgiven, instead it’s used as a way to say she wouldn’t make a good queen and has no care at all for the small folk (she is the only royal family member attempting to keep the realm united as of right now).

[swallowtail-ageha]

Funniest thing abt micolash is that when you forget his fandom characterization as the teheheeeeh weird quirky guy he's actually pretty terrifying and one of the most morally corrupt people in the lore

[lunarscaled]

gonna give them the biggest, wettest kiss in the game. just because.

@villain-he

-> Maybe they should have known he was up to something by the way he called their name: Bleu with the dizzying intonation of mischief, how his hand slid warm over the back of their neck to turn them towards him and pulled them in close with their feet stumbling. They don't even recognize what he's done at first—it takes a moment to register his mouth pressed to theirs, or the deft way his other hand comes to their chin to press down and coax their mouth open so he can slot them closer properly. Their second thought is that it feels almost like he's considering eating them: sampling the palette of their mouth when his tongue slides over theirs, too warm and too wet until it forces a shudder out of Lyric when he licks over their teeth and the roof of their mouth and their own tapered muscle. He looms over them and Lyric arches their spine to accommodate the posture, and then leans more when he puts some weight into it until their chest is snug against the bottom of his ribcage and stomach—they think it feels too hard to the point of sweltering. Like he's dumping hot water into their stomach and it's leaking into their veins, the wet sound of his mouth moving against theirs as they cling to his biceps with their short claws. Their eyes squint and start to shut, dizziness overwhelming them when they let him do as he likes, sluggish and overcome.

-> Their head feels like a whirlwind but their gut is a hot iron waiting to be struck. Steadily a warbling runs into a purr peeters into a chirping against his mouth, tail slack as they allow themselves to be devoured until it leaves their skin prickling like they've gotten heat rash and their veins pulsing heavily. Both his hands near their face keep them in place even when they stand on tiptoe and when his incisors scrape their bottom lip they whine, so thin and slight the sound can hardly be heard at all. Their lungs are starting to burn from how long he's been indulging in this, and when he finally pulls away Lyric takes a deep gasp of air. Their mouth is shiny and red from kissing: plush. A string of drool connects them as Lyric takes slow, shallow breaths with their eyes hooded and dark. It was only a few minutes at most, but they are pretty and soft and ripe like fresh fruit beneath that little bit of attention. Their claws dig into his skin like they want him to bleed.

"Wh'uh... was that for..."

[hecvenwept]

before i continue with the replies & starters... 

NEW TAGS DUMP ︾

(only for main/basic function tags. tags for ships & muse relationships remain the same, only changing format to make them look fancier or w/e! )

[voidsentprinces]

Reminder: A Realm Reborn wasn't particularly about us. It was about the Eorzean Factions, it was about the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and their interactions with and thwarting Gaius and the XIVth Legion. We were just a useful champion slowly growing to fame but not truly a Warrior of Light until literally the prelude to the Castrum raiding mission.

The Parting of Glass wasn't about us either. It was, once again, about the world. And how it had begun changing after Gaius's fall and the brief period of peace away from Garlemald's Shadow. About Alphinaud beginning his arc of growth with hubris and the creation the Crystal Braves and what it might of looked like IF the Scion's good nature was lent to anyone and everyone. And thus opening itself up to the very corruption Minfilia feared to move away from the Waking Sands and to the Rising Stones in the first place.

Heavensward isn't about us. It is about Alphinaud's continue growth, learning of Ishgard's past and history. Hubris, arrogance and narrow viewing lead Alphinaud to steps of the Foundation, it has lead Estinien astray and made Ysayle believe she is a messiah incarnate. And through the journey, each of them grow as they learn the terrible truth about the Dragonsong War. Estinien in particular has his eyes opened and no longer simply seeks revenge on Nidhogg but to get to the bottom of it all. So no other shepherd's son has to live as he has. Ysayle learns she is a shade and a faux Shiva not truly Hraesvelgr's beloved or even in the same category as her. She learns swallow such delusions and embrace what Saint Shiva stood for in its entirety. Which means leaning to lay the road for peace between Ishgard and the Dragons and opening a path to this by sacrificing herself for those she loved so dearly. Alphinaud learns from all of this and more and is humbled by the duty of a knight, the fervor of a dragoon, the sacrifice of a saint, and the courage of his companions and of Sharlayan's arrogance from Master Matoya. To put others before himself and allow others to support him when he falls.

The Far Edge of Fate isn't about us. It was about how Ishgard carries on after Thordan and the Heavens Ward are shown to be the monsters they are. How the remnants of the church, the knights of Ishgard, and the civilian population react to the realization with rejection. How facing off against Nidhogg possessing Estinien, the Warriors of Darkness, and the machinations of Ilberd force Eorzea and Ishgard to look inward and know truly where they should go from there. To ignore the easier road and take the higher path no matter the strife and hardship it provides them. Because when they reach the otherside they would be better for it. Finding that courage, after five years of procrastinating and hemming and hawing, the Eorzean Alliance finally begin to mobilize to free Ala Mhigo from Garlemald and perhaps take on the Empire itself.

Stormblood isn't about us. It is about Doma and Ala Mhigo fighting for the survival of their people and cultures. Facing the parts of their society that were spurned and used as tools of hatred against their principles. That provided the necessary cracks required for Garlemald to break them down and oppress them in the first place. And how reforging under those values and those long histories of violence can make a new path and come to terms to over throw the tyrants who fed on their weakened states and make a strong unity still.

A Requiem of Heroes wasn't about us, it was about the world facing down the barrel of war with Garlemald. And uncovering its origins, its founding father was an Ascian. How Varis is forced to face down the lie as Elidibus wears the skin of his son and the great grandfather he and other Garleans were taught was a walking god in all but name was a sham and a daemon bent on causing more pain and suffering than mankind ever deserved. How the effigies of hate and pain choose to use their fervor to help their people instead of turning against them once more. How every person can change and be given a second chance. How that second chance is what that person requires or if they are pushed the wrong direction, can caused tragedy to unfold. And lastly, it is about our companions, slowly. One by one. Being dragged to the unknown. The story slowly taking away the players on the stage until finally...

Shadowbringers was about us. It was about how we were instrumental to the world so much that it lost nearly all hope in another timeline. How a group of your fondest friends began and how your comrade's furthest decendents acting on the hope of your legend and stories. To provide a plan of action and lead to happier world. How even when everything seems lost and gone and your purpose seems to turned everything around you into twisted monstrosities. That you can bring the night and wait in comfort for a dawn to bring better days. And the tenacity of your aid providing a world on the brink, the love, the compassion, the understanding, the strength, and the will to stand up to a flood of destruction and spit fate in the eye. Even it costs them everything, they keep fighting until they can see a brighter tomorrow.

Death unto Dawn was about what the tomorrow brings. How it could be another fight but to find what is WORTH fighting for. The memories of those you fight and lived amongst, old studies and things of the past being made to provide the answer to the future, making right wrongs even against those you had wronged unfairly, and to gather together and keep each other safe. You are not alone out here. There are those who will help you along to a brighter future.

Endwalker was about you and yours. About how everyone reacts to an uncertain future in different manners. How some would make ready to flee at the approaching storm, while others would fight, and others might even push you further to the edge. But even when all is lost, call upon the memory of happier times to light the way with hearts aligned shining brilliantly against despair and finding your place amongst those memories.

Growing Light was about us teaching another to hear, feel, and think and experience the world seemingly gone. That everything needn't be give or take. It can be a charitable, warmer place if we make it. It can be kinder and even in the face of unrelenting and undying destruction. Hope will spit out a tooth and stand up once more.

I say all of this because, I've seen people mad that Dawntrail is leaning hard about being about Wuk Lamat and others. To which I say so what if Dawntrail is about Wuk Lamat and Koana? So what if its not about us? We've had four story lines about us. Now we must impart what we've learned to the future as they face similar and sometimes overwhelming odds. To stand tall against the onslaught and make their own choices, their own way to bring a smile to all they hold dear. How family needn't be blood related, they can just be a group who sit down at the table at the end of the day. And speak, laugh, cry, and love. Unto this trail to dawn we shall light way for the future of our world and everything this new dawn brings is worth it.

[undiscovered-horizon]

(tw for mentions of nudity)

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[After days of travelling, fighting and sleeping on rocks, a rest at a tavern is well-earned. Not feeling up to taste the nightlife with your friends, Gale and you retire early. The evening turns into something heartfelt and domestic as you wash his hair and hum a song he's grown all too familiar with.]

As much as Gale loves to be in the centre of your attention, it flusters him. He's grown so used to being the one doting and worshipping that he's quite unsure what to do once the roles are reversed. Is he supposed to gratefully acknowledge your efforts? Or sit twiddling his thumbs, taking whatever you give him?

How does one take affection?, he wonders in the back of his head.

The party downstairs is virtually inaudible to Gale as his mind is focused solely on the tender caress of your hands. The soap suds feel as though they transcend his skin and wash his very spirit clean. Or perhaps that's just what being loved feels like. His back is leisurely leaning against your chest. In some distant fantasy of his, you are reborn as his guardian angel.

I sowed rue in four little gardens In the fifth, I sowed periwinkle for you, Johnny

Your low singing is ringing in his ears the same way the church bell's toll is ringing in the ears of a saint - calling towards home. Gale shivers as your breath, like a ghost of love once cherished, brushes against his hot skin. The soothing sound of your voice is all too fleeting to him. If he could only grab it and bask in it any time he wishes to. Perhaps, if your place was among the stars in the night sky...?

Rue, my rue, I sowed you in the early morning I sowed you happily; grow tall, rue

He sighs, feeling your fingers tug gently at his hair. Whether you're washing it or rinsing, he's not entirely sure. The moment your fingers dragged against his skin, your nails scratched at his scalp, Gale allowed himself to drift into a comfortable limbo - somewhere between sleep and wake, between dream and reality. It is only by the melody of this song you so often sing to yourself that he can be sure he is alive and well. Otherwise, given the inexplicable lightness of his spirit, Gale might have thought he'd died and gone to wherever he deserved to spend his afterlife.

I sowed you, rue, in a wide bed I thought to myself that Johnny might come

Speaking of death: as the saying goes, 'curiosity killed the cat' and Gale, by his nature, can not help himself but die again and again.

"Not that I don't enjoy your little habit," he breaks the silence in a groggy, sleepy voice, "it's quite adorable if I may say so, but do indulge me: what is this song you're singing? I've never heard it before."

"It's a wedding song," you murmur your answer. Gale's breath hitches as he feels your lips stroke the conch of his ear. "In my hometown, there's this tradition of making newlyweds wade through the dancing guests to reach each other. If they manage to hold hands before the song ends, the Gods bless them and they shall be inseparable from that day on. It's weird how..." you hang your voice and sigh heavily, "no matter."

But Gale is quick to dismiss your silly belief that there is something uninteresting about your thoughts. "Whatever is on your mind, I long to hear it." The pleasing tone of his voice is more meaningful than the wizard's actual words.

For a moment, your careful movements come to a halt. He could, of course, protest the sudden lack of soft tugging at his hair or the pleasant scratching of his scalp but all complaints dissipate as Gale feels you resting your chin on top of his shoulder. "When I was younger, just a filly, I thought about the day I would get to nudge my way through the guests," you recall with both sadness and fondness in your voice, "but now I worry whether I will get to see the break of dawn. Odd how life can get."

He wishes to say something suave, to weave sultry words with skill comparable to Astarion's. Alas, he's too overly aware of your naked form glued to his back and your arms casually wrapped around his stomach. Yet again, Gale is flustered. "Oh, I'm no stranger to twisted and, frankly unfathomable, paths of life," he says, feigning glibness. "Having said that, you've managed to survive things most can't even dream of. If I were you, I wouldn't cross a wedding game off the list just yet."

No answer comes from you - at least not a vocal answer. You place a soft peck on top of his shoulder before going back to washing his hair and relishing in the song that reminds you of home.

The rue is withered but Johnny's not here When Sunday comes, I will be dressing up

Considering he has enough explosive energy inside him to level a city, wading through the mob of wedding guests shouldn't be a challenge. Although, if Karlach and Lae'zel are also invited...

But the doubt in Gale's mind doesn't let such fantasies go too far. First of all, would you even want to? Would you actually stand before him and proclaim to the entire world that you will love him for better or worse? As much as he believes you every time you profess your love to him, the longer he wonders about the proverbial 'until death do us part', the more he grows unsure. Because, honestly, out of all the people you've met on your travels, why would it be him? The man who famously makes bad decisions in the name of love?

Rue, my rue, grow green, rue I will cut you on an early Sunday morning

The thing that happens then leaves Gale even more confused about his own feelings and the matter of accepting affection:

You've finished washing his hair, taking your sweet time admiring the streaks of grey. Leaning back, you gently pull him along. His head falls back into the crook of your neck. If Gale had just slightly less self-control, he would have squealed when you kissed his neck and tightened your embrace around his midsection. You're holding him like a toddler holds their favourite stuffed toy and it's... nice.

Thinking about your trapping hug, Gale suddenly remembers something he wanted to share. "Did you know that a periwinkle is also called a Vinca, which means 'to bind'?"

A light-hearted chuckle rumbles in your chest. "Then I better sow a garden full of them for you."

_____

Halsin's version right here!!

(tagging those who shouted, y'all are the pillars of society: @cakenpiewhyohmy @hairlessgoblin @lillithhearts @day-dreaming-goddess @nico-ith @cakeboxie )

Your prayers have been heard!!!! (As though I didn't start writing this immediately after posting Halsin's version)

Changed the song at the last second because my former choice was a little too upbeat for the setting ("Jeleń" by Sutari, if y'all are curious)

[elamimax]

Alright, here's my theory on what the new Shadow of the Erdtree DLC tells us about Elden Ring and its lore. I'm probably off on a few things, but let's go:

Long ago, the Crucible was a current of energy that flowed through the world and brought death and rebirth. It flows circularly, spiraling, the dead and the living being reborn into one another (we know by now that the Crucible, unlike the Erdtree, was not a single place, after all). This energy was considered divine by many people, including the Hornsent, a pantheistic religious order that saw divinity in the melding of flesh, and would take shamans and force them to meld to achieve sainthood.

They did so by spiriting them away, branding a seal into them, and forcing them into jars until their flesh melded together. After all, "the flesh of shamans was said to meld harmoniously with others." The thing is that the hornsent were right. The shamans were divine, as they were graced with gold.

One such shaman, from a Numen village in the Shadow Lands, escaped that grim fate. Salvaging that divinity from her fallen kin, she ascended the Divine Gate and drew the attention of the Greater Will, who had sown the grace of gold across the Lands Between, and invited it into her. Seeking to ensure that nothing so horrific would ever happen again, Queen Marika founded the Golden Order.

Her firstborn was seduced by an outer god, The One Eyed God, and born with curse like her other children, so she gave him her Scarseal for an eye so that he would retain use of his faculties and she could seal away the worse of his curses, and for her, her burned the Shadow Lands, ensuring that what happened to her kin would never happen again. It was without grace or honour, but out of spite, and vengeance, and fear.

Miquella, Marika's youngest, was cursed three times. He was cursed with eternal youth, though I suspect that he died and was reborn young several times over, shown by the fact that he was quite small when he was absconded with by Mohg but the corpse we find in Mohgwyn palace is massive.

His second curse was that of love. Whether bestowed on him by his parents, the greater will, or chance itself, I don't know, but all who laid eyes on him loved him, and it made him callous. All loved him which, of course, meant that love was valueless. He could steal hearts at a whim, his rune so strong that it enchanted those who laid eyes on it. It was not, of course, enough. He desired a world of peace, of calm, of love, of tranquility, and realized that, as an eternal, beloved child, as an Empyrean of the Greater Will, he would never be able to make that happen.

So, he began the arduous process of dismantling himself, divesting himself first from his body, then his fear and finally, his love, traveling to the Shadow Lands, a land now removed from the Lands Between by his mother's veil, where he knew the currents of the Crucible were strong and he could live without a body, waiting for a consort.

Because Miquella was thrice cursed, and his curse of love was also the same "curse" his mother suffered: his other half lived within himself, and he - or rather she - would travel the world and offer sleep to the sleepless and comfort to the dying, as Saint Trina. By divesting himself of his love, he divested himself of Saint Trina, hardening himself for what would need to be done.

He would need a warrior. His sister was not up to the task. She loved him but she was not capable of being a warlord, her own curse of Rot slowly eating away at her. No, he set his sights on Radahn, greatest warrior of the Golden Order. Radahn refused. So Miquella whispered a request into his sister's ear and she obliged. Radahn reduced to a shadow of his former self, to be slain by lowly tarnished. He didn't need Radahn's body. Only his soul. As for a body...

Miquella's love reached far, and so too did it reach the Luminary Mohg, a man who longed to live up to the promise of dynasty that was his birthright, but who was also a calm, quiet man who sought to inspire others.

Miquella's demands, his love, broke something in Mohg. Forced him into an obsession with the formless mother. Into an obsession with bloodlines and, eventually, blood, something those who followed him have not and never will forgive Miquella for. And Mohg served his purpose: as a corpse, if nothing else.

When Mohg died, Miquella's chosen dragged his body to the Divine Gate where his mother had become Queen Marika so long ago, and used the power there to forge Mohg's body in the Crucible, so that Radahn may be the warrior he had always been, but pliable this time, Mohg's power over blood now merged with Radahn's gravitational prowess. Usable. In the same way that Miquella's mother had used Godfrey, he would use Radahn, slaughtering any and all who opposed his Thousand Year Journey Of Compassion, until such time as he had no more need for such a consort. So, when finally his Consort was "rebuilt", Miquella, divested of his body, his fear and his love, stepped out of the Divine Gate, to protect him.

He failed.

[hotwaterandmilk]

The Wedding Peach PC-98VX game was released in 1996 and features an original story played out using card battling mechanics. The game draws its visuals from the animated series thanks to designs by Watanabe Mayumi and features 11 different seiyuu (including all the anime leads reprising their roles).

I haven't talked about this game in any detail before, but today I was re-scanning all its packaging in 1200 dpi and thought why not give it a bit of a summary and a ramble?

Dark Angels

The two original characters on the cover of the game (above) are the Kuroba siblings, Valzov and Neana, who have been charged by Reine Devila to defeat the loves angels on Earth. The Kuroba are from a much maligned devil clan, treated differently because they have similar wings to angels, albeit in a dual white/black colouring.

Because the Kuroba clan have never been truly accepted by other devils, they rely only on one another and have an extremely deep familial bond. Despite the mission posing a significant personal risk, Valzov (as the head of the family) takes it on, believing that defeating the love angels will allow his clan to finally be seen as true devils.

Neana, valuing her brother with a possessiveness that goes beyond that of a sibling, heads to Earth with him to find the love angels. Following a lead they find early on in the game, Valzov and Neana begin attending Saint Hanazono as transfer students (Tooru and Nina) in the hopes of finding and destroying the love angels once and for all.

Of course the love angels aren't just going to accept being challenged by a whole clan of devils (including Kuroba compatriotes Miligal, Entran, Julad and Swyswi). Through the eyes of Momoko, Yuri and Hinagiku the player has to figure out what these "Dark Angels" are up to and challenge them via card battles (which allow you to unleash familiar attacks as you gain the upper hand).

Why talk about this game?

The Wedding Peach PC-98VX game is the only Wedding Peach video game with narrative emphasis, playing out like an extra anime arc complete with music, voices and visuals that could have been lifted straight from the television series. It is also the only Wedding Peach game that gives us something genuinely unique with the Kuroba clan.

The Kuroba have struggled in the devil world because of how they look. Their devil peers see them as not being true devils because they have wings that look almost angelic. The love angels also notice this, hence the moniker of "Dark Angels" (straight up "Yami Tenshi").

We discover by the end of the game that the unique wings all Kuroba clan members have in some capacity are likely angelic in origin. Limone speculates that the Kuroba clan are descended from angels who fell into the devil world long ago.

However, Neana has the capacity to project a powerful love wave in the battle's climax which devils can't do. This leads Limone to clarify that Neana has primarily angel DNA (literally "tenshi no DNA"). He believes she was an angel who lost her life in battle before being reincarnated in the devil world (that isn't how DNA works but OK). Neana was reborn as a devil to be alongside Valzov, essentially, as an angel can only reincarnate "where there is love".

It isn't explained how Limone concludes any of this, except that he "checked their DNA" though we don't see or hear him doing that so it really seems to be based on vibes and perhaps angel eugenics who knows. While everyone was kind of weirded out by how close the siblings were earlier in the game, in the end everyone just kind of shrugs about it so I'm not sure where incest falls on the "love" scale here.

Regardless, Neana's existence shows us that at least in this version of the franchise, it is possible for individuals to reincarnate into the devil world. This is not shown anywhere else in the media mix and it underscores just how similar all the worlds really are.

It's also interesting that the Kuroba (angels who fell and assimilated into the devil world) must follow Devila's orders to try to shed their poor reputation, when in the anime (which the game draws from) Devila herself is secretly an angel who was consumed by her own darkness and found herself suited to life in the devil world.

Anyway, it's not a life-changing game by any means but it is the one Wedding Peach game that tries something different and that's worth noting if nothing else. I'll be honest I haven't played it in yeaaaaaaaaaars so I might not be entirely on the mark with all my recollections, but I did flip through the manual again and it was a real trip down memory lane.

Unrelated to any of the above, my favourite part in the character book bundled with the game? Salvia's profile stating "She is a reticent and nihilistic girl."

👑 Yes queen, life is meaningless! All values are baseless and nothing can be known or communicated! Give 'em nothing! 👑

[aelenavelaryon]

Robert Baratheon x Reader (pt.2)

Summary: in which the Queen gets her revenge on her husband

The return of dragons came to a surprise for the realm. It was unexpected yet a blessing, especially for Rhaenyra. Finally, dragons returned to the world. Robert was not on board with having them in King's Landing at first but after watching Rhaenyra be happy after the loss of their child he agreed. Robert, despite marrying her without love came to enjoy her company as the two enjoyed making children.

Rhaenyra choose to let her dragons roamed free in a place where they were all away from people, to avoid harming innocent people. Prince Daemon was born in the year 283, near the end of the year. His brother Orys came days after his first name day in 284. In the year 286 came the twins, Aemon and Aemond. Just a year later in 287 she lost a child, it was then that Dragons were reborn.

By 290, Rhaenyra's dragons had grown a lot. The year prior they disappeared and when they returned they were the size of an adult dragon. So, for the first time in centuries a Targaryen finally took to the skies on dragonback. Balerion, the dragon she rode flew her to a part of the Keep that was abandoned and where he kept dragons eggs.

Rhaenyra brought Dragon Keepers to the Keep to help with the dragons and their eggs. The eggs, which were enough to give to each one of her children and brother, were kept warm and ready in the children's room. Finally, after five years of trying for a daughter, a girl finally came. Well, more like two. Rhaena and Helaena came during the summers of 290. By then, her children all had dragons eggs. Prince Daemon had claimed Caraxes, while his brother's hatched their eggs. Orys named his Eros. Aemon named his Moonfyre and Aemond named his Meraxes. Princess Rhaena and Helaena's dragon eggs hatched the same day of their birth.

King Robert threw a feast in honor of their first name day. By then, queen Rhaenyra had given him four sons and two daughters. Princess Rhaena was said to be as wild and defiant as her mother in her youth. Rhaena had the Targaryen hair and eyes, while her twin, princess Helaena had black hair and blue eyes like his father but she was as quiet and calm as her late grandmothers, queen Rhaella and Lady Cassana Baratheon. Robert was a decent king who took the input of his queen. They had a quiet a decent marriage.

Since the day they married Robert kept to his wife's and his own chambers. He slept with no other woman that was not his wife. Some had said he changed for the better and Eddard Stark could attest to that. Rhaenyra's life was good. She had no worries. Everything was just perfect.

The news reached her a few weeks later. Robert Baratheon had slept with Cersei Lannister or so she claimed. Cersei was a girl of three and twenty. She was yet to be married as her father hadn't found her a good match yet. Rhaenyra when she heard said nothing. Robert even thought she hadn't heard but she had. She knew, thanks to her little birds that Jaime was Cersei's lover. So, her plan was to take Jaime from Cersei. It was her goal to make him loyal to her.

Her plan began the very next day. She had asked Robert for a new guard. Stating that with six children it was better for them and her to have extra security. The king agreed. She smiled and acted as if nothing was happening. When Cersei was forced to move the keep by her father's order, Rhaenyra was forced to confront her husband.

Robert entered their shared chambers. "Nyra" she looked away. Rhaenyra was two and twenty. She had given her husband six children. She never complained nor did she cause him any problems. She simply did her duty, ever the dutiful her mother used to say. "I have never asked anything of you, nor have I ever caused you trouble or any problems. I have stood by you for the last seven years. I married you despite everything. I am no saint, nor have I ever been. I brought a son into a marriage that was not yours. You loved him and took care of him as if he was your own. And in return I gave your four sons with your blood and two daughters with your blood" there was a brief silence. "Where our children not enough?" she asked. "Was I not enough?" she asked.

Rhaenyra had never been insecure. How could she? She was a Targaryen, their beauty seemed to be god like and now, with her dragon being a god seemed far more possible than before. "I love you, Robert. But I will not be the person you treat like a common whore. If Cersei gives you a bastard child I will give you one too. And if she gives you another so will I" she said. Robert was too stunned to speak. She gave him on chance to speak before she left their shared chambers, Arthur and Jaime following behind.

Rhaenyra knew Cersei's greatest love was Jaime, and she rarely even allowed him to wonder far from her. Jaime didn't mind, watching over her gave him some sort of relief as he felt guilty for killing her father years back. He also wanted to keep her safe as he could not keep Elia and her children. Jaime was also avoiding his sister, as much as she would try to find him but he would walk the other way or ignore her pleas to talk. Over the months the good relationship between the queen and king perished in the blink of an eye. King Robert returned to his drunken and whoring ways.

Cersei Lannister gave birth to a son who she named Joffrey Baratheon, a boy with black hair and green eyes, he seemed to be all his father but the eyes. A year later, in the year 292, queen Rhaenyra gave birth to a son, a boy she named Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter who she named Rhaella. The boy had blonde white hair. His eyes were the same eyes of princess Alyssa Targaryen, wife of Baelon Targaryen. One green eye and purple. Her daughter, princess Rhaella had a her grandmother's looks. Ser Jaime Lannister was the first one to hold his two children. A little princeling he used to call him and his little baby girl. Jaime and Rhaenyra were the ones who picked the names.

Robert knew but he said nothing as the guilt of returning to his old habits returned. Prince Jacaerys came four years after his sisters, then, a year after him came Lucerys. Princess Rhaenyra had always loved those names and had always wanted to name one of her sons like them. Prince Jacaerys had dark brown hair and purple eyes, his brother Lucerys was just like his brother. Queen Rhaenyra bore thirteen children at the short age of thirty. Her last two children were girls. Daughters. Visenya and Daenerys, daughters of Ser Arthur Dayne.

Eddard Stark never married, instead he served his queen Rhaenyra his entire life. And of course he took care of their two sons. Ned had became her closest companion alongside Arthur and Jaime Lannister. She had no other allies at court but them. At least, she didn't trust anyone else but them. Cersei gave Robert three more children. Tommen, Myrcella and Joanna but they were known as bastards since they were not married.

On the queen's name day, a thirtieth name day celebration was made in her honor. Every house in the realm attended, including Dorne, Driftmark and the North. By then, Prince Jaehaerys was nearly six and ten, Daemon was five and ten, Orys three and ten, Aemon and Aemond were one and ten, Helaena and Rhaena were eight, Rhaegar and Rhaella were nearly six, Jacaerys was four, prince Lucerys three and his sisters had just turned one.

Queen Rhaenyra, despite birthing thirteen children looked far better than most, she was grateful, she also took care great of her figure, she wanted to preserve herself as much as she could. Robert knew that seven of those children where not his. Jaehaerys had been claimed as a Targaryen despite Tywin's insistence to keep him as a bastard. Rhaenyra did not wish for her son to bear the name Baratheon or Stark. Brandon had written to her often wanting to know about his son but he not once had asked for the boy to visit him nor to be claimed as a Stark. She knew Catelyn did not like the idea of Brandon's bastard sons being in their home and possible taking Robb's birthright.

During the Queen's name day celebration things are said and revenge is plotted. They say when you play the game of thrones you win or you die, there is no middle ground. Queen Rhaenyra is going to win, no matter what. The question is, will she succeed or will she fail?

[shuttershocky]

That previous TM post reminded me of something.

What really tells me the Koei Tecmo writers did their homework with Type-Moon is how Fate/Samurai Remnant slightly changes the TM theme of decay to portray that Iori has something wrong with him.

A common trope that Nasu likes to weave into his stories is how the people living today are living in the past's skeletons. Unlike a lot of media that tends to portray the past as some grandiose and magical time that met an untimely end from disaster, the past wasn't always great, it was just... Large.

A theme of slow decay permeates a lot of Nasu's works. Once, the Nanaya, the Ryougi, the Asakami, and the Fujou were fearsome, powerful clans of oni hunters, but over time they all fell to ruin slowly, with only the Nanaya really having a singular incident that can be pointed to for their fall. The Tohno were (and still are) an incredibly wealthy and influential family of oni in the guise of businessmen, but one cruel act out of line after another, and there's just an enormous, empty mansion containing a single Tohno, the family dead or scattered. Mahoyo's longest chapter takes place in a lavish, abandoned amusement park, filled with everything from a multistory house of mirrors to a giant rollercoaster where everything still works, but couldn't survive more than a few years, a foolish waste of a fortune. Kara No Kyoukai is about a rich girl that grows increasingly distant from her wealthy noble family until she leaves them to live in a completely empty apartment instead, the flashbacks to the Ryougi family showing no warmth or nostalgia despite the luxury.

Even Fate, the series all about digging up ghosts of the past and showing you how kickass these guys are, always goes into how heroic spirits are often filled with regret, having led bloody and tragic lives that caused them so much pain and yet meant that they would be remembered forever—literally removing them from the cycle of death and reincarnation to be put into another one where they are reborn and killed on a mage's whims.

The past was grand, wealthy, larger than life, and it rotted from the inside out and failed the people living today, who have to build new, simpler lives from the pieces, but might be happier that way.

FSR does something similar, though with an important difference. Just like in other TM works the past in FSR is larger than life, being the Sengoku period and the Shimabara rebellion, with both the incredibly cool sword saints and horrific massacres, but the people living today (1651) could not be happier about living in a peaceful, much more insignificant time and have no interest in what they left behind whatsoever. They're not living in the decaying remains of the past, they've rebuilt on top of it completely. You would have to be insane to look back even out of curiosity, because that would be staring into unimaginable bloodshed.

Nowhere is this better illustrated than Nasu himself talking about how the name "Miyamoto Musashi" is seen today, compared to in 1651 after Musashi had just died.

A sword-saint now, a legend, and at 60 duels with 60 wins probably the most skilled duelist to have ever lived, but for his contemporaries, he was a terrifying man that killed dozens to prove his martial skill. Nobody in Miyamoto Iori's time remembers him for being Musashi's son the way we do.

But Iori, Iori looks back. The first hint was that servants always have some connection to the master, and there's seemingly nothing in common with the king and god-slayer Saber and the humble Iori. The next was Saber's reaction seeing Iori's seemingly fearless behavior towards an enemy that could kill him in one blow (something you don't even need New Game+ to see btw, I haven't played NG+ myself lol), it was recognition.

There's a reason why Iori's main rival is Chiemon, a character whose only defining trait is being unable to let go of the bloodshed he experienced in the Shimabara Rebellion.

In FSR more than in any other Type-Moon title, the past is buried deep to the point where it can barely be seen, and yet inside Iori is the desire to dig it up. Study it. Surpass it. Find his father resurrected in his prime and kill him (her) again, to prove he would have been an even more terrifying monster than she ever was, had he been born just a little earlier.

There's something wrong with him.

[lunameimei]

Meanwhile, in front of the Gate of Heaven~

I love the headcanon that Sir Pentious ended up right in the Seraphim's room, since he himself was reborn as a Seraphim. Therefore, it makes sense for our Egg Boiz to appear, like all new arrivals, in front of the Gate!

But I’m afraid that Saint Peter will have a breakdown, he has not recovered yet from the situation with Charlie 😭

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to Crazier Bastard's Chapter 296

Brief summary: Cale meets the World Tree and learns about what happened to him. Cale and Super Rock sets down the flags of Cale using his Instant ability in the future. Cale decides to save the WT instead of using his WT seed.

==========

First of all, Dragon Lord's side was crazy. Not only did they create this space where time was repeated over again and again, they even cut off both of the WT's feet. 😡

In addition to the Dragon Lord, the Saintess of GoW (Orsena lady), a wanderer (from the Five-Colored Bloods), and the Saint of GoC came to visit the WT. GoC's saint was a new character, and Cale thought they must be more powerful than 2nd Star Epley who was just a believer.

The two saints placed a curse on WT, forcing him to experience the death of all living beings in this world thousands of times in just an instant. WT temporarily broke down after that, and they used that time to chain him up. 😡😡😡

And then, the Instant red flags came. 🤣🤣🤣 Cale was thinking on how to counter the Dragon Lord's powers of time, and immediately thought of his Instant ability.

Cale: *thinks of his Instant ability after hearing the Dragon Lord's powers* Super Rock (SR): No, Cale! Don't think about that! Cale: (Yes, what was I thinking?) SR: You, don't waste the Instant you have. No matter how much you've connected the plates together and strengthened them. The Instant ability you possess is not something you can handle with your human skin! I'll say it clearly, don't use it if you don't want to die! Cale: (Yes, yes. I won't use it anyway. I have lots of allies now here and from my world, right? I can even use GoD and the Blue Wolf, or Cotton's organization. Or the Central Plains people.) SR: Then why are you biting your lip so hard? Cale: (Damn it!) *thinks about what other time powers his side could use* SR: Isn't there Raon's Present attribute? Cale: (Damn it! Shut up!) SR: You're not thinking of taking Raon's place, right? Cale: (...No?) SR: Pfft. Cale: (Let's not create a situation like that. A situation where Raon will move or I will use my Instant.) SR: Yes. It won't come to that. We won't let it come to that. Let's use our allies as much as possible! Cale: *agrees*

My goodness, Cale. That conversation pretty much confirmed that you'll be using Instant and taking the place of Raon. 😂 Super Rock, you're not helping either. 😂😂😂

Moving on, Cale decided to save the WT instead of killing it. He ignored Fire AP's excited talk of burning the WT to ashes to let it be reborn again. 🤣🤣🤣 As for the chains that bound WT, it was the same chains that bound the Sky-Eating Water, so SEW was really excited to break it.

Oh yeah, GoD also sent Cale messages that since GoB had gone crazy because of the mess GoC created in the God realm, he could now create a portal between Central Plains and Aipotu. Ooooh! We're going to meet HD again soon!

Ending Remarks The antagonists made me mad at what they did to the WT. Fortunately, the comedic moment of the Instant red flag planting got me to forget it. 😂 Next chapter would be SEW breaking the chains and Cale saving the suicidal WT.

[lunarscaled]

❛❛ I think snapbacks suit you. as much as you try to hide from people up under the brim , it's attractive on you. ❜❜

-> He says it too casually for their taste---as in, he says it easy, like their attempts to sequester as much of themselves out of people's view and pretend they don't exist are not a protection from a bygone period where they felt the need to be scarce, but instead a charming little habit that he notices and keeps for himself. They wonder if this is part of that existence of his which gives and gives and gives to make others feel wanted and calm, but do they feel calm? Not by a long shot---not by a mile and more, not when he casts them a glance just long enough to know they're paying attention before looking away to remove the pressure to react, and though they still do. They feel it in a heat on the back of their neck that spreads forwards into their cheeks, the flush creeping around their pearly scales, their eyes a little wider than normal that give away their unguarded response ( maybe he couldn't even see it under the flat rim. maybe he could, but wouldn't say anything. but neither of those things prevent it from being: a stinging red color to their cheeks like it was salacious to be perceived at all. ) They feel a rickety heartbeat in their chest the same as when Mel battered them into trying on outfits for his own personal fashion show, buttoning them up along their spine in something gauzy and white with little crystals seen in, the train so long they didn't know how anyone could hold it. And the ginger elf clapped, invigorated from head to toe at the sight, It's perfect, Lyric! You look just like a princess!

-> They didn't necessarily want to be perceived as a princess of all things, generally considered helpless and very spoiled, but they do think of how Saint patiently complimented their eyes. And they think of how they're trying hard to learn to take compliments without refuting them in some way. And most importantly, through the hazy and embarrassed flush of their upper cheeks, they think of how Saint doesn't lie for nothing. ( but they pull the brim of the hat down more, like it's going to salvage something. )

"It's just a hat, it can't affect how I look that much..."

[wewillneverknow1111]

James/Sarcean parallels

This is just some random speculation, but I can't help but see some parallels between Sarcean and James.

The most striking one to me is that in Dark Heir, we learn that Sarcean was thrown in prison for his “evil deeds“. How did he get out of there? Someone who had a crush on him (Visander) set him free. In Dark Rise, James was also imprisoned by the Stewards for his "evil deeds" and was also released by a guy who had a crush on him. In both cases, we would have expected Anharion to be the one to release Sarcean and Will to be the one to free James.

We don't know much about the past yet, but Sarcean seemed to have been an important figure in the Sun Kingdom before he betrayed the king and became the Dark King. From the flashbacks in Dark Heir, I gather that Sarcean may have been admired for his powers before the inhabitants (and the King?) turned on him. It's all speculation, but maybe that's why he turned against the Sun King and committed all those crimes.

Does that sound familiar?

James was also greatly admired by the Stewards before they found out he was a Reborn and turned against him because of his powers/abilities.

The Stewards feared him, just as the Sun Kingdom feared Sarcean. And James betrayed and killed them, just like Sarcean.

On the other hand, there are some parallels between Anharion and Will.

In the flashbacks, we learn that Anharion was an important general who was held in high esteem in the Sun Kingdom.

The stewards also saw Will as a savior because he was the blood of the Lady.

The catch?

Will was the Dark King all along, pretending to be someone he wasn't.

Could that have been the case with Anharion too?

The Sun Kingdom and the Stewards also portray themselves as saints, although they are not as innocent as they try to pretend.

These are just some random thoughts so take them with a grain of salt :)

[catcas22]

Hi Cat!

I was wondering if you have any thoughts on the description of the Lamenter's Mask!

A stone mask twisted into an expression of rapturous grief. Use while disrobed to transform into a lamenter.

The change cannot be undone except by death. Using this mask while already transformed causes the head to swell in size.

This transformation tallies with the state of a denizen of paradise, but the people of the tower denied and hid it from the world. In their foolishness, they viewed true bliss with deep fear.

I think this could have some interesting implications for the Age of the Crucible. It's also rather curious that the Hornsent ("people of the tower") would "deny and hide" the Crucible transformation.

As an aside, what do you make of the Lamenters in general? They have the skin/horns/scars of Omens, but their humanlike proportions are what throws me. With the exception of Morgott and Mohg (who are demigods and therefore probably not good type specimens), Omens have this barrel-chested, stubby, ogrelike physique. The implication that Lamenters are made, not born, and the ways in which their appearance differs from the Omen are super interesting to me.

Hi Bri, thanks for the ask!

This one kept me up all night :P I think I actually found a plausible answer! Let me start by laying out what we know of the Lamenter at face value.

Lamenter's Mask

A stone mask twisted into an expression of rapturous grief. Use while disrobed to transform into a lamenter.

The change cannot be undone except by death. Using this mask while already transformed causes the head to swell in size.

This transformation tallies with the state of a denizen of paradise, but the people of the tower denied and hid it from the world. In their foolishness, they viewed true bliss with deep fear.

Lamenting Visage

A stone lantern carved to resemble a lamenting human head, the eyes vacantly beaming out light. Can be raised up when equipped in the left hand, illuminating more of the surrounding area. The unusual expression somehow imparts a sense of contentment. The languid ease of one who needs not sight.

Prattling Pate "Lamentation"

Twisted clay sculpt in the shape of a human head. Emits a blissful "Lamentation".

The voice resounds, seeping into the brain.

Weeping, weeping, weeping. Ever weeping.

Other important points -- all of these items (and the Lamenter himself) are found in the Lamenter's Gaol, one of three gaols where those who will become jar innards are held and tortured before being processed. Additionally, the Lamenter seems to have horns curling back into both his eye sockets.

I see a common thread between these three descriptions. Despite all evidence, we are told that the grieving individual is actually perfectly content. The grief is "rapturous," the blinded Lamenter is experiencing "true bliss," his expression is actually one of "contentment" because he doesn't really need his eyes. Despite the Pate "weeping, weeping, weeping, ever weeping," we are told that this lamentation is "blissful." I don't buy it... And apparently, neither did the Tower Folk. Instead they viewed their creation with fear.

Let's back up a bit. We know that via the means of chopping people up and packing them in jars, the hornsent hoped to create "saints," specifically via rebirth.

Bonny Village Spirit

For pity's sake, your place is in the jar. Nigh-sainthood itself awaits you within. For shamans like you, this is your lot. Life were you accorded for this alone.

Greatjar

A greatjar which fits comfortably over the head when upturned. Attire of the shamans who perform their worship at gaols. Increases the power of thrown pots of all sizes. They offer their prayers to the innards of the greatjars, such that they might be reborn one day into sainthood. This is the cycle of death and rebirth, taken into the hands of mortal men.

(Note: In the first quote, "shaman" is translated from the Japanese "Miko," which consistently refers to Marika's people and could be better translated as "shrine maiden." In the second quote, "shaman" is translated from the Japanese "kitoushi" and connotes something more along the lines of a priest or an elder.) Thank you @drenched-in-sunlight!

We also know that the hornsent see horns as a symbol of the divine, the bigger the better.

Fine Crucible Feather Talisman

A talisman fashioned from thin feathers that embody the aspects of various creatures. Said to have grown on the human body long ago. Improves backsteps but increases damage taken at all times. Hornsent view the Crucible as sacred for the refinement wrought through its evolutionary gifts. Most prominently, their tangled horns.

Horned Bairn

Doll of a tanglehorn bairn. Uses FP to summon vengeful spirits around the caster that autonomously chase down foes. Tangled horns are a symbol of spirituality, but most young born bearing the oversized horns meet a frightfully early demise. These fetishes are made to memorialize them.

Looking at omen in the base game, their horns seem much more chaotic and impractical than those of the hornsent. Most hornsent have a very manageable little crown of horns on their heads, and even the Horned Warrior's horns don't seem terribly impractical. Whereas omen horns seem like they would be both painful and extremely cumbersome.

(Sourced from BonfireVN on youtube)

While the standard omen enemies from the base game don't match the physique of the Lamenter, we do see a few examples of omen with lankier builds. Morgott is obviously larger than a common omen, but his proportions are that of a tall, rangy human. The Sanguine Nobles also seem to be omen, as they have horns that do not appear as part of their armor set.

(Sourced from Zullie the Witch on youtube)

The more ogre-like omen seem quite similar in build to the bloodfiends from the DLC.

Also, compare Mohg's build to Morgott's (both images sourced from Bonfire VN)

I wonder if the short, broad stature might be a side effect of glutting oneself on the power of the Formless Mother. We know she tends to choose her vassals from among the oppressed, we know that Esgar Priest of Blood was proselytizing in Leyndell's sewers, and we know from the Sacred Bloody Flesh item that the bloodfiends consume her blood as a standard part of their diet. The Sanguine Nobles seem to break the pattern, but they could be newer recruits, or they could be more judicious in their consumption of blood. Either way, we have a few examples (Morgott and the Sanguine Nobles) of omen with a build similar to the Lamenter.

One more point before I start bringing this to a conclusion -- although we only have visual clues to go on with the omen, with the misbegotten we know for a fact that their Crucible mutations come with health complications and cause them a degree of pain. Perfumer Tricia made it her life's work to treat such cases, and in the main game we see many misbegotten in Leyndell who appear to be seeking treatment from other perfumers.

Back to the Lamenter. I proposed in a previous theory (x) that omen might be the product of the hornsents' attempts to produce a "saint." Via the Dungeater's questline, we know it works in concept. By torturing a person in a specific way and doing unspeakable things to their soul, you can cause them to be reincarnated as an omen. I think that's exactly what the Lamenter is -- an early success. A saint.

The problem being, he's in obvious pain. He has horns growing through both of his eyes, and he's constantly wailing. He is everything that a hornsent raised in that culture would aspire to be, and by that same fact he lives a life of constant pain, darkness, and misery.

Of course they reject him. First they try to convince their followers that his weeping is actually an expression of bliss. He's blind because he's too enlightened to need his eyes (think the way the cultists in Midsommar talk about the disabled oracle). When that doesn't catch on, they lock him away and keep trying. It adds yet another twist of tragedy to the atrocities of the Potentates -- sainthood is not a goal just beyond their reach. They've already found it. And after all the innocent lives that they sacrificed to create that saint, they can't stand to look at him.

Thanks for the ask!

[missriyochuchi]

Race to Capture the Flagbearer

Summary: On the eve of the start of the athletics events, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer race to the Stade de France, betting that whoever enters the stadium first with the Flagbearer’s cape gets to chose the method of blessing the track.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Established relationship. Sexual tension. Kissing. Very lame sexual innuendo I’m very sorry lolol

Notes: In honor of the start of the track and field events, my favorite because I used to run track, I give you this hot mess! This one really got away from me. Full disclosure: I have never been to Paris. GoogleMaps and Google Images were absolutely indispensable!

Once again, I strongly recommend reading The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer first, but if not, only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympics, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction with humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer’s horse is named Zeus. I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; otherwise, their physical descriptions are not gendered.

Read on AO3

Beyond the city center, just north of the historic hilltop of Montmartre, Paris slumbers as though it were any other balmy summer night. A few stores and restaurants remain open, hosting those too restless to neglect the City of Lights. The low murmur of conversations warms the air beneath the amber glow of streetlights and the verdant canopies of deciduous trees. On the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, the soft, unmistakable clops of a horse turn the heads of those shocked to a standstill on the sidewalk.

The Flagbearer sways in her saddle as she guides Zeus down the northbound lane at a leisurely clip. The few cars caught behind them pass when able, unhurried by the late-night hour. Whispered surprise and pointing fingers follow in their wake. She turns and nods to the few aiming cameras and smartphones in their direction. Several meters behind on the northwest corner of the Boulevards des Maréchaux, two tourists watch the hooded figure continue on her journey.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Other one?”

“They’re always together at night.”

“What are you talking about?”

From behind them, a woman points up and shouts, “Là-bas!”

Heads tilt towards the rooftops. On the east side of the avenue, beyond the cover of the streetlights’ shine, onlookers catch the faint, bright material of the Torchbearer’s hood bobbing from building to building. The gauzy fabric travels quickly, seeming to fly across the uneven architecture, unbothered by safety or gravity. 

Sounds of the spectators acknowledging the Torchbearer’s trajectory build to a wave that rolls down the road and crashes on the Flagbearer’s cape. Her hood turns around, the shadow beneath facing the line of buildings to her right. She whips forward and digs her heels into the horse’s sides. In a flash, the rider and her mount take off on a gallop, and the telltale signs of the nimble nightwalker disappear from the rooftops’ edge.

“What happened?” A fourth bystander, looking as confused as the first two, joins the three on the corner.

“Elle l'a vu.” The woman smiles and, with her fore- and middle fingers, gestures from her eyes to the rooftops to the north end of the street.

“Oh, uh, pardonnez-moi,” one of the two tourists attempts haltingly, “je ne parle pas français.”

“Dude, you don’t need to know French to know what this,” his companion mimics the woman’s gestures, “means. She said—”

“‘She saw him’ is what she said,” clarifies the fourth bystander.

“He’s chasing her?”

“Ils font la course.”

“I— Where’s my dictionary? Sorry, could you, uh— répétez, s'il vous plaît?”

“‘They’re racing.’ Dude, I’m going to strangle you.”

“What? But he can’t win. She’s on a horse!”

The woman and the fourth bystander share a laugh as they continue down the road. “Depends on where the finish line is!”

No announcements had been made declaring the particulars of this after-hours contest, but the more observant tourists and Parisians who had witnessed the two hooded figures about town before could more or less divine where they were headed. The Stade de France marked the end of their race, the venue housing the track for which their relay was honoring. No one, however, not even those with firsthand experience of past Olympic Games, could guess the particulars of their side bet.

“The athletics events begin in a few hours,” the Torchbearer had said to the Flagbearer, 90 minutes earlier, as they crossed the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot in the direction of the Seine.

She hummed and smiled, gazing at the ground and matching his stride, her hands folded behind her back. “One of your favorites,” she said fondly.

From the top of the steps leading to the Jardins du Trocadéro, the Olympic Torch was still visible in the sky. Small groups of tourists flitted about the site, aiming all kinds of photographic equipment between the Olympic Flag flying above the Place du Trocadéro to the Eiffel Tower glittering above it all.

“The stadium is about 10 kilometers away,” the Torchbearer continued, pointing in a general northeasterly direction.

“I am aware of the distance, ma chère.”

“Shall we go over the rules?”

“Zeus,” the Flagbearer lilted, turning to face her mount, “do you need to be reminded of the rules?”

Following close behind, the horse shook his head. The two Olympic guardians had spent the last few nights inventing details to include the stallion in their quirky tradition. He was forbidden from trotting faster than 12 kilometers per hour, the average speed of a human man running. Only when the Torchbearer was in sight could Zeus gallop to his top speed; once out of sight, the horse would return to an average walk. The Flagbearer had offered to send Zeus ahead to the stadium in an attempt at fairness, but even she knew her armor was a handicap in the Torchbearer’s favor. She needed her steed.

“Perhaps we should lift the ban on mechanical vehicles, just this once,” the Flagbearer offered sheepishly. She felt guilty that for all of the Torchbearer’s physical prowess and show on the rooftops during the Opening Ceremony, he was still no match for one of Earth’s fastest land animals.

“No, my love. I do not believe Zeus gives you an undue advantage. Besides, I have my own ideas for bypassing our usual rule.”

“Oh?” She stopped at the edge of the esplanade and crossed her arms. “Then perhaps I should remind you that a bicycle is a kind of vehicle and therefore forbidden.”

The Torchbearer laughed. “I know better than to repeat my own mistakes. No, I have something even less mechanical in mind.”

“Would you care to share so that I may approve your means of cheating?”

He gasped and recoiled in faux offense, bringing his fingertips to his chest in mock shock. “Darling, how dare you accuse me of such a thing! It is not in our nature to cheat!”

“I know,” she conceded carefully before resuming her command, “but just because the equipment is featured in the Games does not mean it is allowed in our little competition. However, I suppose for tonight, I can allow you to skateboard.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You still have not guessed correctly. No, I am certain these types of wheels are permissible. No human law has ever classified them as a form of transportation.”

The Flagbearer dropped her arms to her sides and squared her shoulders, straightening her posture. “Now I am intrigued.”

Light cheers and applause bubbled up around them. The two looked up in time to watch the Olympic Torch descend out of sight. Only the Eiffel Tower remained bright in the inky night.

“That is your cue, chérie.” The Torchbearer extended a hand in a show of sportsmanship. “Good luck.”

The Flagbearer accepted the gesture. “Bonne chance à toi, aussi, my dear. If you do reach me, try not to pull too hard. Falling from Zeus’s height would hurt even more in this armor.”

“I shall hold back my strength for your safety, mon amour. Now go.”

The Torchbearer watched his partner mount her steed and quickly gallop back through the esplanade, gaining more spectators with each echoing hoofbeat. When she reached the road, she brought Zeus to rear on his hind legs. Gasps of surprise followed. Once Zeus righted on all four legs, she blew a kiss to the Torchbearer who caught and tucked it into his vest against his chest. With a nod, horse and rider trotted in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. He waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade away before running down the steps and across the garden and banking left to try to cut them off through neighboring roads.

What would normally have been a swift, straightforward race from the Place du Trocadéro to the Stade de France turned into an extended excursion into the more hidden side streets of Paris. Previous incarnations of the Olympic guardians allowed them to run unencumbered. The Flagbearer’s armored form, paired with Zeus’s presence, meant that they needed a creative twist to make up for their unique limitations. Eyeing the Flagbearer’s cape one night, the Torchbearer suggested a riff on the rules of Capture the Flag: one flag and one territory instead of the usual two each, her cape standing in for the desired marker and the stadium the sole safe place. Whoever entered the Stade de France first with the Flagbearer’s cape would win. What was once a race became a chase.

For more than 10 kilometers, the Flagbearer evades the more agile Torchbearer. She never hears him coming, his footsteps too light even in the silence of empty streets. She had been halfway through the Parc Manceau, hoping to use its lawns and trees to muffle Zeus’s steps, when she felt a rush of air graze her right leg. Her arm shot behind her and grasped her cape, its tough material caught up in the momentary gust. She sighed in relief just as the scrape of plastic wheels echoed on the pavement. She turned around and watched the Torchbearer come up from a crouched position and straighten up a few inches taller than his usual height.

“Rollerblades!” The Flagbearer was impressed. “Darling, you think of everything.”

He laughed. “They are not as quiet as I need them to be, but at least I have a chance to match Zeus’s trot.”

“It is not your speed that needs improvement.” She threw her cape behind her, taunting him as it fluttered back into place. “Your grip is lacking, my dove.”

With a swift tug of her reins, she brought Zeus to a gallop across the lawn where the Torchbearer’s wheels could not follow. He glided down a path to try to cut them off at the park’s edge, but lost sight of them behind the foliage. He stared at the five-road intersection and quickly picked up Zeus’s hoofbeats echoing down the Rue Georges Berger. Though he couldn’t see the source of the sound, he was sure of its direction. He took off down the Rue de Thann, hoping to catch them at the Boulevard Malesherbes. When he reached the corner, he found Zeus waiting riderless. The Flagbearer would repeat this strategy throughout the night.

With Zeus’s hoofbeats no longer a reliable sign of his partner’s presence, the Torchbearer takes to the rooftops for the higher vantage points. He flies freely — no cars or pedestrians to block his journey, no trees or walls to block his view. Despite the cloak of darkness hiding potentially dangerous nooks on which to trip, his step is sure. He falters only when he reaches the main thoroughfares, several lanes too wide to jump, and is forced to climb back down to the sidewalk. When he swivels around, hands on his hips and unsure of the Flagbearer’s location, a few wide-eyed tourists point him in the right direction. He nods or salutes before sprinting to the nearest building and resuming his flight across the darkened rooftops.

Meanwhile, the Flagbearer continues to use sound to her advantage. When she is not deploying Zeus as a decoy, she also relies on the few onlookers in her wake. Every time the Torchbearer nears, a low swell of claps and gasps announces his proximity, the spectators’ excitement at witnessing the phantom figure reenact his debut performance rippling through the air like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy night. The audible warning allows her enough time to pinpoint his location and break for a darker or wider street. Despite the weight of her armor and the agreed-upon limitations on Zeus’s abilities, she manages to stay ahead and out of reach of the Torchbearer.

Eventually, after breathless hours of looking over her shoulder, the Flagbearer comes into sight of the Stade de France. She is relieved but restless. It had taken longer to reach the stadium than she’d anticipated, and her daytime duties began to slip into the forefront of her mind. She senses dawn just below the horizon, hiding for another hour before warming Paris once more. She felt the urgency of concluding their game.

With no sign of the Torchbearer, the Flagbearer dismounts and walks the remaining distance to the parking lot surrounding the stadium. Zeus’s hoofbeats punctuate the whoosh of the few cars passing on the highway. They are 100 meters from a western gate when she hears the familiar roll of plastic wheels fast approaching behind her.

Without turning around, she smacks Zeus’s rump and grabs the horn of her saddle. She lifts herself high enough to put a foot in the stirrup as the stallion gallops towards the gate. She clings to her steed’s side, pushing sore muscles to their breaking point as her cape whips and drags in the wind. She pulls herself up and over to straddle the saddle and grasps for enough stability to turn her head around. She sees no hooded figure. 

Only when Zeus stops abruptly in front of a gate does she see the Torchbearer. He had rolled to a stop a few meters from her position, holding her cape aloft in his right hand and waving low with his left. The Flagbearer quickly dismounts and points for Zeus to step away from the gate.

“Looks like I won, my sweet,” the Torchbearer taunts across the distance. 

“Not yet, darling.” The Flagbearer advances slowly, cracking her neck and loosening her shoulders for what she assumes could turn into a wrestling match. “You have not entered the stadium proper. This parking lot is open space.” 

His right hand drops to his hip, her cape billowing in the breeze. “You cannot outrun me in your armor.”

“Then play fair, ma chère. You know your agility is hampered by those tiny wheels.”

He lets out an amused huff before agreeing to her concession. He kneels on her cape, alternating knees so as not to lose it to the wind, and takes off the rollerblades. From behind his jacket, he produces and quickly puts on his shoes, readjusting his leg gaiters over the treads. All the while, the Flagbearer maintains her distance.

“A lesser opponent would have rushed me by now,” the Torchbearer observes as he stands up.

“A lesser opponent would have conceded defeat,” she counters as she steps forward.

He strides to the side, and she mirrors his move. “How do you imagine this will end, my dear?” 

“With you pinning my cape back on me and blessing the track my way.”

“Darling, I would gladly pin you any day, but do tell what you had in mind if you do indeed win.”

The Flagbearer shakes her head as she takes another step closer. “As much as I enjoy your sense of humor, I would not deign to give you ideas before my victory is secured.”

“A wise move perhaps, but in truth, you read my mind.” The Torchbearer jumps several steps to the right, the entrance briefly in view, before she blocks him. “I can tell you with the utmost certainty that when I win, I shall pin you on the track.”

He is close enough to spy a smirk on her lips. She giggles and says, “And you call me insatiable.”

“My hunger burns eternal for you, my angel sweet.”

She comes up to her full height and points a finger in his direction. “You are distracting me.”

“An effective strategy, I would say. I have lured you away from the entrance.”

“By closing the distance between us.” The Flagbearer reaches out and jabs the Torchbearer’s shoulder with a firm finger. She enters into a slight crouch, palms outstretched, ready to reclaim her cape.

“Well, if we are to dance, mon amour,” he takes her cape in both hands and bunches opposing corners in his fists, “we must step closer.”

He swings the length of the cape over the Flagbearer’s head and around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She looks up, grabs the remaining free corners fluttering above their heads, and swings them behind his shoulders. They land in each other’s arms, enveloped by the Olympic Flag.

Hidden beneath the cover of the opaque cape, the Flagbearer removes her gloves, stuffs them into her belt, and brings gentle fingertips to the bottom edge of the Torchbearer’s mask.

“You win, my love. Would you like a taste of your prize?”

She lifts the mesh just enough to expose his mouth. His breath warms her hand as she presses the pad of her thumb across his soft lips. She cradles his jaw in both hands, keeping his mask in place over his nose, as they meet for a fevered kiss.

Only the Flagbearer is privy to the face beneath the Torchbearer’s mask, the covering quickly removed during private moments behind closed doors. No rule existed banning the public exposure of their countenances, but the Olympic guardians thought it best for their appearances to remain as neutral as the intentions behind the performance of their duties. They are as much a symbol of the Games as they are its players, and only with their features hidden can they best represent the best of humanity in all its forms and functions.

From the top of the steps leading to the upper parts of the stadium, the crackle of a security guard’s radio travels through the air and interrupts the lovers. They part lips with heavy sighs, reluctant to meet the world and its inhabitants.

“Change of plans,” the Torchbearer mumbles as he chases the Flagbearer’s chin with his mouth and finds the lower edge of her cuirass with his hands. “This audience will not do.”

She giggles and runs her hands down his chest, searching for the warmth beneath his many layers. “Our race took too long. If only we had reached the stadium sooner,” she sighs as he traces her jaw with the tip of his tongue and latches his lips just below her ear, “when it was less populated.” She pulls him closer, reaching for the backs of his neck and waist.

“A simple walk must suffice.” He pulls away, lowering the Flagbearer’s hands by her wrists. “I have had enough racing for tonight.”

“Have I worn you down?” She tugs on the Torchbearer’s lapels.

He laughs as he removes her gloves from her belt and glides them over her hands, the wind at his back keeping the cape in place. “I bow to your mastery of stealth and strategy.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” She readjusts his mask under his chin before he flips the cape behind her and secures it under her spaulders. “Be honest, dear, did I tire you too much?”

“I can manage a 400-meter walk.”

“And afterwards?” The Flagbearer nudges her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing her shoulder to his, and starts towards the stadium.

“I have enough strength for my duties. You need not worry.”

“I know. I had hoped for my own blessing before sunrise.”

The Torchbearer laughs to the sky before swinging his arm around her waist and opening his side to her embrace. “Darling, you truly are insatiable.”

“I merely wish for you to claim your prize.”

“The walk around the track—”

“Is still part of our duties. Your prize for catching me is far more enjoyable.”

He stops to hold her hands and run a finger along her jawline. “Then let us race properly, quickly around the track, so I may claim you.”

The Flagbearer giggles and starts down a tunnel leading into the belly of the stadium, the weight of her boots and the drag of her cape slowing her sprint. The Torchbearer captures her quickly.

Translations: Là-bas! - Over there! pardonnez-moi, je ne parle pas français - forgive me, I don't speak French répétez, s'il vous plaît - repeat, please Bonne chance à toi, aussi - Good luck to you, too