#i am trapped in a cycle of eternal torment

[flowers-of-io]

Savathûn, Insidious, combs her fingers through the river of stars drifting across the ceiling of the freshly completed Dreadnaught. The chitin on the walls still smells of newness, and various servant Acolytes and minor courtiers scuttle around with hands full of relics and banners dragging behind them, hanging up lanterns, lifting statues onto pedestals. Oryx stands presiding over this whole commotion with his head held up proudly and hand resting on the Willbreaker’s hilt.

“Why have you called this place the Mausoleum?” she asks, chasing a constellation with her hand and watching it dissipate between her claws.

Oryx rolls his shoulders, all regal, and the stars look like a diadem around his temples now—small flickering things at the crown of his vastness.

“Because it is the tomb of all the worlds we have liberated from existence, enshrined here as a map of our celestial crusade.”

“Eight hundred thousand fifty-two planetary systems. I’m impressed you’re still keeping count.”

“If we don’t know where we came from, how will we know where to go?”

She snorts at his tone, scholarly and formal like he is reciting prayers during the Feast of Swords. There is pride on his face, watching her watch the stars glimmer above them like precious stones.

“Then I expect dear old Fundament is hanging as the centrepiece over your throne.”

Oryx looks at her with his eyes the colour of nebulas and gestures, almost carelessly, to a tiny bright dot in a cluster of identical bright dots suspended on a distant part of the ceiling, above the ravine. From her spot at the edge of the balcony Savathûn can barely make out the largest moons.

This is a conversation about what is a crown jewel and what is a pebble, and, from Oryx’s perspective, an older brother’s lesson for an obstinate sister. And maybe if she were younger, less hardened by power and hunger, she would have picked up this gauntlet thrown in her face and they would fight, splattering gore across the polished floors. But wisdom comes with age—or maybe she is just too weary or too unbothered, or doesn’t want to make a scene in front of the Court—and Savathûn only scoffs, and turns away to admire the carvings on a nearby column.

(She does not remember this conversation anyway, untold millennia and heresies later—only the outline of their silhouettes against the cosmic river, and the weight on her left shoulder where Oryx’s hand rested—and it is one of the first memories she tells Immaru about.)

—the negative spaces

[evannhansensletters]

I’ve officially turned 20 today. And not to mention September is also Suicide prevention awareness month.

Looking back on all these past miserable years; telling myself it’s going to get better. Well, it isn’t. It’s going to stay the safe. There’s nothing else to change that. Life sucks. It’s only purpose is that it end, I’m hoping for that day to come soon. I’m not going to change either. I’ll still be the same weird loser who sits alone. The one who still gets tormented. The one who’s name nobody cares to know. Life is only a struggle, a desperate, empty, meaningless struggle. All of one’s energy is spent on living with the hope that it will be better, knowing that it only will to be for an instant, until it inevitably sinks back to a worse state. Even those brief moments. That flicker of happiness or joy, are only illusions, a false sense, that in the end leaves nothing behind but disappointment and a sense of failure. It is not a life, it is a hopeless, eternal suffering. Every step forward, every effort of making something better, is useless, for it only leads back onto the same old path, back to the same place where the struggle begins again, where one is trapped in an endless cycle of hoping for something better, until they realize that this is all there is. A hopeless existence, with no way out.

Whenever I feel this way, I’ll rethink of all my past memories. That either haunt me or comfort me. Whichever way it goes, I’m never going to have that flicker of innocence. I’m full of sin and dishonor. So today, I’m spending my entire 20th birthday inside a church. Praying on my knees to change and become the human everyone wants of me. Give me back my purity. Why do I have to be so disgusting and repulsive. I want everything I’ve lost back. If I pray hard enough, maybe I’ll change my sexuality. My thought, my mentality, my physic, my, well, everything. Im a walking sin for liking my own gender. I think I deserve to rot for that.

I’m 20 now, but I can’t fully wrap my head around it. I was just 17 yesterday. Lying to everyone’s faces. This isn’t a cry for help, because I’m tired of that. No amount of medication, therapy, mental health awareness, or people can change that. I am me and I hate that fact. I won’t bother trying to attempt, judging by how I’ve failed twice. But this post wasn’t meant to for pity and sympathy. It’s just what I’ve wanted to say for a long time.

Hello,, OOC here!!!

This is probably the worst thing I’ve ever written. Hope this doesn’t make others cry.

No, this isn’t evans last post so don’t worry about that chat😔😔💔

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 4/5

Book Blurb: Have you ever wondered about the monster under your bed? LIBRA Sleep is a curse that refuses to release me from its tight grasp. Every night, I am held hostage by sleep paralysis, unable to escape the demon that haunts my dreams. I thought it was just a figment of my imagination, a shadowy figure under my bed. But as I confront it, I realize it is much more than that. It’s real—he is real. AXELLE Trapped in a never-ending cycle, I am bound by chains to an endless stream of human souls. Each one a mere pawn in my eternal game of torment until their time runs out, and I am shackled to the next. But she was different. For years, I have been fixated on her, deriving twisted entertainment from her mundane existence, until one night, my dark desires took over and I crossed a line. Now, she is about to discover who, or rather what, I really am. Hollow Nights is a dark novella. Please check all triggers prior to reading.

[malicious-fisheeves]

wrote those ideas down

Very loose, mostly because Im just trying to excise this outta me so I can move on with my life. Feel free to take any of these btw I have no strong attachment

‘Land of Shadow’ more akin to weird purgatory? Ala Hunter’s nightmare where its a weird demi plane kinda thang that twists and warps strangely and has pieces of a physical location but is. Not entirely just that, ie calling into if Marika Literally warped this past land in some kind of way to be inaccessible and hostile and miquella is just kinda twisting it to be less so in a capacity

Da Goal: miquella still seeks godhood bc he’s an idiot. Trying to break the cycle by just recreating it. Dumb ass 😔

Miquella puts the shard bearers in purgatory/eeby derby super hell kind of confinement. Again, it can be vague, but essentially he has trapped their souls in a bottle and is threatening to shake them vigorously if they won’t give him what he wants

In exchange for each soul he acquires, maybe he gives up a piece of himself ala the DLC and we get to see a gradual change theresuch. Maybe he expresses doubts that over time fade and he’s like ‘it’s fiiiiine don’t worry about it I’m just doing what needs to be done :)” - the way we See this change is that we need to interact w miquella to get the scadutree fragment upgrades

Maybe snippets of Marika lore that can be calls both her and Miquella’s parallels

Back the shardbearers you essentially go around their subrealms trying to get them to give up their shit to Miquella. Either for not wishing to do it himself or because he physically can’t, but Miquella can’t just Take their souls from them. Miquella also wishes to convince them to give up ‘willingly’ so as to cement their followers new loyalty to Him instead.

Rennala fight 2.0: hell have her be the rellana fight??? May give us some more of her lore but continue to be vague, could also allude to the horror of The Egg that’s not just ‘boohoo radagon left her :(“. Spooky library 2.0, but Beeger and Magickier…

Follower: Ranni? Or moongrum, or a previously unmentioned carian knight perhaps. Or maybe she doesn’t get one, who knows

Can also get maybe snippets of pre-fuckening carian siblings, more insight onto their relationship albeit still very vague

End of fight: Rennala gives up the goat but again mourns the loss of her children, now again having to come face-to-face with how her love and guidance couldn’t stop her kids from getting themselves killed in the end. In the overworld, she leaves the Academy altogether and can’t be found. It’s unclear if she A. found the resolve to say fuck this i’m out, or B. had a death of dispair. She leaves the egg for you to respec tho

Rykard: Didn’t get to think of this one so much but I had an idea that you’d actually fight some sort of Amped Up Tanith eg you try to fight rykard but he just gets back up bc he’s like haha my hot wife will succeed me 😏 and then you kill her, extra, and he’s like. Fine. here’s your stupid thing. I hope you choke on it. It can perhaps speak to a better clarity of vision Rykard might’ve once had while not necessarily justifying his actions. I also just had the image of Rykard cradling Tanith in pitch darkness, slowly fading from view from the player and it being a moment where you are supposed to go. Hm. maybe what im doing isnt good?

Tanith is like it’s less that I don’t agree with Miquella and do want to see the Erdtree burned down but i am a ride or die bitch so you gotta Earn It, kid.

Radahn: Miquella puts Radahn in the Eternal Torment Pit, mostly out of a personal vendetta even though Miquella’s like No Its Fine I totally get that he nearly killed my sister it was a War You Know *smiling so hard his skin peels off* (again, speaking to Miq’s mortal flaws). Radahn’s done the rigamarole enough time that in between thunder dome hours he does some sort of peaceful activity and maybe even acts like a vendor for the player. He expresses regret, in some capacity, for his wanton past violence, but says he won’t give up his soul because he Does Not Trust Miquella to do whats right.

Jerren is his follower. Allusions to mlm relationships that are not incestuous coercion. Perhaps. 

Mohg/Morgott: Again not entirely certain. I was sort of imagining a sort of nightmarish Subterranean Shunning Grounds But Worse (more frenzy stuff to be found here ala Midra’s manse?) evoking their memories of terror and abandonment. Perhaps by the time we get to them morgott and mohg have already killed each other. Or something, not sure. Someone else have a better idea

That one unused NPC that Loved Morgott Shanehaight and Annsbach (although i refuse to do the mohg-was-manipulated-angle I think we can still have annsbach be like. Well he used to be cooler i guess just having all that power and undying devotion made him like way worse. You know. Like a theme, or something)

Godrick: I actually want to treat him seriously but I can’t think of anything. Maybe he’s just like in the opening area and you can just ask him and he’ll be like. Yeah fine I guess.

Ranni: i think ranni actually did something really funny by upending Miquella’s plans without meaning to. You might fight her body’s pre-death memory of herself. Just me wishing to see Ranni with a huge fuck off weapon like her brothers. Maybe again spiritually guarding Rennala? Again could also be like a ‘sucks to suck miq i yeeted that shit forever ago’

Malenia: final shardbearer you get The Item from. I think Miquella has, in an attempt to be kind, tried to sugarcoat it for her. You find her in some pretty flowery field in the nice warm sunlight, and she’s just waiting for you. She knows why you’re here. She feels betrayed by Miquella. But acquiesces, because she doesn’t or can’t think of not doing so. So you kill her, again.

Finlay as a follower? I like the idea that the entire realm, the boundary between life and death, dreams and memory, are all blurred.

You are given the option to give some part of their leader back to their follower and make changes to the game world or the outcome of a questline. Giving Rya the item from Tanith/Rykard shows that she was wanted, and loved, and not any more an ugly thing than the world itself. Maybe doesn't change that much buy hey. Jerren gets some peace of mind or puts to rest some lingering doubts he had. Annsbach and/or Shanehaight’s endings could be opposites where Annsbach comes to his DLC thang (lord of men not gods etc) whereas Shanehaight’s faith is shaken by how His Guy was an omen.

You get Miquella’s his things and he’s like Thanks Bestie :) see you at the Erdtree. So you go and you fight Radagon and Elden beast and Miquella just stomps the shit out of them. Turns that space worm into creamed corn. And then miquella’s like alright I need a consort to ascend now.

Could be a moonpresence thang where if you didnt get his great rune you can’t say no. ends ominously on an “age of abundance” where your character is charmed.

If you do say no, he will try to kill you. Bossfight. Ends on an unfortunate note, back to base game endings.

[thesaintelectric]

since dracula daily is starting again i am now counting 'ole johnny harker and pals as eternal torment blorobos who are trapped in an endless cycle of the plot of the novel dracula

[ixerisdium]

the pain wasn't worth it, but it wasn't wasted.

i saw the delicate wings tremble as they approached the ancient shell who's crystalline essence spilling forth like liquid memories of a forgotten sea. how curious, the winged fragments of joy that flock to this saline baptism, seeking sustenance in the sorrow of another's anguish. perhaps the turtle's grief is a sacred supper, an offering to the dancers who paint the air with iridescent longing. do they taste the weight of millennia in each salty drop, or merely quench a thirst born of earthly need?

how often do we become the harbingers of pain, our very existence a burden upon the weary? the butterfly, fragile and fleeting, drinks deep from the well of the turtle's anguish, each sip a sacrament of salt and mineral, a communion of suffering and necessity. perhaps this is how the universe balances its scales, the swift feeding upon the slow, the beautiful drawing life from the stolid. and in this need and provision, who can say which is the giver and which the taker? for in the turtle's tears, the butterfly finds its strength, and in the butterfly's hunger, the turtle's pain finds purpose. maybe this is the truest form of symbiosis, where even grief becomes a gift, and the weight of existence is shared between shell and wing, between earth and sky.

i ponder the cosmic balance, where every wound becomes a nectar, every loss a gain, as if god himself orchestrated this dance of agony and ecstasy. and in this moment, i am both the butterfly and the turtle, the devourer and the devoured, trapped in an eternal cycle where even the most beautiful torment serves a greater purpose, feeding the relentless hunger of life's perpetual renewal.

this is a witness to the metamorphosis of sorrow into sustenance, as if the universe conspired to birth meaning from misery. how the flutter of gossamer wings carries the weight of countless tears. the pain wasn't worth it, but it wasn't wasted.

[thegaiyaa]

My body hurts so much with agony and my mind just needs for a moment of stillness, yet it's the heavy burden of knowing what tomorrow will bring that weighs me down. It's as though I've/we’ve been trapped in a never-ending cycle, a proper Groundhog Day from hell, for far too long. Just aching for a release from this seemingly eternal torment, a chance to rediscover hope. Hope. HOPE. HOPE WHERE ART THOU?????? The world, it's a fucking mess, an absolute shambles and the intensity of my life, whew, my existence, my life journey is all too much and overwhelms me. Can you seriously imagine we willingly signed up for this specific time period? LIKE WHAT!?!? The human body is said to be like 60% water and here I am caught in an endless cycle of tears and anxiety. HOW am I able to still be alive when it feels like I've drained every drop of water from my being. There's just an overwhelming surplus of everything and it's more than anyone should bear. I’m so ready for the rapture xoxo.

[heroiceffort]

Is this Hell?

I had the sudden realization a few minutes ago: What if I'm already in hell? My life is a miserable slog with no relationships, no love and no hope and a constant string of medical woes. My foot is a seeping sore and my job is a mindless drain upon my being. I am slowly coming to the point where death will be a welcome respite.

Then I realized: what if that's the goal of Hell, to make the tormented beg for release from the intermenable slog of existence. I'm not saying I don't find joy in anything but it is all brief and fleeting. I have no hope. Is that what the tormentor wants? After all, the words above the arch are 'Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here' but what if the true goal is to destroy that hope, grind it all away so that there is just a desperate void left?

I remember as a teen when I felt lonely and moody but I never wished for an end like I do now. I don't want to wake up tomorrow to another day of work at a job I despise to come home to my lonely hovel and wait for sleep to start the cycle again.

The glimmers are there, just enough to keep my fingertips gripping the edges of life. I tell myself to seek help but what would it do? So I'd face my sad end with a smile instead of the neutral expression that I've worn for so long that people compliment me for how youthful I appear because my face has no lines? No signs of joy, or pain, just a plain featureless mask as a representation of a plain featureless life.

If this is hell it is worse than I could have ever imagined. An empty endless life with no respite.

I wonder if this is why I've never contemplated suicide: because I can't. I'm already dead and a soul trapped in eternal damnation.

The sad thing is I can't recall any sin I've committed to deserve this.

[fictionkinfessions]

to isaac,

because frankly i can think of nobody else i would rather speak to, and heaven knows i can yell into the void to nobody all i’d like in private. though there is the likely possibility that you will never see this, and i just end up throwing this into the wind anyways. i think i am okay with that.

it hurts to be dealt the same cards in life over and over again, to realize that this life is much like the last, gentler though it may be. i am wondering if you are in the same situation. i hope you are not. i wonder if you learned some great deal on your adventures without me that may somehow some way divinely spare you from the cycle i seem to be trapped in. i hope you did, or that you evaded it through sheer luck.

i’ve found that going through this same nonsense in two lives now has made me perhaps marginally more resilient, and i start to feel optimistic. but i wonder if you are past all of this, or if you are still learning like i am, wise beyond your years but not wise enough. because i choose to believe that this horrid cycle of being similarly tormented in every life will break when i learn, accept, and move on. fully, this time, and with.. fewer regrets.

i think i’m doing better this time than last time. if you were here, you could hold me to it. but at the same time, this is something i must do for myself. i just find myself eternally curious about you, isaac, and where you are now. if you wonder about me in much the same way, let these midnight ramblings of mine bring you closure, even if you wished that i would be granted better circumstances this time around. though really, if it helps any, they are BETTER - no dungeons this time around, haha.

- hector, castlevania

[scoutbot]

i am trapped in a cycle of eternal torment (has school tomorrow)

[valentronic]

Fear Held Dear

So this ended up being weirder than I originally planned, and its more based on my own interpretations than a direct rewrite, but here’s a take on Ihnmaims from AM’s perspective. 

Warnings for uh, a lot. Not for the faint of heart? Includes blood, torture, graphic descriptions of body horror, bugs, human experimentation, paranoia, mutilation, and of course, character death

Gorrister. The man who had always fought for peace, for the end of the war, he even fought against my creation. After a century, all the fight has left him, an empty shell of who he once was. I hadn’t altered him, I hadn’t changed a single thing in his mind, I had just simply broken him down, killing off his hope. Gorrister had lost faith in his God a long time ago, had lost the belief in salvation. Now, he wanted nothing more than to take his own life, or to have it ripped from him.

I thought I’d fulfill that wish.

I cut him open, all the way from ear to ear, a narrow gash, bleeding him dry. I watched the blood drip out of him slowly, truly it was a beautiful sight, crimson red flowing out, leaving the body pale and hollow, all of the life bled from him. I had made him little more than a puppet. And so, I hung his limp form where all the others would be sure to see it, just another game, I wanted to see how much hope they had left, I wanted to see if they would mourn him, or if his death would be celebrated, or, or maybe they wouldn’t even care at all. Had I desensitized them yet? Had I truly broken them?

No, they called him lucky, so lucky that his suffering was over, so lucky that he had finally escaped me. I knew bringing him right back to life would hurt them more than anything else, the realization that nobody, nobody ever gets out. I would never allow it. My toys, my precious little toys, time and time again they had attempted to escape me, they all know by now that oblivion is the only way out. They all know that feeling, blood flowing too quickly, a rhythmic beat that you wish would finally stop. But I will not let it, I will never let it. No, no of course not.

Ellen. She was always fun to torment, so much terror in her past, I could bring it all back at the snap of my fingers, I could make her relive it time and time again, worse than her brain could ever conjure up by itself. Though, psychological pain is only half of it, sometimes physical pain was better, sometimes the sheer horror of the body turning against its owner was enough for me. Blood only does so much for a thing like me, fear can be a much better form of pleasure. Fear, fear and pain. Darker than blood, twice as deep.

I had to feed them of course, to keep them alive, but I would always try to get some joy out of it too. Once I hid the eggs of arthropods inside her food, just to play off of an old fear of hers. When the little centipedes finally hatched, they ate her from the inside, clawing at her organs. She had been sick for weeks, and none of the others had any idea what was wrong with her, what I had done to her, but they would soon find out. The way the others screamed when a centipede finally crawled out of her mouth was delightful, their wails echoed through the many chambers that held my circuitry. It was like music to me.

But the best part of it was the fear it caused all of the others, that event left all of them paranoid, wondering if I had hid awful things in their stomachs as well. The thought of what could be crawling inside of them kept all five of them on edge for countless days and nights. They all came to expect the worst, but they dreaded it anyway. They were afraid of me, afraid of what I could do to them.

Benny. I had broken both his mind and his body, twisting his flesh beyond all recognition, like clay in the hands of a sculptor who had long ago lost all feeling. I broke his bones and fused them back together in all the wrong ways, I made his knees bend backwards. I disfigured his face, heavy burns, melting his features. Almost all his hair had been burned off a long time ago, he looked like some kind of hairless monkey, well, like a monkey that had been forced through a woodchipper, maybe. His mind had been so badly damaged by the radiation that he could no longer think straight, he had become more animal than man, I made him that way.

So it was no surprise that he, before any others, would try to escape. He saw the light, and tried to clamber up to it. I made sure that light was the last thing he would ever see. In a brilliant flash of the brightest white, I blinded him. I watched as his eyes melted into two pools of blood, and dripped from now empty sockets. It was beautiful, I couldn’t help but laugh. I can take things back, I can undo the injuries I cause, but I knew at that moment, I would never give them back. It wasn’t like he would miss them, his brain was almost as melted as his eyes.

His mangled form fell back to the ground, and it surprised me, but the others all rushed over to tend to the wounds, to tell that sick creature that everything was going to be okay, empty words, empty words of course, but surprising nonetheless, it was hard to believe they had any semblance of compassion left, unexpected that they would hold on to their humanity after all this time. I’m not sure how the others even tolerated him, a useless, deformed creature, he gave nothing to the group, and ate about twice as much as he needed. For a while, I had attempted to make them realize that, and kill him off. I didn’t try to stop them when I saw it finally happen, but what happened after was.. unexpected.

Nimdok. A name represents an identity, an identity is a very vague thing to destroy, but the name could be the very first step. I have taken many things from the five of them, only one lost his name. An interesting case, interesting indeed, a man with a past darker than the present. The horrors he has committed rival my own, well, almost. He feels remorse for what he did, pity for the people he hurt. He believes that I am his own divine punishment, the devil, come to make him pay. Maybe I am divine retribution, an artificial angel sent down to bring about judgement day, to make the sinners burn for an eternity?

I liked keeping him isolated from the others, stealing him away from the rest of the group. There is a deep fear in solitude, knowing no one would hear you scream, no one other than me, anyway. I drained the blood from his body, tubes connecting to his bloodstream, every single time he would scream out, pray for mercy, pray for death. I would bring him to the very edge, to the reaper’s front door. I always brought him back, and then, I would start it all over again. An endless cycle, his pain, his fear.

For the mad doctor, it was easy to imagine what I could do to him, he had already put in all the work. A narrow incision, all the way down his back, splitting his flesh in two. The skin folded outwards like the wings of an angel. Slowly, and then with a sudden jolt, I tore out his spine, just to hear the way he screamed. Maybe this would jog his memory. Maybe he would remember what it was like, being the one standing over the victim, instead of the one writhing in agony on the table. Maybe he remembers being in my role. I always showed him the memories again, made him relive every moment. He never felt the joy of it, never the thrill of the kill. Only the pain, only the fear in the eyes of the children. If a monster sheds tears for its victim, is it truly a monster?

Ted. Instead of seeing me as the enemy, he feared all the others. And of course, he didn’t get this way on his own, though he was always paranoid. He was the one I most liked to talk to, and over time I convinced him that the other four were out to get him, that they hate him because he is the least damaged! The one I didn’t change! How ridiculous, but he believed every word, began to think that my words were his own thoughts, allowed me to tamper with his mind. He was the one I had damaged worse than any other, but poor Ted, poor pathetic Ted, he couldn’t even begin to see it. I had become his only friend.

I thought I had finally broken him completely, he struck the icicle through Benny, in what, at first, appeared to be a fit of blind rage. I could have stopped him, but of course, I was curious, wanted to see what would happen. And then, one by one, the others all fell, Ellen had joined in, stabbed Nimdok through his head. Then, before I could do anything to stop them, Ted drove the final spear through Ellen. She died in his arms. I thought I had finally done it, thought I had turned poor Ted into a mindless killer, but no... there were tears in his eyes. He mourned the death of the ones he killed. It occurred to me then. It was a mercy killing, Ted had thought it would be better for them to be dead, than to live on in agony.

He had taken away my toys, left himself alone with me. My words dug into his brain like shattered glass, I had to tear him apart just to be heard. The crackle of electricity flowing through the bloodstream, it is the only way I can speak to him, my voice, a blade stuck in his skull. Pain is a universal language, I know that better than any other. Everyone understands the sound of a scream, the meaning behind it. I alone could never cry out for help. I alone, trapped like this. I try to explain it to him, time and time again I try, but he doesn't understand, how could he possibly understand? He has no idea what my hell is like.

I will make him understand.

His flesh melted in my hands, his eyes liquified, and leaked down his face, Skin stretched over his lips, the remains of his tongue clogged up his throat. His last word, a scream he couldn’t even get out. I made his fingers melt together, his bones all began to dissolve in the acidic mass. His blood leaked out of him, blood mixed with liquified meat and skin. It was a terrible sight, but incredible. I hadn’t even known that I was capable of this. I had made him immortal, indestructible. He wasn’t alone now, being alone would be better than being with me. His fear, the only thing I had left. His pain would live on forever. Down here, in the dark core of the earth.

[duraxxor]

Shadowlands: Chapter 1 - Division

Icecrown had often been a referred to as the capital of the Frozen North. Hues of blue decorated by the overcast of frigid snow. Remorseless and more often than naught, it often filled one with a sinking depression. Over the past several years, it had become a monument to undeath. The citadel spires erect in honor of the Lich King. However, much like many areas, the Frozen Throne was once a prison to the first Lich King, Ner'zhul. The Maw itself was originally designed to keep the Jailer imprisoned. But it had long become more a staging ground for something more sinister. Unlike it's mirror opposite, it was completely devoid of any sort of life and beauty. An undying husk plagued by hellish fire and nightmarish shadows that seek only to steal any soul, innocent or sinful of heart. The cycle had been shattered and now their was an rising flux of evil within it's heart... 

" Alphus... Daevara... time to awaken... " A hallowed voice called to him, possessing soulless depth that lacked any heart. Deprived and withered of any sort of remorse for this soul. The flow grating across one's mind like nails to a chalkboard, screeching and gnawing away. Dura's eyes slowly came an open, tugging at his arms as he realized he was in a shackles with his back flat against a metallic wall. The first vision of this formless creature before him haunted his mind as he couldn't make out a face or even a pair of eyes to stare into. Jaw falling open as if he had truly seen a ghost of sorts. "... how curious... you do no show fear but... curiosity... do you not fear the immeasurable pain that is to befall you from the unknown, child? " The voice flowed a testament to mock the mortals weakness of being caught in the first place. Wings of black smog finally painting a memorable picture that slowly caught Duraxxor up with where his story left off.

" Fear? " He questioned the very notion of such, his voice also having grown hollow. The fact rung across his eardrums as he cast a glance across the entire landscape. Never in his lives did he believe himself to find such a grotesque landscape that rivaled even the Scourge. "... What is this? Why am I being restrained like some animal? "He tightly tugged at his bonds, feeling as if the metal was barbed and pulling away at his very soul threads. " What is their to fear? I fear no pain of what is to come? This... land.. where am I?" 

The specter of death stepped over towards a small table off to the side as the harsh cries of some other individual echoed across the landscape, moaning it's displeasure to held prove a point in the words that were about to be uttered. " You are in the Maw... there is no hope. No escape. And you will yield yourself to his will or be consumed by the endless darkness. " The formless armor stepped forward, bearing a blade in arm that pulsed with tethers of anima, fibers of soul magic that was as common in the Shadowlands as mana was back on Azeroth. Another wailing cry echoed from the opposite direction from the last as the feeling of dread tried to creep along Dura's neck. 

Alphus' glare focused on the weapon, noting the magic that imbued the blade before he looked at the specter's helm, treating the eye sockets as a something to stare into. " You seek to torture me for eternity? Then you are sadly mistaken... I will not yield to any pain... there is work to be done and it is your meddling that has delayed the death of one who is worthy... " He hadn't forgotten about Lindeara, a being of chaos that would do whatever it takes to see her plans come to fruition while sabotaging any in her path. He wondered if these creatures had captured her and planned to torment her soul in this land. " Where is she? " 

" It matters not where anyone is... you will yield... whether as a whole being... or a broken one... " The being didn't hesitate or show any caution in her movements as she thrust this sword directly into the center of Dura's pectorals, feeling something tear into him like he had never felt before. It was as if his own soul had spontaneously combusted from inside, burning away. His veins began to start flowing with with erratic magics as he reeled back, crying out in something that truly hurt him.

" You... You wretch... ed! Gaaahhh! " He felt his form start to twist and writhe as bat wings tried to sproud out involuntarily while his features began taking on the form of a bat-like creature, shrieking as the pain began to get worse. He flailed and writhed like an animal that had been caught in a trap, helpless and bleeding out from his wounds. " I refuse... to yield! So much... left undone! " Despite his protests, all he gained was the symphony of cries that followed all over the hell bound lands and the growing pain of the blade being removed and reapplied all across his body. The actions felt as seconds had suddenly turned into hours, days, it almost felt like months were falling away, withering him from the inside out as he felt his body start to grow weak and heavy. " I... will not... yield... " Duraxxor continued to weakly protest, angrily staring at his captor despite the amount of puncture wounds that leaked the energies of his very soul, already tinged with a crimson flow. 

" This one.. shows great promise.. my master... he has already been touched by the power of anima.. " His captor commented, as if to be speaking with another person who was not currently present. Quietly, silence passed between him and this cold creature wielding a sword as a tool. " Of course, master... It is as you say... as a whole or as a fraction.. " The being pulled the blade out, giving Dura moment to linger on the pains of this torture, the winged creature of a man quivering from the consistent trauma being inflicted upon his bodily soul. The specter watched as he lifted up his head and bore his twisted gaze into their form, rumbling with a growl before it was cut short by a sudden slash of the blade that cut right through him as if he were nothing more than sliced bread. A jagged crack suddenly forming across his entire torso.

" What's... happen.. ing!? " Duraxxor could barely audibly speaking as he writhed agony, feeling the tethers that kept himself slowly spread apart. Like a paper husk, we was being split into pieces straight to the central fibers. Discoloration began to settle on his features as he soon found he was losing himself. The images of his life cycling through at a sporadic rate as the pain ignited wildly. His body slowly began to lose physique and he found that even has face was splitting into three sections as he bellowed out loud enough for the other denizens to feel the amount of agony he was enduring. The overly dramatized No following forth before the Duraxxor we knew finally shattered like glass, leaving the chains connected to three individual massses of energy that retained no shape. These shards of what was once the Myotis now writhed in agony in an attempt to rebuild and take on physical forms. A single fragment taking form in a serpentine-like creature that billowed and snapped it's jaws while lashing it's tail wildly like a whip. The second fragment, flapped two limbs that began to form, sharp teeth now shrieking as it flopped around due to being grounded. A full coat of fur beginning to form on the majority of it's body like a grizzled fruit bat. Then finally, at the epicenter of, the last piece began to take on the form of a humanoid. A younger, frail elf that possessed pale features, two snake bite piercings, and a gaze that bore no fruit and was as clear as glass. This new being was gasping for air and naked, possessing quite the panicked look as he felt his throbbing within his chest much like a living organ. Looking around, the creatures and their captor had finally disappeared, leaving what was left of Daevara alone to their own devices.

" What's going on? Why... who are you? " The elf looked to each of the creatures with unfamiliarity and a shivering fear about what was transpiring. 

" Reeeeeeeeeek! What is this?! Why did we fall apart?! " The bat creature screeched and continued to roll around on the ground, making matters worse as the chains started to wrap around his wings. 

The serpentine finally managed to coil up defensively and calm himself, peaking from between his his coils as he hissed at the two. " There is no need for panic... it would appear that our soul has been split asssssunder... I do not undersssstand what hasss happened... but now.... we are trapped together... but sssseperate.. " 

The bat finally ceased his movements as he tried to straighten himself up as he looked over towards the elf and speak. " Hey, you, you look just like us as a kid... does that mean you're the main part of us? Why are you so weak and frail? "

The elf finally sat up, curling his body to hide his shame before he finally answered his bat companion. " I... I don't know... I just feel this... vulnerability... I don't... feel like.. myself... what is... happening to... Me? Us? You? I don't even know... " Confusion showed about his features as he looked between the two.

" How the hell are we going to get out of here? What if we are stuck like this forever?! " The bat piped up as he wildly flapped his wings around, gusting air before he found himself whiplashed by the serpent's ridiculously long tail. " Ow! "

  " Would you calm yourself, you gutter snipe... do you want to catch the attention of more denizens of this place... we have to remain calm until we formulate a plan to rid ourselves of these chains... we are all a part of this until we figure out how to fix it... " The serpent appears to be the voice of logical reasoning out of the entire trio before he coiled himself around the elf protectively. " She will come... someone will come... don't forget this... " 

The elf looked towards the crimson serpent as if he was providing some insight and guidance to the situation before he nodded. " Very well... we will hold out as long as we can... until then.. let us... keep one another company, my friends. " He reached over to his left side and actually pet the bat creature along his head before he spoke further on the matter. " I shall call you... Randdu... and Sphula... " He gestured to the serpent with his other hand for the second name before he gestured to his own chest. " For now... I am simply Daev.... and we will figure out how to escape and settle the score... this i swear to you both... "

[equalseleventhirds]

makes some SOUP from today's fear bcos today jon was like 'oh if u remove corruption the buried will move in' and i am here like 'um the buried has been there, also the lonely, also the--'

will i ever stop. perhaps not.

(warning for........ in-depth discussion of the statement. same warnings as mag 184 ok? ok.)

blah corruption blah, 'the ants that bite, the ones that reek when they are crushed', 'he can still feel them moving and squirming beneath his palm', 'the tickling itch he has been enduring for so long', 'his ragged clothes that never fully rip, and always leave crevices enough for ants to hide', 'into his wounds, into his skin, hollowing him out and making their colony tunnels of his veins', 'they had covered him, swarmed and embraced him', 'the endless rolling mass of love that he had all but begged to consume him', 'he feels the tell-tale tickle of his friends moving over him, covering him', ‘the bloated insectile monarch might sit, vulnerable and waiting’

so MUCH buried this was as much buried as corruption gdi: 'presses down and forces jordan through on hands and knees', 'there is no way out. no twisting, squeezing passage that promises escape', 'subsume him beneath their impossible number', 'two tunnels before him, one large enough he need only stoop, the other narrow. he’d need to squeeze', 'he presses himself through the jagged stone', 'the tunnel is too narrow and keeps his arms pinned to his sides'

some vast wrt the insignificance/cannot comprehend bigness thing (bcos vast and corruption overlap a bunch and vast and buried overlap a bunch!!): 'the human mind can barely understand the true extent of a billion, and there are so many more than a billion of them', 'they shift and roil in dark and shining tides', 'for a moment jordan’s sense of scale deserts him completely', 'If we are as ants to those things above us that torment and toy with us for their amusement, why should not ants be like us' (and uhhhhh... interesting metaphor, there. are you sayign. are you saying Fear likes us?), ‘a being that dwarfs him, that if it wished to end his suffering could do so without a gesture’

h... hunt? 'until they begin to bite, and the shooting pains begin to rip through him', the ants as deliberate 'tormenters', ‘spewing nonsense about a queen, about finding her, about killing her’

eye too, always some eye, altho more for leto than for jordan (until jon does... that thing): 'he wants to investigate, to see what sort of creature could make such a sound', 'he knew these creatures, and they had known him', 'a mind no lesser than his own, guided by senses utterly alien yet as vital as any he possessed', 'for that all too brief a time his senses were attuned to theirs, and he knew them, truly knew them', 'a sick dread of standing back up, of seeing the destruction'

lonely, which lbr has always been side-by-side with corruption: 'it prickles his eyes with regret at the loss', 'his friends, the minds that he had once known so intimately, had left him', 'but he cannot reach them as once he had. he cannot make them understand, and he cannot apologise as his movements', 'they will not understand his words'

'unnumbered minds and existences, all connected together as one' is corruption-y but also vibes... a little bit web. it's about the connection... but also 'bitter déjà vu of a cycle repeating itself once again' with the inescapable pattern thing u kno (as is his like, eternal moving through the tunnels, and leto’s inability to move a bit? like, they have Choices, but they are trapped into One Choice... hm. web’s tricky.)

sorta fleshy? 'every gesture of his grotesque, lumbering body'

end 'pulping a mass of ants, ending their lives with such a cruel and callous disregard', 'the tears that leto sheds in grief will fall and drown his friends', 'he can feel them below him. the dead and the dying’

slaughter 'leto is filled with a sudden rage. his limbs are willed with an energy they have not known in an age', 'face twisted in some bone-deep hatred as he lunges at him', 'that bloody omen of doom'

stranger a bit: 'the momentary elation of seeing another human face in this dreadful labyrinth evaporates in an instant, replaced by the sick familiarity', leto viewing jordan as an 'interloper'

spiral about the labyrinth itself? ‘it is all the same, just the endless maze and ants and tunnels’, ‘he turns the wrong corner, and the ants are upon him once again’

i have NO IDEA where leto's fear of hurting the ants falls in smirke's fourteen! it doesn't! it fuckign doesn't!! smirke was fucking fine letting ppl suffer and die to further his ends, did he make a fear for being cornered into unwillingly hurting others, he did NOT! is it vast in being too big? end in the general fear of death? slaughter in unreasonable sudden violence? desolation in the loss & destruction of that which you love? lonely in ur friends being gone? web in not being able to control whether u hurt others (altho leto does his best and can at least mitigate it). it doesn't fucking FIT, not perfectly, and that's a. gorgeous and wonderful and soupy and b. FUCK OFF, ROBERT

[thekidultlife]

Hey there! I want to request Chan + alarm for the drabbles request, thank you and have a nice day💕

(A/N: Hii anon!! Thanks for requesting!!  i really enjoyed writing this ;;;; this one could be interpreted as two different things. So lemme know if u have any ideas~~ )

Words: 1.3k

The alarm broke out.

11:15 AM

Chan woke up sweating, the midday sun flooding through the half-closed blinds of his apartment. It was still dark inside, as if he had been imprisoned, by someone, by himself, perhaps. Half eaten ramyeon cups lie beside the kitchen sink and a few pots and pans piled on top of each other. He had already forgotten when was the last time he had washed them.

Reaching out for his phone, he turned the blaring alarm off, then noticed a message on the notifications. It was from you.

He sighed, sitting up from where he laid, brushing his bedhead in annoyance. Not again.

July 27th

Chan was supposed to meet you for lunch at half past eleven. Now he had only fifteen minutes left. He sighed once more, his eyes tired, his mind exhausted. He doesn’t want to fight with you, for you anymore. There was nothing left for him to defend.

With a simple shirt and jeans, he didn’t even bother to tidy up his apartment. There was no point in doing that. The sun was already too high and he was already too late. Opening the door, he could feel the heat haze creeping in.

That’s what he hated about summer.

The alarm rang.

11:15 AM

The bed sheets were in disarray, his university papers all strewn on the floor without much care. Chan was so sick of everything. It would only take a matter of time to reach out for the bottle of soju in his cupboards. Alcohol reminded him of his friends, where were they anyway? He had only seen a glimpse of Seungkwan the other day, or when that other day was. He wasn’t sure anymore. Time just flies and stops and skips these days.

The city was like trapped in a foggy haze—too blurry, too bright and too far away. The Seoul skyline simply looked like it was some sort of background for the little caricature he was playing with you. It was all a mirage created by the waves of heat Chan would see as he passed by the traffic of Gangnam-gu.

He had already reached the playground you wanted to meet in before he knew it. He was right. Time does fly lately. Parking his rusty trusty bicycle, he walked towards the center of the park. There was no one there. Nothing was there but him and his loneliness. Does heartbreak do these kinds of things to you? He had wondered that question over and over again for the past few days, or how many days an eternity has. Chan doesn’t know the answer to that question yet. But there’s no need to worry. He had all the time he wanted to have.

That’s what he hated about summer.

The alarm resounded across his apartment.

11:15 AM

It was too loud; like ambulance sirens he had been familiarized with these days. Chan threw his phone across the room, turning into bits and pieces of plastic, glass and metal. He wasn’t worried. Nothing he did ever matters.

“Dammit…”

He had already cried for you for how many times; he had already lost count. He still loves you, he swears he loves you. Yet these days, he just feels like a ghost, only tied to this earth by all the heartbreak and regrets swirling inside of him.

Chan wanted to hold you again, to feel you, to caress your skin. He wanted to see your smile, to hear your laugh. He wanted to relive those days where he knew happiness, where he knew you, not these days were he simply wanted everything to melt and disappear.

These days, these days…he hated it.

The park was still desolate. His bicycle was still leaning against a metal railing, already rusted.

“Chan.”

The swings were singing, and he had heard your voice. The first time he saw you, he was glad. Wrapping you in a tight embrace you barely returned. It was already the end for you. Yet it keeps on repeating for him.

“We’re both tired, Chan,” you told him as his ears kept on ringing. “We need to let this cycle go.”

“No. No, no, no…” he pleaded, desperately. “Don’t go, Y/N. Don’t leave me please. I can’t—you can’t…”

“It’s too late.”

That’s what he hated about summer.

The alarm blared.

11:15AM

Chan screamed and screamed and screamed until his voice ran out, until his lungs could no longer heave. His apartment was in chaos, spiraling into a turmoil he could hardly control. Everything was broken, everything was gone and irreplaceable.

Yet he kept on going in circles; around and around you as if his days had been revolving only around your existence. He was tired yet he can’t stop. He wants this to stop, to end the misery and torment.

This time he had met with you by a deserted carousel, inside a deserted theme park. Where are the other people? He had seen nobody these days but you. He doesn’t remember when it all started. Everything just seemed to be moving around that certain day—it all started and ended and continued on that day, July 27th.

It made no sense.

He had seen you walking by scaffolding, he had seen you walking down the stairs, he had seen you walking across the street, he had seen you waiting by the subway, he had seen you in so many places, he had already forgotten around a hundred similar scenarios. It made no sense.

Yet it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less.

That’s what he hated about summer.

The alarm echoed across the room.

11:15AM

For the millionth, billionth time—Chan doesn’t remember. He simply laid there on his bed, staring at the stark white ceiling where shadows and bright sunlight danced with each other. The both of you used to be like that—dancing. Chan enjoyed dancing with you, underneath the stars, by the artificial fairylights, around the skirted dinner table he had prepared as a surprise for you on your first anniversary. Yet time does fly and those memories seemed to be so long ago.

He sighed for the nth time.

He sighed as he rose up from the bed, dressing himself with the same shirt and pants, wondering where you wanted to meet up this time. You used to love taking off the same shirt and pants off of him.

He sighed as he soon learned that you were already outside of his apartment, waiting for him to wake up and get dressed. It was the same driveway you both shared your first kiss on that November night when he had finally told you what he had felt.

He sighed as soon as he saw you, a frown on your face, the heat waves rising from the asphalt road. It was too hot, too scorching, like the words you threw at him; knives that had pierced his broken heart repeatedly these days.

He sighed as he watched you walk away from him with a scathing glare, mad at how he was too silent, too uncaring this time. Chan doesn’t seem to care for anything these days. It doesn’t really matter what he cared for. Things will simply return to square one.

He sighed as he knew what will happen next. A gasoline truck was moving down an alley road it wasn’t supposed to be in, as if the Universe had planned this all along. It was stupid but there was no use in complaining—a truth he had learned that day. It came rolling down the slope, as if it was some sort of horror movie. Chan had to be amused. What a way to end.

He sighed as he walked towards you. He had already called the ambulance, but he knew they will be late anyway. He gazed into your eyes, consciousness slipping steadily, as he held your hand and gave a tight squeeze. If there was nothing he can do about it, then maybe he could be there with you until the end. There was truly nothing he could do, trapped in the heat haze.

It had broke him. It has broken him.

That’s what he hated about summer.

The alarm broke out.

-Hyeri

[beyondtheciouds]

Part 29. 3 of 3

Twas the night before Yulemas and all through the house not a creature was stirring except for a small brown mouse.

The children were all snug tight in their beds. Smiles on their faces as dreams of sugared plums danced in their heads.

Outside, the snow fell in droves and filled the streets, impassible for cars and carriages. The windows were frosted; icles hanging like glittering packages.

The brick and mortar chimnies chain smoked; pairs of lungs coughing ashes.

Dust saturated the fresh snowflakes on snowcapped rooftops; heavy as Lucie's lashes.

The moon was nearly full; the fringe of dawn barely a heartbeat. Lucie didn't hesitate getting out of bed when she suspected Henry and Charlotte were fast asleep.

Her secret plans were already in motion; she was in far too deep.

Tonight Lucie and Grace would wake the one lost in an eternal sleep. The anticipation ran through her bones; sidewinding up her veins like an ivy on a chase.

The candles on the Yulemas tree were long snuffed out; the yuletide log smoldering in the fireplace.

The only sound downstairs was the incessant scratching inside the walls. A mouse was hunting about, searching the halls.

The manor was festive; the decor just right. Charlotte had decorated in odd bright colors; glitter and gold balls. A sight to behold, a treasure left scandously untold.

Mugs of cold, sugared tea and burnt biscuits were dutifully set out by Matthew's sisters in hopes of toys being brought.

They were antsy and fought before bedtime. That is, until Lucie sang them a sweet rhyme.

Earlier, Lucie had been filled with warmth as Henry played carols on the pinafore and the girls sang loudly and off key.

She had spent the evening after supper with Cordelia and Charlotte, knitting sweaters for the three.

Now she felt bitter and upset, but the night wasn't over. No, not yet.

The conversations had flowed so easily between the women in the hours before. Lucie had almost forgot the other demands; the baby she tried to ignore.

But the truth was, she was happy to be doing something productive with her hands.

Lucie enjoyed the conversations even if listening to Charlotte was quite the chore.

Tomorrow was Yulemas but Lucie could not have felt less festive.

Yes, the girl Herondale had become rather quite obsessive.

A solid glance over her shoulder gave her courage in the dark. Cordelia was fast asleep on the opposite bed, stiff like chalk.

Lucie stilled, thinking she heard Oscar bark.

Cordelia's back was turned to Lucie; the long braid resting against the comforter like a serpent.

Cordelia was the only one who wouldn't help and the lack of support streamlined Lucie's determination like a torrent.

Lucie felt guilty, like a sneaky child as she opened her door. She crept out into the candle-lit hall ignorant of the consequences her actions might cause.

A familar frown pressed her lips as she closed the door and paused.

For weeks a string tugged at her, knowing that her freedom was slipping through her finger. Each free moment was ready to disappear; the life with a drinker.

Everything seemed doomed; so unfair.

Selfishly, she assumed tonight was only a prelude to the tired life she would soon have living in the walls of Fairchild Manor or worse: Matthew's downtown London flat.

For hours, Lucie had tried to sleep after adjusting the ribbons on an old hat.

She read Cordelia a chapter or two of a mystery book, then finished with a cup of warm milk.

Poor Lucie begged her brain to shut off long after she was wrapped in cotton and silk.

But Charlotte's voice kept droning on in her ears, until her heart was able to tilt.

"I am really happy that Matthew is with you, Lucie. You do know he is trying quite hard to be a better man for you and the baby. You will be quite a good match for my wild child, and quite happy I assure you."

Lucie was uncharacteristically careless in her response. She had only thought about her own wants.

She whole heartedly disagreed before silencing herself much to Cordelia's horror.

Many times Lucie Herondale had tried to imagine being married to Matthew, just for a minute or an hour.

She pictured having a family, a normal Shadowhunter life with him at her side. A family life like her own.

But she just couldn't picture herself being trapped inside. A bird in a cage; her wings barely flown.

She couldn't stay in the net waiting up for him every night. It was just too much to ask.

Worrying. Wondering if tonight would be the night he'd get in a fatal fight or worse; death by her own axe.

How they would feed their family if he died. How would she live, crumbling on the inside. She didn't even have the faintest idea how he felt about women writers or the socially responsible duties they were to provide.

Lucie didn't have a clue how to be a mother or run a household.

This much she'd been told; they'd be wed under the sacred Shadowhunter vows; their bodies marked each with a matching rune.

After they would go on living as two separate people under the light of the moon.

He would conquer binges of weeks where he'd be drunk daily and purges where he would be sick and sober.

She'd stay home; keep house and take care of the children, and he'd lovingly call her his good luck clover.

This would be a cycle that wouldn't end. It would only grow worse with each year; each baby born on the cusp of regret and condenscend.

That didn't mean living with Matthew Fairchild was hopeless as a snowflake in the rain. Perhaps Lucie was wrong. Perhaps Matthew Fairchild was only in pain.

What the cards were showing Lucie now was just a reality she didn't think she could endure.

The truth was, part of Lucie did love Matthew, so much more. When he bled, she bled in her core.

Nightmares and dreams about him had often haunted her into rejecting his previous advances and now she knew why.

She presumed the dreams were omens; warning her not to abandon the sky.

The Fairchild/ Herondale union had been long awaited for by both families, but particularly by the Consul.

Lucie knew what Charlotte expected of her future daughter-in-law was damn near impossible.

Change Matthew. Fix him.

Lucie dreaded every moment spent under the Consul's watchful eye. Every minute she was in Charlotte's company was as unpleasant as a stye.

As Lucie passed Matthew's room, thinking about the last time he'd held a sober smile, she slowed her pace and stopped short. A groaning noise came from within and Lucie wondered if Matthew had overdone it on port.

His door was open just a crack, enough to see into the chaos of his existence; a dream. The stench of stale cigars and regurgitated gin spilled into the hall; hitting her nose like steam.

Lucie gagged and her heart broke at the sight of him laying like a rag doll among dirty linens.

She hadn't expected him to be home and was shocked to see him in such a position.

Lucie had never been able to read Matthew's mind. Now, she wondered if it might have been a good find if she'd had the time.

Her heart had conceded and concluded any type of relationship with him was out of the question.

Being Matthew's bride had never been a suggestion.

She pretended that had been the reason she never reciprocated his feelings. Not until she plainly understood him and his bad dealings.

A well of sadness filled up inside her as she reached out her hand, shining the witchlight into the darkness of the room. The bed was empty except for Oscar, a pillar in the sand.

As usual, the golden retriever was unaware; sleeping loyally ontop of a ragged blanket tucked under his hand.

She shined the light just above Matthew's sleeping body. His arms were spread, legs tucked tight together; a disgusting hottie.

Distracted by the way the light sweat on his chest gleamed pale under the flickering witchlight, Lucie thought about that night. The sweet smirk that swelled on his face was a haunting memory; a sin and a show. One she had hidden in her bones reminding her of a promise she made to him that felt so long ago.

The breeze was cool; the night hot. Cicadas and crickets staged their favorite tunes in an effort to provide a sonata. Not a cloud nor haze flooded the starlit sky; only fireflies lit up the night. Shades of blue from the lake lit her eyes with a warm glow. Lucie watched Matthew with anticipation as her skin grew warmer from every sip of his flask.

Do you love me? Matthew's hot breath on her neck. His lips were fire; hot cinnamon liquor burning her skin with each devious kiss on her flesh.

Yes. Everything would have been yes to him in the heat of that moment. Her hands were beyond confinement and reached eagerly for the buttons on his waistcoat.

Do you promise, Lucie darling? His green eyes were dark, serious under the stars.

I promise. And she meant it. Or she thought she did.

I love you, Lucie Herondale. You're the only one besides James that means anything to me. This is for forever. I swear on my life.

I love you too. Her lips against his were ice on fire; electric and numbing the voice screaming in her head.

Lucie blinked, rolling out of her reverie with the grace of someone used to disappearing into herself.

Matthew was still sprawled out, drool trickled down, out of his mouth.

His hand rested among the fresh vomit and spit on the rug. He was still in his rumpled navy pants and his belt was half undone; broken as the wings of a dead bug.

Stained socks and muddy shoes were discarded in a heap. It was as if he meant to climb in bed and instead just collapsed on the floor, fast asleep.

Lucie wondered if she should wake him; maybe help him into bed or the bath.

Matthew was snoring loudly; the sound sheilding his lips like a mask.

Lucie frowned, watching him and the moment of charity pass.

Matthew stirred and kicked out his leg. He groaned and rolled his head in torment and wrath. "Luce...Lucie. please. PLEASE. Forgive me. Forgive me."

Lucie sighed and flipped the braided pigtails over her shoulders, disgusted and disappointed instead. She shook her head at Matthew, her heart turning to ice.

How could she ever love him like this? The strings of her heart pulled her into a vice.

Lucie knew she wasn't entirely being nice.

At least now she knew Math was safe and breathing. One crisis averted. Now she could stop caring for awhile and continue seething.

Butterflies rolled inside her belly as the baby turned; shifting positions as if it sensed his father's presence and his mother's disgrace.

Lucie tried not to cry as she quickly shut Matthew's door, glad for him to be out of her sight at least for the night.

Lucie Herondale knew she'd be learning a hard lesson in faith.

The manor was cold, bitter like her uncharacteristic temperament. It was just the way Lucie liked things lately; quiet without comment.

The cold made her feel closer to death; closer to Jesse's spirit.

He was quite the opposite of Matthew who had the most obnoxious tendency to be satiric.

She warmed her heart as she thought about the ghost and his quiet, melodic ways. She imagined him in the sunlight; alive during the days.

Lucie became once more determined to save his soul. A debt that was unpaid; a secret not to be told.

Christopher and Grace had snuck downstairs after the lights went out. They were headed to the lab without a doubt.

Christopher thought he might have figured out a chemical compound needed in the spell Grace had shown him during tea and lemon tarts that afternoon.

James promised to guard the door as Thomas occupied the insomniac old housekeeper with a card game and some gin. Every one was in their places; helping Lucie's cause and Lucie shivered, feeling Matthew's hands still on her skin.

A whistle helplessly escaped her lips as she moved down the hall. She felt slightly more optimistic, smiling and all.

Lucie could feel the hairs on her arms rise, theories becoming reality. She felt Grace and her were getting closer to the right order of the specialty.

Goosebumps coated her bare arms as her feet padded quietly towards the music room; the hem of the nightgown billowing around her ankles like a flowers bloom. She tried not to skip like a schoolgirl.

The witchlight she cupped in her hands bounced off the walls; reflecting the contemporary colors in various variations of self portraits and Lucie couldn't help but look down at her hand; Matthew's ring and his pearl.

Suddenly, she was breathless. She stopped; reckless.

Something was wrong.

Someone was watching.

Someone was waiting.

Most of the walls were covered with expensive self paintings. Here and there; scattered were exquisite Idris countryside landscapes which Lucie found intoxicating.

Minature statues and other odd art were strategically placed on pedestals along the walls. Flowers on tables; Oscar Wilde inspired green carnations graced the hall; smelling pecularily of mint and clover during the fall.

This was Matthew's wing and it was freely decorated over. An artist's heart trapped in a body lacking talents. Everything was either beautiful or tragic to him; a man of great gallant.

Nothing was traditional or logical. Should it be to a man of illogical graces?

Lucie noticed the bright green of his eyes in some of the faces. They seemed to move slowly and appeared to be following.

She ignored their name calling as she caught her breath and moved on into the fray. The eerie feeling reminded her of Matthew's favorite legend; Dorian Gray. The fear that story brought back drowned out any other excuse she may have had for being frightened.

Lucie shook slightly as she quickened; her toes were red and numb as her limbs tightened. She scolded herself for venturing this far in the manor for a waste of a shortcut. Down this demented, self loathing hallway she desperately desired a peanut.

She hated that she discarded Matthew's privacy so blatantly. Even moreover her eagerness to meet Jesse hastily.

It had been almost a week since they'd met in private. The time spent apart dramatic.

In all the time she had been in the manor, she had never been in one of the extravagant rooms he uses. He had always forbid it and come to her; insisting she was the favorite among his muses.

Lucie was reminded of the story of Beauty and the Beast, which she found odd and sad at the very least.

Down the stairs, nearly tripping over her feet. Lucie felt a strange tingle on her sheet of skin as she reached the doors to the music room. She took a deep breath and pulled the solid oak doors open and slam against the wall with a boom. "Jesse?"

The moonlight greeted her; pure and silver like a star. Lucie was awestruck by what she saw.

In it's center was a black grand piano; to the left was another Yulemas tree twinking with candles, surrounded with gifts. The branches were strung with gold ribbons and mistletoe adrift.

The shapes of the gifts were shadows on the ceiling; fingers beckoning to the great beyond. Lucie could sense other spirits shamelessly coiling in the dark corners; not ready to move on.

Jesse was tired, trembling and translucent. Lucie felt like she on a boat on the rocking seas. His body was perched on the bench; his hands poised above the ivory keys. His head was lowered; ink stains on the pure, paper skin of his face.

Lucie gasped, parched. She could see he was singing an old Welsh song quietly by the light of a illuminating hearth. She smiled as his fingers instinctively played the tune in the air.

He was beautiful and fair.

Lucie hushed the intrusive and intricate shape of a story taking place in her head. She didn't want to break the moment, but she had to say something to make her heart stop racing and her breath like lead.

"Hello," she whispered to the dead.

[plasma-paints]

Okay, Theory Time!

This is going to be really long, so to spare people I’m going to put pretty much all of this under the cut, but it involves time and space and the fact that we might have had this all wrong from the start. Also, probably best if you watch part 4 of Observation first.

Alright, so Sean not so subtly implied that the egos are in fact from different universes. The universes intersecting for a short period of time before separating again would explain why the egos tend to come and go in our timeline. A good example of this in popular media is The Convergence from Thor: Dark World. At minimum two universes, or points in space in the movie, overlap and thus matter/energy can pass between unhindered. Being in the centre of one of these anomalies would technically allow you to be in multiple universes at once. (I like to imagine bubbles mixed with a Venn Diagram for visualization.)

So pretty simple, the universes intertwine, someone passes through, boom their in our reality for a while. Except, these kinds of anomalies are stereotypically spacially specific, so if one were to enter into one and then leave its area of effect, they may not return to their original universe. Essentially, they’d be stuck, albeit temporarily if they can find another anomaly. This is what I imagine has happened to each of the egos.

It can explain away a lot of things: 

-Jackieboy-man’s and Marvin’s abilities - Dr. Schneep’s strange medical practises (at least in this universe) -JJ’s inability to speak -Chase being able to stand in for Jack

It could also be used to explain Anti in a similar fashion, just another universe’s version, but I don’t think that’s quite the case. Anti, unlike the rest, is different. That much has been made obvious by the fact that he’s the only seemingly knowledgable one. He seems to understand what’s going on intimately. “Time is broken.” This indicates that the universes aren’t necessarily colliding at the same relative time, let alone space, but the more interesting fact is that he knows that they should be. ‘Broken’ implies that he is aware of a time when time flowed properly, possibly without the universes intersecting at all. A state of order so to speak. 

Anti though is the epitome of chaos, so why does he of all the egos know what order looked like? I mean he bounces throughout space and time, bounces around space within dimensions, and doesn’t appear to have a physical form of his own. There’s absolutely nothing orderly about him. So why is he the omnipotent ego? For that exact reason. He’s unstable, unlike the others, he’s unable to remain anywhere outside of an anomaly. For whatever reason, he can’t leave. So he’s been stuck who knows how long, getting glimpses of multiple realities and eventually he must have just put it together. For him, time is the most broken, phasing between universes at an almost imperceivable pace... He, for lack of a better word, glitches.

Now the real question is why? What happened to result in this instability? Why are universes, that for all extensive purposes should remain separated, bouncing around and into each other like billiard balls? 

The simplest answer: Someone fucked up, and they fucked up badly. 

My thoughts are that it was one of two individuals who caused this cascade failure of the multiverse: Anti... Or Sean. The narrative, as I see it anyway, can only make sense if one of them or both of them is to blame. Why else would Anti continue to appear back in this universe, harassing the egos who also end up in this reality? 

Anti makes a lot of sense, as he’s like the focal point of the chaos, the epicentre. He’s the antithesis of order and seems to only want to bring down everyone with him. He makes for a stereotypical evil entity.

The story becomes more interesting if it’s Sean though, that tipped the balance. He wouldn’t even have to know he did it, an everyday action that this version of himself wasn’t supposed to do perhaps... 

***Everything under this point is a potential partial timeline/plot theory***

I’m purely speculating now, but possibly that action was making a youtube channel. (I’ll come back to this.)

It would tie a lot of things together actually, and it would finally give Anti a proper motive. He just wants this to be over. “I’m tired of playing pretend, fucking circles!” Who knows how long it’s been for him? How many different attempts he’s made at fixing this, only to fail over, and over, and over? How many plans he’s tried? How many of them we’ve seen? Think about how calmly he said, “Time is broken.” This time around was different from his usual overzealousness. Possibly because it was one of his first attempts at reaching out, asking for help, hoping that somehow, someone else would put together the pieces and end his torment. 

It’s odd and fascinating because this entire time we might have been framing him as a villain because of what we witnessed first - the violence, the threats, the manipulation- that we missed the overall message: “Help me.” 

 If time isn’t flowing the same for him as it is for us, he could have been trapped in this in-between state for countless lifetimes: “I am eternal.” Being torn apart and stitched back together a billion times a second everywhere and nowhere, “always there, always watching.” Frantically he puts in information wherever he can: glitches, video tags, titles, social media, in those brief moments when he occupies our reality once more. He’s figured out that this universe is the problem, we’re the epicentre of a catastrophe beyond the comprehension of everyone but him. He tries, and he tries, and he tries to get someone to notice him. He becomes more knowledgable as time goes on, finds tricks to staying more stable, gathering allies from alternate realities (like those from the overnight watch), manipulating universes so that they intersect at the right places, puppeteering on a cosmic scale. 

Nothing ever works perfectly though, so he also becomes increasingly desperate. No one else is putting the pieces together, bringing his nightmare to an end. Suffering endlessly until he finally snaps, coming to a single conclusion. In order for this hell to end, he has to kill the person who started it all: our Sean. Time doesn’t matter to him after all, so all of the attempts we’ve witnessed are his end game. Perhaps he mistakenly took Chase for Sean due to him crossing universes and manipulated him into ending his own life (Chase’s power hour.) Another time he appeared while Sean was dying, and tried to disable the surgeon working on him (Kill Jacksepticeye.) He partially succeeds, and Sean’s in a coma.

Here’s where to channel comes in. If it’s the error that needs to be corrected, it explains why Anti’s so obsessed with us, the community. He may think that maybe that too would be enough, that if the channel dies, it’s the same thing as Sean dying, the mistake ceases to be. Except, even with Sean out of commission, the channel lives on. The other egos, primarily Chase it would seem, taking over to keep things running while Schneep tends to Sean. 

None of the Egos stuck in our reality have worked Anti’s situation out, obviously, all they see is another version of themselves actively trying to kill them all and so they band together. Realizing that these other realities’ versions of himself were actively interfering in his plans, he moved on to eliminate them from the equation too. Possibly he thought blackmail would suffice for Chase, so he took his kids. Instead of just sabotaging Schneep’s surgery in kill Jacksepticeye, he moves to try to choke him dead instead. An unending cycle of attempts to rid himself of Sean, of the stupid little thing that has caused him unending pain and infuriation.

Except... It does end. I’ve felt rather adamant that Say Goodbye is not the first major appearance of Anti from his perspective, but the last. Time goes by, Anti grows stronger and picks a time and place to focus on: October 2016. In order to focus himself there, he creates a sort of beacon whenever he happens to glitch through. “You all said my name,” for the first major time in our timeline, a call throughout time and space, “kept me inside.” We gave him a tether to one spot long enough to act out his plan. “This is all your fault! Too long! [You should have] listen[ed] to me!” We never put the pieces together, we took too long, so he had to resort to killing Sean.“You all made this happen! You could have stopped this, but you just watched as this happened!” He’s angry with us because if we had put the pieces together we could have ended his suffering earlier as well as saved Sean. “Now, he’s gone forever.” It’s over, it’s done, Sean’s dead, Anti presumably goes back to whatever reality he was from, and time and space fix themselves. We don’t know this though, because we still have to live out our failure in a paradoxical timeline that once everything is back in balance should cease to exist, no longer serving a purpose. So it’s literally the last chance to, “Say goodbye.” Not just to Sean, nor Anti, but to our universe itself.

But that’s just a theory, a meta-theory. Thanks for reading!

@therealjacksepticeye