#implacable and relentless

[ilynpilled]

[helvegen-s]

Rage, rage | ten

index

Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC

Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.

Warnings: injuries, description of injuries, graphic violence, emotional crisis, bad relatives (not the best family), emotional abuse, poison, a little fluff at the end.

A/N: im excited por this part, things are finally setting into place. i hope you like iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit hihi. i appreciate your feedback, its heart warming to read your comments. if you want to be added to the taglist please just let me know

A shiver ran down Nimue’s spine. Dagdan and Brannagh, her cousins, blocked their path, their faces masks of barely contained fury. They had walked straight into a trap.

"Azriel," Nimue whispered urgently. "We need to leave. Now."

Azriel tensed, his shadows swirling around him like the prelude to a storm. "We can’t just—"

"Please!" Nimue begged, her eyes fixed on the looming threat. "I don’t want to fight them. Please, let’s go."

But it was already too late. Dagdan, his face twisted into a cruel smile, stepped forward. "Oh, cousin," he sneered. "Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry? Don’t you have time for your dear family?"

Brannagh’s eyes burned with hatred. "It seems you’ve been very busy conspiring behind our backs. Did you think we wouldn’t notice?"

Nimue’s stomach twisted into knots. She knew there was no escape. The only way out now was to fight—and that meant someone here was going to die.

Dagdan drew his sword, the steel gleaming under the sunlight. "It’s time to pay for your betrayal," he growled.

Without further warning, he lunged at Nimue, his blade whistling through the air.

Tension snapped like a taut bowstring. Dagdan and Brannagh, their faces contorted with fury, charged at Nimue and Azriel, initially ignoring Lucien. The sunlit glade became a whirlwind of steel and fury, swords clashing and hissing like enraged serpents. Azriel moved with lethal grace, his daggers dancing in a deadly rhythm, while Nimue fought beside him with restrained ferocity, evading her cousins’ attacks with feline agility, unwilling to strike back.

Despite the rage in her eyes, Nimue couldn’t bring herself to unleash her full power against them. A strange pang of remorse, an echo of the familial bond they shared, held her back. She didn’t want to kill them—she just wanted to escape. But Dagdan and Brannagh had no such reservations. Every strike, every roar of fury, was meant to end their lives.

Lucien, caught in the chaos of steel and magic, hesitated for a heartbeat. Loyalty to his Court, to Tamlin, warred with the new path he’d chosen—the promise he’d made to Nimue and Azriel that he would not betray them. With a growl, he leapt into the fray, his sword clashing against Brannagh’s in a spray of sparks.

A pained grunt snapped Nimue out of her focus. Azriel, his left arm immobilized, was retreating under Brannagh’s relentless assault. Worry clouded Nimue’s judgment. She had to help him.

In one fluid motion, Nimue summoned her power—not to attack, but to defend. She wove an invisible shield around Azriel, deflecting Brannagh’s blade at the last moment. The impact echoed in the air, but Azriel remained unharmed.

It was then, in that vulnerable instant when her attention was fixed on Azriel, that Dagdan seized his opportunity. With a savage roar, he lunged at Nimue, his sword a deadly streak aimed at her heart. Nimue, unprotected, couldn’t react in time. The blade sank into her side, carving a deep, agonizing wound.

A scream of pain and fury tore from her lips. Her vision blurred with red, and the world wavered around her. She fell to her knees, clutching at the wound in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood.

But instead of fear or despair, a cold, implacable rage consumed her.

Rage, rage and nothing else but rage.

The pang of regret, of empathy, of kinship she’d felt for her cousin vanished, replaced by a thirst for vengeance that burned through her. Her eyes, once filled with hesitation, now glowed with savage intensity. The power of the Cauldron, long restrained, erupted like a volcano.

Azriel and Lucien shielded their eyes as a blinding light burst forth from Nimue, forcing them to step back instinctively. Shadows swirled around her, their tendrils infecting everything surrounding her. Her fair hands started sharpening into claws, her teeth elongated, her face twisted into a feral snarl.

With supernatural speed, she launched herself at Dagdan, ripping his throat open with brutal precision. Blood sprayed in violent arcs, soaking the grass in crimson. Brannagh, paralyzed by terror, tried to flee, but Nimue was faster. She caught her by the ankle, slamming her to the ground with a bone-jarring impact. With a triumphant growl, Nimue plunged her claws into Brannagh’s chest, tearing through muscle and bone with raw strength. Brannagh’s scream was choked off as the light faded from her eyes.

A heavy silence descended over the clearing, broken only by Nimue’s ragged breaths. The transformation faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a trembling, wounded figure drenched in blood and staring blankly at her cousins’ lifeless bodies.

Azriel and Lucien approached cautiously, their expressions stunned by what they had just witnessed.

Nimue collapsed to her knees, pain radiating from her wound as blood seeped through her fingers, staining the earth a deep red. A solitary tear traced its way down her cheek, mingling with the blood.

"Let’s go," she rasped, her voice thick with emotion. "We need to leave."

They had escaped Dagdan and Brannagh, but their journey to Velaris, to safety, was far from over. The cost had been unimaginable. Nimue’s innocence—that fragile core hidden beneath her strength—was lost forever in that forest clearing, drowned in the blood of her own kin.

Azriel watched Nimue with a mixture of horror and fascination. He had never seen her like this—unleashed, wild. The blood of her cousins stained her face and hands, and a primal darkness seemed to emanate from her. A pang shot through his chest, a mix of fear and admiration. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. That ferality, that unrestrained power, reminded him of his own—the one he so often struggled to control. In that moment, he understood that Nimue wasn’t just his mate; she was also a reflection of his own darkness.

Nimue stood and, with her magic, began to seal the wound on her side. For a moment, a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her, but she suppressed the urge and continued knitting her own flesh.

They staggered away from the clearing, the air heavy with the stench of blood and the echoes of recent violence. They walked in silence until Nimue could no longer contain the question that burned in her throat.

“How did you know?” she asked, glancing at Lucien out of the corner of her eye, her face still pale from what had happened. “How did you see through my deception?”

Lucien let out a sigh, running a hand through his tangled hair. There was a resigned weariness in his face, but also a spark of something else—something she hadn’t expected. “It was the bond,” he finally answered, his voice low. “Between you and Azriel. I saw it.”

Nimue’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. Her steps slowed until she came to a complete halt. “What?” she whispered, her eyes searching his desperately, as if hoping to disprove what he’d just said.

He nodded solemnly. “I saw it in the clearing. It’s not something you can easily hide… that connection is unmistakable. It’s there, Nimue. You’d need to understand it deeply yourself to conceal it from others. For me, it was enough to know what I was looking for to find it.”

For a moment, the world seemed to crumble around her. A whirlwind of emotions overtook her—shock, disbelief, and a wave of something that felt far too much like fear. Azriel was a vulnerability, a crack in the armor she’d built over the years. She wasn’t used to this—to depend emotionally on anyone else. She had always been self-sufficient, the one who moved others as pieces on her board. But now… now Azriel wasn’t a piece. He was a weakness she didn’t know how to handle.

She looked ahead to where Azriel walked at the front, scanning the forest for a secluded place where they could safely winnow home without drawing more attention. He was trying to push aside the whirlwind of emotions Nimue was unintentionally pouring through their bond, but it was incredibly difficult. Especially when he glanced back at her, and Nimue immediately looked away when their eyes met.

The conversation hung in the air as Nimue, overwhelmed by her emotions, lifted her trembling hands. Her power flowed from her like an unbridled river. Azriel’s shadows moved toward her, soothing her, while Lucien watched in silence. With a blinding flash, the three vanished from the clearing and reappeared in the courtyard of the house she had come to call home.

Feyre, Rhysand, and the others were already waiting in the courtyard, alerted to their arrival by the brief message Azriel had sent to Rhysand’s mind. Their faces reflected concern and vigilance, and now, seeing the state the three were in, the alarm in their eyes deepened.

“Nimue,” Feyre murmured, stepping forward.

But before anyone could move closer, Nimue let out a heart-wrenching sob. Her body shook violently as she collapsed to her knees on the cobblestone ground, her hands pressed against her face as if to hide her shame and pain.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “I don’t… know what I’m doing.” Her words were barely a whisper, fractured by the gasps of her sobs.

“Nimue,” Rhysand tried, his voice carrying his characteristic calm authority. He took a step forward, but Azriel raised a hand, silently suggesting they give her space.

“My father…” she continued, her voice trembling, without lifting her head. “He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill all of us… all of you, when he finds out what I’ve done.”

Her voice broke, and when she finally looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears. The vulnerability in her expression was devastating. “I’m a monster,” she whispered, as if finally admitting it out loud—not just to them but to herself. “I always have been. What I did today… what I saw in myself… this is what I am. I’ve always known it.”

Nesta took a step forward, but Azriel reached her first, kneeling beside Nimue with an expression of uncertainty and something else… something close to pain. He didn’t say anything, but his presence was a silent reminder that, monster or not, she wasn’t alone.

“That’s not true,” Azriel murmured at last. His shadows wrapped around her gently, almost like an embrace. “You’re not a monster, Nimue. You did what you had to do to survive. You saved our lives. You’ve gained information that will be crucial to winning this war against your father.”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “What I did… it wasn’t just to survive. I enjoyed it. My whole life, I’ve enjoyed this—terror. I was trained to kill, and I never questioned my masters. I’m a hunting dog. What kind of person does that make me?”

Rhysand and Feyre exchanged a look, and this time it was Feyre who stepped forward. Her voice was calm but firm, as if speaking from her own experience. “A person who’s been pushed to the edge,” she said. “Someone who’s learning to be more than what life forced them to be. I’m not going to judge you for the decisions you make to protect those you care about, Nimue. Right now, you think what you did was horrible, but I can only thank you for saving Azriel and Lucien,” she added, casting a knowing glance at Lucien, filled with understanding and quiet solidarity. “For bringing them home safe.”

Nimue squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to block out the words, but she couldn’t. Her sobs grew louder, and though no one else moved, the warmth of the support surrounding her was undeniable.

Azriel remained by her side, his gaze fixed on her, but he said nothing more. He knew that words had their limits, and now, the only thing he could offer her was his presence. Feyre and Rhysand stepped back, giving Nimue the space she needed to process.

“When I came here, I thought I didn’t deserve what I found,” Feyre said, her tone low but full of meaning. “Love, compassion... a family. But I learned that it doesn’t matter where we come from or what we’ve done; what matters is what we choose to become from now on.”

The words seemed to penetrate the wall Nimue had built around herself. She lifted her gaze to Feyre, but before she could respond, something in the air shifted. A palpable tension settled, as if the world were holding its breath.

Azriel was the first to react. His shadows stirred around him, as if sensing an imminent threat. “Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice low but laced with alarm.

Rhysand nodded, his expression hardening. “Something is coming.”

Suddenly, the ground trembled slightly, like a distant echo drawing closer. Lucien moved to the entrance of the courtyard, his golden eyes gleaming with alertness. “We’re not alone.”

Nimue rose to her feet with effort, still unsteady, but her expression had changed. Though her eyes still shone with tears, there was a spark of determination in them. Something had awakened within her—a reminder of what was at stake.

“It’s my father,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “He won’t come himself, not yet. He’ll send a message. A warning. He wants to make it clear that he knows what we’ve done, that he’s watching us, that he’s coming.”

“Then we must be ready,” Rhysand replied, stepping into his role as strategist. “But this time, we’ll face him together.”

The tension within the group was palpable, but so was the bond that was beginning to form. Nimue, though broken inside, felt something new: a longing to fight, not just to survive, but to protect those who were starting to matter to her.

The poisonous presence of her father’s magic faded as suddenly as it had appeared, and Nimue felt all the muscles in her body relax for the first time in a long time.

She was home.

The echo of the events in the forest clearing still lingered in the air, but in the days that followed, the calm sanctuary of Velaris offered Nimue a respite she hadn’t allowed herself in a long time. While the rest of the Court moved in a constant flux of maps, strategies, meetings, and plans, Nimue stayed on the sidelines, limiting herself to rest and recovery.

The wound on her side stubbornly refused to heal, even with her magic, so she concluded that the sword that had injured her must have carried some kind of poison she had yet to identify. With care and time, she eventually purged the toxin from her body, but she couldn’t prevent the ugly scar that now crossed from below her chest to her back. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the blood of her cousins covering her hands, felt the echo of the rage that had consumed her. In her mind, her father’s voice rang out, always relentless, always accusatory.

She had managed to befriend a flock of crows that lived near the house and had taken to feeding two stray cats that roamed by the Sidra River. Since Lucien had been granted some freedom, they had also spent time exploring Velaris together, and Nimue discovered in him the pleasant company Feyre had spoken about.

But she hadn’t crossed paths with Azriel. Not until now.

She had assumed he’d been busy. She had managed to isolate herself from reality for a couple of days, but the looming shadow of war followed her wherever she went. Azriel, on his part, had work—now more than ever. Speaking with his spies in other courts, pulling strings, traveling to the Court of Nightmares…

Nimue found him sitting on a stone bench in the garden beside the house. In his hand was a cup of tea (Nimue loved tea; every time she smelled it from the other side of the house, it was as if she were enchanted with a spell of eternal happiness), and Azriel was gazing at the sky with his eyes closed, enjoying the last rays of sun on that June evening.

The princess hesitated at first, her steps faltering as she approached. But there was something she needed to tell him, something she could no longer keep to herself. Finally, she stopped a few paces away, her hands clasped in front of her.

Azriel looked up, his amber-colored eyes meeting hers. There was a trace of concern on his face, a slight tilt of his head that indicated he was listening even before she spoke.

“It’s been days. How are you?”

“Fine,” Nimue began, her voice barely a whisper. “May I sit with you?”

He nodded, shifting slightly to make room. “Of course.”

She sat down beside him but didn’t look at him immediately. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the horizon, watching the sun slowly disappear behind the mountains. For a moment, silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was as if they were both waiting for the right moment to speak.

Finally, Nimue broke the silence. “When Lucien said he had discovered me—because of our connection, our bond…” Her voice trembled slightly, and she swallowed before continuing. “It felt like something inside me crumbled. I’ve always been so… careful, always in control. But with you… with you, I can never fully be in control. And that scares me.”

Azriel watched her, his expression soft yet intense. “Nimue,” he said quietly, as if he spoke her name with a special reverence. “I understand what you’re saying more than you might think.”

She looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded, his shadows moving slowly, as if mirroring his mood. “I’ve spent my life hiding parts of myself, keeping others at a distance. Not because I didn’t trust them, but because I feared what they would see if they got too close. With you… everything is different. I see myself in you. I feel like I’ve finally found the person I can show the worst parts of me to, and they’ll accept me anyway.”

Azriel’s words struck something deep within Nimue. She turned to him, her eyes shining with a mix of emotion and vulnerability. “But what if this makes us weaker? If we become a burden to one another… I can’t go into war knowing I’ll lose something I never imagined I’d find.”

Azriel shook his head, letting out a soft laugh, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that almost made her shiver. “We’re not a burden. We’re a team. You make me stronger, Nimue. And I think I can be that for you too—if you let me.”

She let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling slightly. “That’s what scares me. Letting you. Depending on someone else.”

Azriel extended a hand toward her but didn’t force her to take it. He left it there, open, as an invitation. “You don’t have to face this alone. I don’t want you to feel obligated, but if you ever decide you’re ready to trust someone else, I’ll be here waiting.”

Nimue looked at him, and for a moment, she seemed to wrestle with herself. But then, with a courage she didn’t know she possessed, she took his hand. Azriel’s fingers closed gently around hers, and that simple gesture gave her a sense of security she had never experienced before.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice heavy with emotion. “For not giving up on me.”

Azriel smiled faintly, and something in his expression made her feel less broken, less monstrous. At that moment, she understood she wasn’t alone, that she didn’t have to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Without thinking too much, she leaned toward him, and Azriel didn’t pull away. Their lips met in a soft kiss, full of uncertainty and unspoken promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a refuge amidst the storm both carried within.

It was then that Nimue realized what she had just done, and she pulled back abruptly, bringing her hands to her lips.

“Oh, by the Cauldron. How inappropriate was that? And without asking for permission! Oh, my goodness, what a disaster. I’m like one of those girls in Nesta’s books—oh, this is so nerve-wracking. How embarrassing, forgive me.”

Azriel couldn’t contain the pure laugh that escaped his chest. Nimue kept apologizing and talking and talking, her face as red as the flowers on the bush behind her, gesturing wildly as she tried to hide her face. Azriel smiled, his eyes narrowing as he tried to etch into his memory the image before him: the raw beauty and innocence of Nimue, the sensation he had felt in the center of his chest when their lips had been joined for just a few seconds.

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@lilah-asteria @agentsofsheilds @leptitlu @just-here-reading @glitterypirateduck @saltedcoffeescotch @krowiathemythologynerd @donttellthecats @annblvck @annamariereads16 @crazylokonugget @smoooothoperator @superspideyparker @bookwormysblog @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

[whxtedreams]

Uncertain, Unknown

a joel miller x reader oneshot

Summary: You were ready for the end, but a stranger wasn't.

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags: near-death experience, drowning, acceptance of death, (no actual deaths) joel saves you, idk what this is- just felt like writing this. no description of reader.

Main masterlist

You have held a deep-set fear of large bodies of water, their vast depths an abyss of the unknown that suffocates your very being as it reaches out to embrace you in its cold, unforgiving embrace. Its watery tendrils seem to caress the edges of your consciousness, seeking to pull you in and feed on your fears, trapping you within its endless expanse.

As you plunge deeper into the lake, an unexpected tranquility washes over you. The cold and forbidding waters no longer seem menacing; instead, they wrap around you like a warm embrace, flooding you with a sense of familiarity and comfort. In this moment, the lake transforms from a source of fear into a soothing reminder of what home used to be – a safe haven filled with love and affection. You sink effortlessly, held gently in the arms of the water, feeling a deep sense of security and contentment.

As you fall into the depths of the water, time seems to elongate, stretching out into eternity. Yet, deep down, you know that it has only been a mere minute since you hit the surface. You succumb to the pull of gravity, allowing yourself to sink deeper into the aquatic embrace. There is no struggle, no fight for survival. Instead, you surrender fully to the abyss, each second passing like an hour, as your body slowly surrenders to the warm, welcoming grasp of the water.

You had been running with all your might, your legs and chest on fire with exhaustion and fear pumping through your veins. In a moment of panicked desperation, you turned your head to check if your pursuers were behind you. Alas, a concealed log laid in ambush, and your foot caught upon it, sending you crashing to the ground. Panic flooded your being as your body rolled and tumbled uncontrollably, the harsh earth tearing at your skin ruthlessly. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the torment ended in a splash as you plunged into the cold, dark depths below.

You are going to die, and you don’t fight it.

You’re so tired.

The lake seems to come alive, its depths reaching out and grasping at your body, tearing at your skin and constricting your chest with an implacable grip. The lake's sinister intentions become palpable as it seeks to consume you, to claim your essence for itself. Weary and exhausted to the core, you surrender to the lake's malevolent embrace, allowing yourself to be consumed by its fearsome hunger.

As your body instinctively craves air, the lake relentlessly smothers it, its relentless grasp stifling your every breath. Your lungs burn with desperation, and each attempt to inhale only draws in more suffocating water. The lake's relentless hands envelop your face, leaving you with no escape as it ruthlessly suppresses your very breath, depriving your body of the oxygen it so desperately needs.

As you sink deeper into the lake's abyss, a surprising sense of gratitude washes over you. Despite the circumstances leading up to this, you are thankful that this is how your life will end – not torn apart by the infected or cut down by the malevolent force that shadows the earth. As the water envelopes you completely, you find solace in the thought that this peaceful end is preferable to the horrors that awaited you on the surface.

Your mind drifts back to the events of the morning - a time when everything seemed so normal, so mundane. How innocently unsuspecting you were about the cruel fate that awaited you. Now, as you reflect, you can't help but feel a profound melancholy - you realize that that is the last time you will wake up in this world to witness the beauty of a sunrise.

The memory of the infected still pierces your mind like a sharp sword. The guttural growls, the chilling shrieks, and the rustling of leaves as they closed in on you - it all replays like an awful nightmare. Despite your abilities, you knew that taking on four infected at once was a certain death sentence. So, with sheer terror coursing through your veins, you did the only thing you could - you ran. And running is something you knew how to do brilliantly. But even the most masterful escape was not enough to save you from your impending fate.

Above the murky depths of the lake, a series of thunderous booms reverberate through the water, causing a surge of pressure that pressed against your body. You feel a mixture of hope and trepidation wash over you as you ponder whether drowning would claim you before the unknown entity reaches you. Suddenly, something hard and solid wraps around your wrist, its grip unrelenting. The shock of the contrast between the soothing water and the harshness of this newfound grasp causes you to gasp in surprise. As the solid form forcefully pulls you upwards, encircling your middle, you struggle fiercely, attempting to free yourself from its tenacious hold.

As the mysterious entity pulls relentlessly, you feel the shift in the water's demeanor - the soothing embrace transforming into a bitter, furious grip, angry at the prospect of losing its new victim. The water screams loudly in your ears, the intense pressure leaving you with a throbbing headache. The temperature plunges to near freezing, and the realization of the water's true nature sends waves of panic coursing through your body, making it increasingly difficult to stay calm and collected.

As your head breaks the surface of the water, you desperately gasp for air, yet you find yourself hacking and choking on the water still trapped within your lungs. The shock of exposure to the outside air mixed with the remnants of ingested water leaves you struggling to catch your breath, your body convulsing in protest.

The strong arms that had pulled you from the depths adjust themselves around you, seeking to hold onto the lingering vestiges of your life as they guide you back to the safety of the shoreline. As your back makes contact with the muddy ground, urgent hands swiftly push away the strands of hair from your face, gently turning you onto your side. With each subsequent cough, more and more murky lake water spills from your mouth, mixing with the damp earth that cradles your weary body.

"There you go, you're alright," The reassuring voice washes over you like a calm tide, its soothing tone wrapping around your nerves like a protective blanket. The hand rubs your back firmly, providing a solid and comforting presence as you struggle to expel the water from your lungs.

Your clothes cling to your skin, their cold and soggy embrace causing you to shiver violently. Yet as the hand gently rubs your back, you become acutely aware of the stark contrast between its warmth and the bone-chilling cold of the lake water. The sudden realization hits you - the water was never truly warm; it was merely a cruel trick, a twisted ploy to lure you into its sinister grasp.

As you struggle to turn onto your back, your head heavy and fatigue setting in, you muster the strength to look up at your savior. He sits beside you, panting heavily, his own chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Despite the frigid waters that cling to his clothes and the wet strands of hair that fall onto his face, his gaze remains focused solely on you, unwavering and intense. The hand that once firmly rubbed your back now lays beside you.

As your breathing steadily slows and your consciousness begins to fade, your thoughts turn to the one who has saved you. In that moment, he appears like an angel to you with an aura of divine intervention surrounding him. Whether he is a fallen angel or a heavenly being sent to rescue you, you care not, for the overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief washes over you, lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

You awaken to the unfamiliar feeling of harsh concrete beneath you, replacing the cold and damp mud that cradled you when you drifted off to sleep. The windows are eerily boarded up, allowing only a limited amount of light to trickle in and leaving you completely disoriented as you try to determine whether the sunlight outside indicates a sunrise or a sunset. Confusion mixes with a lingering sense of disorientation as you struggle to piece together how much time has passed while you were unconscious.

You muster the strength to push aside a hefty jacket that rests on your body, sitting up slowly and tentatively. It's not your jacket, that much is certain. The realization hits you like a wave - it must belong to the one who rescued you. As you recall the events leading up to this moment, you remember that he wasn't wearing a jacket when he pulled you out of the water. In this cold and unfamiliar environment, the jacket offers some comfort and warmth, a small lifeline to cling onto.

The dim flicker of light filtering through the boarded-up windows provides enough illumination to make out the contents of the small storage room you find yourself in. The shelves, once perhaps stocked with supplies, are now bare and covered in a thick layer of dust that speaks to years of disuse. Broken pieces of wood and metal lay scattered about on the ground, undisturbed and forgotten by time. The thick, stale air hangs in the room like a heavy pall, an ominous stillness that weighs heavily on your senses.

The quiet of the room is disrupted by a sharp huff followed by the heavy and purposeful thud of approaching footsteps. They come to a standstill just outside the closed door, and for a brief moment, there is dead silence. Suddenly, three gentle yet firm raps echo through the room, jolting you from your contemplations.

His voice breaks the silence, his words carrying a mix of both hope and concern. “You awake in there?” he calls out, his tone low and steady. After a brief pause, the door slowly creaks open, its hinges protesting the movement. His eyes sweep the room until they finally land on you, sitting in the exact spot where he left you. Relief washes over his features, his shoulders relaxing as a faint smile quirks up the corners of his mouth.

As the door swings open fully, the bright afternoon sunlight floods the room, illuminating every corner and casting harsh shadows upon the walls. Caught off guard by the sudden brightness, you instinctively raise your hands to shield your eyes, squinting as you attempt to adjust to the dazzling light.

He leans against the arch of the door nonchalantly, his arm braced against the frame in a lazy yet protective manner. He casts a watchful gaze onto you, studying you carefully as you attempt to catch a glimpse of your surroundings beyond him. His tall stature and strong build serve as an imposing yet comforting presence, casting a shadow over your seated form that shields you from the intense light streaming in from outside.

His voice breaks the silence once more, a mixture of relief and concern tinting his words. “That was some mighty cold water you found yourself in,” he says, the lingering worry evident in his tone. “Thought we were both gonna freeze” he adds, his sigh reverberating through the room. He pushes off from the arch, rising to his full height and placing himself before you, his shoulders broad and firm.

He crouches down before you, his eyes searching your face intently. As your silence lingers, he asks, “You got a name? Or am I going to have to make one up if you won't talk?” The question hangs in the air, filled with curiosity and a hint of a challenge. His gaze remains steady, patiently awaiting your response, wondering if you will finally break your silence.

You hesitate for a moment, the syllables of your name feeling unfamiliar as they roll off your tongue, having gone unspoken for so long. Finally, in a soft, tentative voice, you respond. The words are barely spoken, yet they hang in the air, carrying with them a hint of vulnerability as you offer this small piece of yourself to this stranger who has saved you.

He nods in acknowledgment, a small gesture of introduction. “Joel.” The name rolls off his tongue with a certain ease, his voice carrying both strength and warmth in equal measure. As he straightens up, his knees crack audible protest, yet he gives no sign of discomfort, perhaps used to the sensation of pain. He stands before you, a tall and steadfast presence, solid and reliable like a pillar amidst the chaos of uncertainty.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” He begins as he leans over you to retrieve his jacket. “Looks like you’ve got two options. Either stay here or I can smuggle you into Boston QZ. But I gotta move, wasted a lot of time dragging you out of that lake.”

He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles rippling under his shirtsleeves. It's a relaxed yet assertive pose, one that exudes a sense of authority and control. As he waits for your response, his eyes never leave your face, watching you intently, silently urging you to speak with a slight lift of an eyebrow.

You grapple with the decision, torn between the logical course of action and an inexplicable pull deep within you. Something within you whispers fiercely, urging you to say yes, to join this stranger named Joel. Despite the risks and uncertainties that lie ahead, the force of this invisible pull is simply too strong to resist. A flicker of something wild and untamed dances in your eyes as the answer slips past your lips.

As Joel reaches down and takes your hand firmly in his, an almost gentle strength radiates through his grip. He lifts you easily onto your feet, the warmth and solidity of his touch providing a stark contrast to the cold memories of the lake. The lake had wrapped around you like a warm embrace, flooding you with a sense of familiarity and comfort. But in this moment, the lake cannot compare to how safe Joel makes you feel in his presence. 

Following closely behind him, you reflect on the events that have transpired since your encounter with Joel - how this stranger has not only rescued you from freezing waters but also taking you to the safety of a QZ. A sense of gratitude mixes with uncertainty in your thoughts, unsure of what the future holds, but trusting in Joel nonetheless.

Your thoughts turn to the false sense of safety the lake had offered you as you sank to your death, how easily it had lured you into its depths. Now, as you follow Joel out of the abandoned gas station and into the uncertain unknown, you make a silent vow to yourself. Regardless of what lies ahead, you will follow Joel for now. With each step, you cling to the hope that he will lead you toward sanctuary, and away from the shadows that seem to lurk everywhere around you.

Your mind is filled with thoughts of caution and doubt, wondering if Joel is simply leading you into a false sense of hope and security. Trust is not given lightly in this new world, and yet, you find yourself following him nonetheless, desperate for a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty. As you try to quell the unease in your heart, you silently hope that Joel's intentions are sincere, and that he will provide the protection and guidance that you so desperately need.

notes

i’m back from the dead. haven’t sat down and written anything for a while, stardew valley took over my life for a little bit there and then my wifi broke.

don’t really know what this is, but i felt like writing it. just a moment, nothing too long or short. no smut or fluff really, just an interaction and the start of a new life.

[komsomolka]

Comrades! For nine days we have listened to the speeches of the opposition, and I must say quite frankly that they spoke here not as fellow fighters, revolutionaries, our comrades in the class struggle. Their speeches were hostile, implacable, malicious and slanderous. Yes, Comrades, slanderous! They have tried to represent us Bolsheviks as supporters of a mailed-fist regime in the Party, as people who are betraying the interests of their class and the Revolution. They have attempted to brand as Party bureaucrats the best, the most tried and trusty section of our Party, the glorious old guard of Bolsheviks, men who built up the Russian Communist Party, men who suffered in tsarist prisons, men who with Comrade Lenin at their head have waged a relentless struggle against world Menshevism and Trotsky. Could anyone but an enemy make such statements? Is the Party and its functionaries not one single whole? Then what is this all about, I want to know? What would we say of men who would try to incite young Red Army men against their commanders and commissars, against army headquarters — and at a time when the unit was surrounded by the enemy? According to the Trotskyites, so long as I am a mechanic I'm 'all right', but if tomorrow I should become the secretary of a Party Committee I would be a 'bureaucrat' and a 'chairwarmer'!

How the Steel was Tempered by Nikolai Ostrovsky

[rita-repulsa-ke]

Death Waits

Then there’s Rio. Rio, who laughs like a hyena, sulks whenever Agatha is cruel, loves puppet shows, sleeping in, bad puns, watching people die and for some indeterminate reason, Agatha.

Agatha and Rio in their dating period. Agatha realizes how much Rio would like to personally kill her.

Death is relentless, implacable, everywhere and nowhere. She comes for everyone, stands at bedsides and roadsides, watches them all grapple with the circumstances of their own ends. Sometimes Agatha really sees Her, larger than life, too big for even Agatha to comprehend, one of the sacred mysteries of the universe.

Then there’s Rio. Rio, who laughs like a hyena, sulks whenever Agatha is cruel, loves puppet shows, sleeping in, bad puns, watching people die and for some indeterminate reason, Agatha.

Of course, she isn’t any good at being human, not really. Agatha catches it, in all the little ways and the big. How Rio forgets to breathe, enjoys half-rotten food that she doesn’t always chew and has no understanding at all of what it’s like to be afraid of dying, the latter of which Agatha happily uses to her own advantage, because the most convenient way Rio isn’t human is that she’s not going to die and leave Agatha behind.

Still, sometimes Agatha finds herself watching Rio, sprawled on her stomach, observing a butterfly with apparent fascination and she’s slightly amused that there’s an immortal part of the balance in there somewhere.

She crawls over on top of Rio, murmurs in her ear, ”Drop the mask?”

Death turns her head unnaturally far to look at her, skeletal, noseless, a thousand endings in her eyes, small deaths and big ones, the end of a life, the end of a civilization, the end of a solar system. All hers.

“Why?” she asks and Agatha shrugs, caught, entranced.

“Sometimes I just like to see,” she admits.

“You aren’t afraid?”

“Of course I am,” Agatha says. They both know how much Agatha Harkness fears her own end. “You’re still beautiful.”

Those bottomless eyes change, and now they are not many deaths across all scales, but one death in many ways and Agatha finds herself affixed, frozen, watching herself die over and over again. At the stake, by the sword, of disease, of drowning, in a strange vehicle, to a falling ceiling, to Death hers—

The mask snaps back into place. Rio blinks and then tries an imitation of a human smile while Agatha grapples to understand everything she just saw. “Was one of those you killing me?”

The way Rio shudders under her is slightly unnerving, she knows the other woman well enough to recognize excitement. “That’s almost never allowed,” she says, and yes, that’s definitely excitement in her voice.

“But you want to.”

Rio hesitates, scans her face, then nods. “Yes, Agatha, I want to. I really—yes.”

Agatha has been aware for some time that her death excites her lover. Still, she isn’t sure how she feels about knowing that Rio wants to do it personally.

“Creepy,” she murmurs and there is a flash of real concern in Rio’s eyes. She sits up, spills Agatha off and wraps her arms around her.

“I don’t want it to bother you,” she says.

“You don’t want me to be bothered by the fact that you want to kill me?”

Rio nods. “Right.”

Agatha can’t stop herself from laughing, a small, snorting laugh. “Well, if you don’t want it…”

“Agatha.” Something serious in that tone, something that is going to end in sulking and knives unless Agatha picks another tactic.

Agatha gathers up her lover, warm and soft, smelling not unpleasantly of dirt and growing things, currently remembering to breathe. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Really?” Rio sounds genuinely uncertain, as uncomfortable as Agatha has ever seen her.

“I do wish you would tell me what happens after,” Agatha murmurs against her ear, always desperate to learn the mysteries of what happens after death. It would just be comforting to have a map. “Who knows, maybe I’d let you.”

She’s on her back with a knife to her throat on the last syllable, too fast to understand what’s happening. Rio’s eyes hold the kind of wild, electric excitement that happens whenever Agatha manages to be something like romantic. That normally ends with Agatha being dragged to bed for hours on end, hardly the worst fate.

Agatha isn’t as sure how this one ends. Her breathing has caught, her pulse is racing and she's staring up at her girlfriend, who is currently looking even more deadly than normal. “Rio…”

“Say it again,” Rio begs. “Ags, say it again.”

“Uh. If I do.”

“Yes,” Rio says, promises, the knife pressing in. “Agatha, come on, come with me, come see what’s behind the veil.”

“Okay, how about we calm down a little first…”

Rio growls, a guttural, echoing sound. Around them, plants have started to sprout, flowers and vines and small trees, the small, flat clearing transforming into a jungle.

“Hey, hey, Rio,” Agatha says, overly aware of the knife scraping skin when she speaks and the way her lover is staring down at her, impatient, hungry, a very, very familiar look. It is the same way Rio watches her when she kills other witches.

Agatha swallows, feels the knife, lets a tremor of real emotion sneak into her voice and says something she hates, “Rio, please, you’re scaring me.”

That breaks it or at least gets the knife to disappear and Rio to collapse on top of her, holding her tight.

Agatha notes that her lover has once again stopped breathing.

“Sorry. Got too excited,” Rio murmurs. “Don’t be. Ags, don’t be scared.

“I’m not,” Agatha says, with her normal brazen contempt for the idea of fear. “I did want you to drop the knife, though.”

Rio pulls back, studies her. “Really?”

Agatha snorts. “Me? Scared of you?”

Rio cuddles tighter against her. “…Good. I don’t want—you can be scared of death. Don’t be scared of me.”

“Of course not,” Agatha says, kissing her hair. “Who could be scared of you? You get distracted by butterflies and cry if I say anything even slightly mean.”

“…I like butterflies, they don’t live very long. And I don’t think I even know how to cry.”

Agatha shrugs. “My point is, knife aside, you’re very unintimidating.”

”Sure, Agatha.” She can hear the smile in Rio’s voice. “…You’re being nice about it. Thanks.”

Agatha cuddles the woman who loves her, the woman she loves so much that it scares her more than Death ever could, who definitely wants to kill her personally. The same woman who laughs at her jokes, puts up with her many personality flaws, lets Agatha drag her from place to place. The gorgeous, compelling, inhuman woman who surprises and delights her, shares her bed and her life, promises never to leave, the one person in the world Agatha has started to believe it just might be safe to love.

”…As far as flaws go, wanting to kill me isn’t that bad,” she decides.

“No?”

“Could be worse. Imagine if you were boring.”

Rio’s shrill laugh against her ear. “Truly terrible. You either, Agatha. You’re never boring. Never entirely what I expect.”

“That’s flattering. You’ve known a lot of people.”

“Not for very long.”

“Still.”

“…You really don’t mind?” Rio asks, still sounding slightly uncertain.

And now Agatha is beginning to see her favorite thing, the angle. “No. Though…you know, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you feel guilty.”

Rio groans with a mix of affection and exasperation. “Oh no. Agatha Harkness has found a weakness to exploit.”

Agatha gasps in mock-offense, a skit she's done a hundred times before. “Would I do that?”

“Always. You know, I do still have a knife.”

“I know. The one you want to kill me with.”

“…You’re going to use this for a long time, huh?”

“Probably. It does seem like me. But you love me anyway, right?”

Rio sighs against her skin, a whisper of warm air. “More than you will ever know.”

"And that's why you want to kill me?"

Rio snickers. "Yes, Agatha. That is why I want to kill you." There is something longing in her voice and her hands on Agatha are starting to move more purposefully, unlacing the back of Agatha's dress.

"But also why you won't?" Agatha murmurs, pressing feathery kisses against Rio's cheeks, the corner of her lips.

"I won't because I'm not allowed," Rio says, even as Agatha's attentions elicit a soft whine from the end of all things.

Agatha kisses her lover, soft and sweet, a caress, an adoration, an act of worship. "But also because you love me. And you know I'm not ready to stop yet."

Rio nods reluctantly. "…Yes, Agatha, all right. Have it your way." A smile curls her lips, and it isn't a nice smile, too sharp, too big, an inevitable promise. "I can wait for you as long as you need me to. But let me do it, all right? When the time comes?"

Agatha, even Agatha, can't help but suppress a shudder. "Sure," she agrees. "But when I'm ready, okay? Until then," her hand cups Rio's cheek. "Wait for me."

She never fails to be delighted that she can make Death tremble. "As long as I have to, beloved."

That will be forever, if Agatha has her way. She can't imagine wanting to stop, wanting any of this to end. On the off chance it ever has to, though, on the possibility that she someday changes her mind, well, she supposes Rio will have earned it. Agatha Harkness isn't an easy prize. She can make even Death wait.

Want to read something else? Try Agatha Sleeps for Rio being a good secret second parent or check out the master list for more

[thefugitivesaint]

They Are Insecure For A Reason | Defector

"One of the less-amusing ironies of the violent institutional response to the nonviolent protest movement on campuses across the country is that the goals of the people protesting are much easier to understand than those of the variously curdled elites dispatching uniformed violence workers against them. The irony is in the fact that the students, with their specific demands and comparatively disciplined approach, have been cast as somewhere between essentially unserious and actively terroristic. In contrast, the institutions pivoting and pandering and giddily giving themselves over to the incoherent and spiraling political panic surrounding the protests represent principled leadership and forebearance; the gray elites insisting that these protests are actually about their dull abstractions of choice are the voice of seriousness; the police forces, rioting and ravening as ever, are somehow in fact order.

A lot of this disjunction can be explained by the undeniable disparities in power between those two sides, the first organizing toward a legible goal and the second existing essentially to oversee the unending work of saying no. Only one side can effectively call the cops on the other; here, as elsewhere, the impunity that comes with that exclusive access to violent recourse has made those with it not only cynical and lazy and cruel, but also paradoxically insecure and perpetually terrified at the prospect of any erosion in authority. It is, on its face, difficult to make the argument that it is fundamentally unserious to object to dropping a 2,000-pound bomb on a hospital, and much more morally and politically serious to object to that objection on some point of administrative order, or simply because it is too loud." ..... "There is something terribly clarifying in how eager the people in power at these universities have been to betray the trust of everyone invested in those institutions. Institutions that otherwise exist from one exploratory committee to the next will change university policies on the fly so that their local uniformed violence workers will get their chance to thump some young skulls; administrators whose notional jobs are upholding communities of learning and care gladly consent to being upbraided by clownish golf hogs and half-fascist nullities in Congress and then do exactly what they were told to do, whatever the damage to those communities. If the students and professors in these protests, which are now nationwide, have a sort of advantage simply by being the only parties involved that actually care about anything, they are also up against an opposition that is all the more implacable because of how proudly cynical it is." .... "The order they are after is all around us—a Homeowners Association with a S.W.A.T. team at its disposal, a business that grows at a steady rate without making anything anyone could use, a world in which things simply happen and continue to happen, a pristine desolation that is safe precisely because of how empty it is. But what they are afraid of grows even as they starve it, which is why these people, with all their power, are always so insecure. It is why, despite the relentless imposition of their annihilating concept of safety, they can't ever quite feel safe. They know how bad it would be for them to be seen clearly; they are fucking terrified of being treated as they treat others. They know that people can recognize their demands as what they are, and that there are still spaces in which to reject them. And they sense, maybe, that this false and failing security can't last. "The more they try to silence us," a Columbia grad student told the Times last week, "the louder we get."

[sepulcher-of-the-light]

© Lucas Garcete, Yarasa

Me enfrento a este implacable sol de los días; yo, acostumbrado a las cuevas, a la honda llamada de las estrellas. Estos edificios no sostienen el peso del mundo como las raíces, pero el ocaso los viste de sombras que los embellecen. Cuando la noche se cierne, la sangre vertiginosa de mis alas interroga a las venas de la luna. La luna, exhausta en la noche donde crece mi sed y soy libre.

I face this relentless sun of the days; I, accustomed to caves, to the deep call of the stars. These buildings do not support the weight of the world like the roots, but the sunset dresses them with shadows that embellish them. When the night hovers, the giddy blood of my wings interrogates the veins of the moon. The moon, exhausted in the night where my thirst grows and I am free.

[city-of-ladies]

"If there is one fact about the amazons that is indisputable, it is their consistently outstanding performance in combat. Not unexpectedly, practically the only author to cast doubt on this was Burton, for whom the idea that black females (not to speak of males) might excel on the battlefield was hard to accept: “The ‘Amazons’ boast themselves invulnerable, but readily retreat: an equal number of British charwomen, armed with the British broomstick, would - I lay, to speak Yorkishly— clear them off in very few hours.”Elsewhere he damns them with faint praise:‘The women are as brave as, if not braver than, their brethren in arms, who certainly do not shine in that department of manliness.”

The first inkling that the women soldiers of Dahomey might be first-class fighters comes from Labarthe’s informant who, in 1776, watched them perform shooting drills at Abomey and found them “very resolute”. By 1830, as Conneau learned at Whydah, their “bravery [was] a noted fact and [was] proverbial with the natives.” By the next decade the amazons’ reputation was established among Europeans too. At Cana in 1843 Freeman saw a “brigade” of them fire their guns. Not only did they shoot well, he says, but they “appeared totally void of fear”. The next year de Monléon remarked that the women had “often given striking proof of courage and audacity”. In 1845 Duncan saw amazon officers being rewarded for their “valour”.

Regarding the terror the women aroused among neighboring peoples, Chautard relates an anecdote from the 1880s. A group of amazons traveled from Whydah to Agoué, a port town beyond the kingdom near what is now Togo, perhaps as an escort for traders. The whole population crowded the town square to see the legendary ladies up close. The female “general” confronted the local male warriors and challenged the very best of them to a duel with swords to determine which sex was stronger. “In less than two minutes”, she boasted, “his head will adorn the tip of my sword!” To the shame of his sex, says Chautard, not one warrior volunteered.

The adjectives applied to the amazons over the decades were brave, courageous, valorous, valiant, fearless, intrepid, cruel, pitiless, merciless, implacable, relentless, bloodthirsty, fierce, ferocious, furious, audacious, impetuous, ardent, fanatic, disciplined, devoted (to the king), indomitable, redoubtable, formidable, vigorous, resolute, tenacious, determined, persevering. Often they were said to surpass their male colleagues — in valor, in intrepidity, in courage, in bravery, in cruelty, in discipline. “In this singular country”, Vallon reported, “the women’s army is accounted much more warlike than the men’s.” According to Bouët, there was no memory of any of the amazons fleeing combat whereas men had often been punished for doing it."

Amazons of Black Sparta: The Women Warriors of Dahomey, Stanley B. Alpern

[rhiannon-girl]

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

T.S. Eliot

He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

Cormac McCarthy - The Road

I like living in my head because in there, everyone is kind and innocent. Once you start integrating yourself into the world, you realize that people are nasty, mean creatures. They're worse than zombies. People try to crush your soul and destroy your happiness, but zombies just want to have a little nibble of your brain.

J. Cornell Michel - Jordan's Brains: A Zombie Evolution

[honourablejester]

Doodling that lovecraftian Cult crew for Blades in the Dark reminded me that I had also been doodling a dungeon for D&D involving a lighthouse. A fully functional occult lighthouse, where the great beam of the light, and the entire top floors and a certain spherical radius around the light itself, would be very bad for you. Specifically, I was thinking that the light is defended by a permanent AOE with the effects of the Sickening Radiance spell. Because I really love that spell. And lighthouses. And light.

And I’m realising that that is a real and genuine theme that I just keep coming back to. Light. Light vs dark. And I do want to clarify that by that I do not mean good vs evil. I mean genuinely and tangibly light vs dark. Shadows. Chiaroscuro. Lighthouses. Beams in the darkness. Stars. Light as illumination, hope, beacon, calling, but also illusion and burning and pain and hideous relentlessness. Darkness as terror and void and chasm, but also shelter and shield and the peace of sleep.

It is one of the reasons that Pathfinder’s lack of radiant damage genuinely does make a difference to me, because fire just doesn’t have the same … the same call. I want light itself to have an inherent ability to hurt. It’s not heat, it’s not fire, it’s the light itself. Radiant damage. The sort of occult, radiation sort of vibe. I deeply adore Sickening Radiance. This hideous radiance that sickens and exhausts and gradually leeches your life away. I love the imagery of darkness as the shield and light as the weapon.

But I also love the reverse. The idea of the darkness as the death-dealer, the creeping terror that freezes your blood in your veins. And … I think, in D&D terms, I think I do prefer cold damage to be darkness’ weapon of choice, rather than something like necrotic? Necrotic is something different, death and rot. Cold, the leeching of life by the lack of heat, light, hope, is the damage type that I feel suits darkness best. (Possibly psychic, I can see psychic also having its place, darkness is terror after all). (PF2e’s new void damage, what used to be negative damage, is somewhere in the middle – it carries a lot of the implications of necrotic damage, but the description now of the void that saps life does work very well).

And to go with that, light as hope. The beacons in the darkness. The lighthouse. The lantern.

And then corrupting one into the other. Corrupted light. Lighthouses that have been suborned, either by wreckers or more occult forces. Light that not just lets but forces you to see … certain things. And darkness … actually, darkness corrupted by rot. There we can have necrotic damage. Darkness that is no longer the pure implacable cold of absence, but that has been corrupted by crawling things. A rot.

I just. I love the themes and imagery around light and darkness. The symbols. I love worlds that are full of shadows, worlds where the light and the darkness are shown stark against each other, worlds where there is something metaphysical about them. I love bioluminescence, I love the vast chasms of darkness underground. I love lanterns and candelabras and eerie flames flickering underwater. I love lighthouses, beams of light sweeping the darkness, guiding people to safety or horrors to the shore. I love grey gothic worlds where the darkness is a silvered weight, and the pale lights that shine within in are tiny, frail beacons of hope that somehow, despite it all, do not go out. I love the light as a horror, as a burning, searing, relentless thing, and darkness as the space you crawl into, blistered and desperate, to let its cool balm seeps across you.

I just. Gothic and cosmic horror have spoiled me. The standard fantasy ‘light is good and dark is evil and neither are particularly examined’ just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. I want light as a horror and darkness as a balm. I want light as a beacon, a call, and darkness as a void, a terror, a crawling thing. I want the softness of shadows and the frail shining of one last star of hope. I want light to hurt and darkness to shield, and darkness to swallow and drown and light to offer a beacon and a path out of terror. I want both of them to be vast and powerful and terrible and stark, and yet also small and frail and gentle and beautiful.

I just. I really love light and darkness. I love playing with them, interacting with them, pondering them. The stark contrast between them and the way they can blur together. Chiaroscuro. It’s a thing.

Also lighthouses just make a great set piece? Just in general. Excellent imagery, no notes. Heh.

Carry on.

[mursartifice]

cersei lannister

a song of ice and fire character portraits, #3

“their father had been as relentless and implacable as a glacier, where cersei was all wildfire”

[nicklloydnow]

Illustration by @steve_fagiano_art

“Chigurh stands up to God with an unflinching, uncompromising belief in predetermination—no free will or human choice, no mercy or sentiment, no giving in or letting go or giving up. Principled in the purity of his work, he defies sentiment and falsehood and betrayal. A pure born-again agent of death, anti-Christ Calvinist Chigurh is a man of his deadly word, a relentless avenger, an implacable killer defying God, no less than the diabolic Judge in Blood Meridian. "How to prevail over that which you refuse to acknowledge the existence of" lago was never so clear-minded, Ahab no more manically fixated, Kurtz no less obsessed with his mission to exterminate losers. "The horror! The horror!" What more can a man say of pure evil?” - Kenneth Lincoln, ‘Cormac McCarthy: American Canticles’ (2010) [p. 144, 145]

“Chigurh again adopts the Socratic method in his final encounter with his fellow hitman Carson Wells. Although Wells isn't given the privilege of a coin toss, Chigurh nevertheless engages in an incisive dialogue with his victim. While holding Wells at gunpoint, Chigurh asks, "If the rule you followed led you to this of what use was the rule?" When Wells replies, "I don't know what you're talking about," Chigurh elaborates: "I'm talking about your life. In which now everything can be seen at once." Knowing that the moment of death has arrived, Chigurh wants Wells to examine the path that led him here, claiming that the present situation "calls past events into question" (175). Even though Chigurh admits that he and Wells are in the "same line of work," he finds it necessary to distance himself from the other hit-man: "You think I'm like you. That it's just greed. But I'm not like you. I live a simple life" (177). This distinction between the two hired assassins suggests that Chigurh transcends mere criminality. The "simple life" he leads imbues him with the ascetic austerity of a monk pledged to evil, a satanic reversal of traditional, spiritual roles hinted at by other descriptions of Chigurh as a "faith healer" and a "prophet of destruction" (7, 3). In his study of the portrayal of evil in literature and cinema, Paul Oppenheimer points out that evil often "begins in criminality" but then "surpasses criminality, and finally, by comparison with criminality, overwhelms and belittles it, causing it to seem oddly cumbersome and even childish" (21). Chigurh lives by a different "rule," not motivated by the usual spectrum of human desires and thus remaining largely inscrutable.

It is significant that Wells is given a premonition of his own death exactly three days before it takes place. While examining the damage caused by a shootout between Chigurh and Moss at the Eagle Pass motel, Wells notices "two bulletholes in the windowglass" of a "second floor level" apartment across the street. After knocking on the door and receiving no answer, Wells lets himself in and finds the corpse of an old woman: "She'd been shot through the forehead and had tilted forward leaving part of the back of her skull and a good bit of dried brainmatter stuck to the slat of the rocker behind her. . . . A second shot had marked a date on a calendar on the wall behind her that was three days hence" (147). The path of the stray bullet converges with the path of the unsuspecting woman, much as Chigurh's coin converges with the equally unsuspecting gas station owner earlier in the novel. The woman's death reminds Wells of the inexorable machinations of fate: "Not what you had in mind at all, was it darling?" he asks (148). Wells correctly interprets the mark on the calendar as a portent of the day of his own impending death.

During the final encounter, he tells Chigurh, "By the old woman's calendar I've got three more minutes. Well the hell with it. I think I saw all this coming a long time ago. Almost like a dream. Déja vu." Well's words reveal that he had a vision of his own death long before he saw the calendar. Nevertheless, the question posed by Chigurh, namely, "How did you let yourself get in this situation?" suggest that it was still within Wells's power to make different choices, live by a different "rule," and thereby change his fate. Chigurh encourages Wells to engage in a final moment of self-reflection: "I thought you might want to explain yourself. . . . Not to me. To yourself" (178). Chigurh's questions seem to be directing Wells toward something akin to the existentialist concept of authentic existence, which, though "not clearly defined by the existentialists . . . implies an attitude of sincerity and honesty and the absence of self-deception" (de Silva 1). Furthermore, it is a mode of existence based on "a realization that one is what one makes oneself by one's acts" (Manser 20). It is worth mentioning that Sheriff Bell strives for the same realization: "It's a life's work to see yourself for what you really are and even then you might be wrong. And that is somethin I dont want to be wrong about" (295). Despite the fact that Bell and Chigurh are diametrically opposed in a Manichean battle between good and evil, respectively, both men insist on the importance of authentic existence arrived at through knowledge of the self.

Existentialist themes are also apparent in Chigurh's attempts to make his victims come to terms with the inevitability of death. He accuses Wells of believing that he can keep death at bay: "You think that as long as you keep looking at me you can put it off." Wells denies thinking such a thing, but Chigurh insists, "Yes you do. You should admit your situation. There would be more dignity in it. I'm trying to help you" (176). Behind the "existential preoccupation with the theme of death" is the belief that "living authentically is living constantly in its presence, for then alone can we attain 'freedom in the face of death" (Dutt 80). When Wells accuses Chigurh of thinking that he is "outside of everything" and reminds him that he is "not outside of death," Chigurh replies, "It doesnt mean to me what it does to you" (177). The reply can be read in two ways, the surface reading being that Chigurh has adopted an existentialist approach to death. More subtly, however, the words hint at the idea that Chigurh is no ordinary mortal and may perhaps be Death itself, albeit a modern version that carries a pneumatic stun-bolt gun instead of the traditional scythe.

Wells grows weary of the conversation, announcing, "I'm not interested in your opinions. . . . Just do it. You goddamned psychopath. Do it and goddamn you to hell." Despite the verbal command, Wells's body language suggests that he is not quite ready: "He closed his eyes and he turned his head and he raised one hand to fend away what could not be fended away. Chigurh shot him in the face" (177). Although there is some discrepancy between Wells's words and his reaction to the shot, the fact that Wells commands it enables him to reclaim a certain degree of control over his fate, however insignificant it may appear. Furthermore, McCarthy makes a point of informing the reader that the "new day was still a minute away" (178), thereby emphasizing the fact that the old woman's calendar was not entirely accurate. The fact that, by asking Chigurh to shoot him a minute early, Wells refuses to die on the prophesied day suggests that even within a universe ruled by seemingly inexorable forces of fate, minute degrees of free will and personal agency remain.” - Petra Mundik, ‘A Bloody and Barbarous God: The Metaphysics of Cormac McCarthy’ (2016) [p. 268 - 270]

“The Coen brothers built a story of war between two teams: one team represent the human mind wish to understand the world and the second team represent the universe as a chaos. During the first half of the movie the war looks good for the human mind team but then the human mind team lose – a beatiful metaphor for absurdism.

(…)

Result of the war:

Anton kills Carson, Llewelyn is killed by Mexicans, and the sheriff is retired loosing hope in the world.

The Coen brothers message in this film is that they do not think humans mind will ever be able to understand the world and we are doom to internal ignorance. Depressing.”

[deadboyfriendd]

12 September, 1894

I killed a man today,  

I did not hold him at gunpoint nor did a knife by my hands enter his body, but I felt his final breath dissipate from the earth like the mirage radiating from the sand just the same. The same hands that relies on this pen to write to something as sweet as you bears the sword that pulls the breath from living lungs. 

I want to help people. I want to keep this town safe, but I do not want to kill. Not anymore. 

I fear there is too much loss in this place. I see it in Nellie’s eyes when she bows her head and prays to a God she does not fully believe in. I heard it in between the cracks of Michael’s voice. There is a nothingness here and I fear it more than death itself. There is no God and we are his prophets. 

This morning I stood in the gray light and for a moment saw the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with to sorrow it. 

Is anything ever truly stolen if we are never guaranteed ownership in the first place? Is life really able to be taken if it is not ours in the beginning? Or then, are we simply set free?

So tell me, then, if all time is borrowed and all world and all earthly things are simply rented: then, I might ask, may I borrow some of you? May I hold you between my hands and relish in the time like it is mine? Might you be able to do the same with me? 

Might your borrowed lips meet against my borrowed flesh? And may my borrowed sorrow be lifted from by body back into the reserve of the world? Might you be the one to pull it from me? 

Might we be gods, or, at least, spend this borrowed existence pretending that we are? In that case, my love, might we pull love from the reserve and quench our sullen, borrowed hearts of the feelings for which they thirst? 

In that case, darling, I offer myself to you in my entirety, 

Steve Harrington.

[snapmite1998]

Chapter 17: Siege of Dathomir

Amidst the chaos and destruction on Dathomir, the Sith brothers—Maul, Savage, and Feral Opress—moved like an unstoppable force, their crimson lightsabers a storm of lethal efficiency. Each slash and thrust was executed with a grim precision, reducing the Republic's brave soldiers and Jedi defenders into grievously outmatched contenders in a battle now tipped towards despair.

Clones fought valiantly with their blasters, and Jedi parried with lightsabers that hummed in protest against the Sith onslaught, but Maul and his brothers were relentless predators. Individually, they struck with the power of an avalanche; together, they were a hurricane that seemed impervious to resistance.

In the midst of the battlefield, Maul advanced upon a fallen clone commander, the commanding officer among the beleaguered troops. His silhouette, lit by the angry embers of the burning Acclamator behind him, cast a towering shadow of menace over the prone figure. The clone reached feebly for his weapon, his training imploring him to continue the fight, but found himself overpowered and immobilized by Maul's oppressive presence. Without hesitation, Maul plunged his ignited lightsaber through the clone's back, the crimson blade erupting through his chest, bringing a swift and final darkness. Savage and Feral continued their grim dance nearby, saber blades flashing in arcs as more soldiers fell to their wrath.

With a casual brutality that reflected the harshness of his being, Maul removed the clone's helmet, letting it fall to the ground beside them before activating the recording device embedded within it. His eyes, alive with a dangerous satisfaction, focused on the lens, knowing the message would reach Republic command. Gazing directly into the helmet's camera, his fierce visage filled the screen with malevolent intent. "Citizens of the Republic," Maul intoned with low, menacing clarity, allowing the words to sink into the cold depths of their doom. "Your siege of Dathomir has resulted in the slaughter of countless clone legions and the greatest the Jedi Order had to offer lie shattered before us."

The camera continued recording as fires blazed behind him, the flickering glimpses of the shattered Republic invasion force and the triumphant forces of Crimson Dawn.

"Tell your Chancellor and tell the Jedi Council," he continued, allowing each phrase to resonate with the implacable certainty of fate unfolding. "The Sith have have triumphed and will continue to do so, with power unrivaled. And soon, your galaxy will feel the wrath of the dark side."

With a flick of his wrist, Maul deactivated the recording, knowing the message would find its way to those who had dared to defy him, a herald of the fears that now gripped the galaxy with perilous consequence.

As the recording ceased, the battlefield continued its descent into chaos, the galaxy hanging on the precipice of change, where darkness sought to drown the light beneath an ever-encroaching shadow.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Albrecht Dürer, The Apocalyptic Woman, from "The Apocalypse" (Nuremberg 1511) :: [Robert Scott Horton]

* * * *

“He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.” ― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

[alinefrank]

DRAGON EMBRACE || PETER PEVENSIE FIC.

Chapter 1

Masterlist

The place I come from wasn't always like that.

In ancient days, Narnia was known for its magical charms and its palpable joy that floated in the air like stardust. The creatures met around the fire to dance, and the murmur of spells and laughter filled every corner. Everyone lived peacefully with each other, however, in this paradise, where magic and happiness intertwined, an unexpected darkness came just like a relentless storm.

Jadis, an evil and cruel witch transformed this place and extinguished its splendour. The fire lost its brillance, and the spells that previously danced elegantly were extinguished in muffled whispers. The laughter and music vanished and were replaced by a heavy silence that hung in the air.

Today, the beautiful landscapes that our home offered us, are hidden among all the snow that covers them and carry the scars of a broken magic, the shadows that extend through the ancient valleys seem to tell stories of a past that lies buried in oblivion. Narnia, the magical town that once shone with the light of wonder, is now wrapped in deep sadness and an endless winter.

In the golden age of Narnia, there was a kingdom called Drakarionth, the land where dragons danced in the heavens and the blood of the rulers flowed with the nobility of the Targentia. The majestic winged beasts sailed the heavens, their scales reflected the colours of the twilight, and their roars resounded like echoes of ancestral power.

The rulers of Drakarionth were distinguished by their snow-white hair and deep eyes of an intense purple. His lineage was intertwined with the ancient magic of dragons, and his reign was marked by grace and authority that only the connection with these mythical creatures could grant.

In the halls of the palace, the symbols of the dragons were intertwined with the architecture, and the perpetual flames danced on the torches as a bow to the strength and majesty of the dragons. Every corner of the earth breathed the essence of a kingdom governed by the indissoluble bond between men and winged creatures.

However, the dark evil that hovered over Narnia brought with it shadows that eclipsed even the greatness of Drakarionth. The flame of the dragons burned fiercely, hundreds of Narnians went out to fight against the usurper, the knights of Drakarionth, with resplendent armour and banners waving with the dragon's emblem, bravely launched into battle, one of them was my father. However, the darkness that enveloped the malevolent force was deeper than anyone would have imagined.

Despite the fierce resistance of all those warriors, the evil of that witch proved to be implacable. The lands that were previously prosperous were consumed by the shadow, and the echos of the battle resounded like a lament throughout Narnia. The brave knights fell one after the other, and the hope of the kingdom slowly faded.

Finally, in the decisive battle, the king of Drakarionth, Valeryon Targentia, was defeated in front of his brother's eyes, the king had died and the whole town fell into despair. The kingdom, which once shone with splendour, was plunged into deep sadness while the ice took over everything, leaving behind a melancholy echo of what was once a prosperous kingdom.

The Drakarians fled to the Skoveragon valley guided by the only member of the royal family who was still alive, the prince named Aldric Targentia, he guided them to a place where they could live without fear of the witch discovering them, the remaining Narnians took refuge in the forest, away from the witch's castle.

The sound of war left an indelible mark on the collective memory of the people. The echos of weapons and screams still resonate, leaving the community with emotional scars that are difficult to heal. The normality they knew had vanished and had been replaced by a reality transformed by the cruelty of war.

"Rheira!" my father yelled at me, taking me out of the dream in which I had immersed myself, I sell through the window of our home. "Stop looking at nothing and hurry up or we will be late for the meeting with the Blackthorns.

I let out a sigh full of discomfort and rolled my eyes when I heard the tone my father used, I put on my thick cape to protect myself from the cold and walked towards the door.

My father left a beautiful red envelope on the table where he was sitting that he didn't care about and went to my mother to arrange her cape.

"Are you ready?" my mom asked me and I just nodded and settled my hair a little.

We left the house and started walking towards the beautiful cabin of the family that had invited us to dinner.

"Today, Rheira, is a crucial day for your future. It is imperative that you behave at the height of our responsibilities—I clenched my jaw when listening as once again, I was about to receive a sermon about my behaviour.

My face furrowed in a grimace, without fully understanding my father's insistence, I looked at him with confusion because this attitude had been present for a few days—Father, I have always treated Eamon and his family with respect. Why is this insistence on my behaviour?

My father sighed and rubbed his forehead, my mother squeezed his hand as a sign of support and my confusion grew to one more.

"It's not just respect, Rheira. What your father wants to tell you is that you must be kind and show a conciliatory attitude. Every gesture of yours counts—my mother's voice interrupted my father and tried to explain his way of acting to me.

I frowned until we reached the house, as soon as Mrs. Blackthorn opened the door for us, I smiled as sincerely as possible and tried to forget the growing discomfort that was forming in my stomach.

Upon entering the beautiful home of the Blackthorn family, the torches illuminated a huge table richly decorated with a velvet tablecloth and silver plates. The dinner smelled delicious and the fire was crisp in the fireplace making the interior of the house very warm.

The adults gathered in the kitchen and I stood in front of the fire warming my hands, Eamon sat next to me and didn't say a single word, I didn't know what to say so I just turned a little and watched him amicably.

We heard some steps coming hurriedly towards us and when we saw you want them, we saw the other 4 brothers of Eamon who played with wooden swords.

We heard a scream announcing that we were going to the dining room and I quickly went to the table where the places had already been assigned and again I sat next to Eamon which managed to increase my discomfort.

It's not that I dislike him, he's just too shy, his jet black hair and his red cheeks make him look pretty cute, he's tall and very good with the sword, but the poor man can't formulate a sentence when I'm present, in addition to being quite clumsy to ride on horseback.

I sat next to him and at the other end of the table, I saw my father send me a look that seemed to shout "be kind", I smiled at him and turned to the boy who was sitting next to me and with a friendly smile I looked for his gaze.

"Do you want some bread?" I offered him a slice.

He accepted and that made the conversation between the two a little easier.

Finally, when the empty plates were removed and the glasses were filled with wine, my father and Mr. Blackthorn stood up, attracting everyone's attention.

"Today we meet to celebrate more than just a hearty meal. We are here to witness the union of two houses, two lineages that are intertwined in an alliance that will strengthen our people. - My mother took my hand when Mr. Blackthorn began to speak and I felt as if the blood was freezing.

My eyes and Eamon's met in a moment of mutual understanding.

"It is an honour to announce that in three days, Rheira, my beloved daughter, and Eamon, the brave heir of the Blackthorns, will unite their destinies in marriage," my father announced and collided his cup with my mother's and everyone present while applauding and celebrating.

When my father finished speaking everything seemed to become silent and a modest beep appeared in my ears. I felt that my hands began to tremble and I dropped the cup by mistake. The noise made everyone remain silent and look at me.

"I..." I tried to talk but I felt that my dress was crushing me because of how tight it was, the dark colour of the wine had stained it, I tried to clean it with my hands but I couldn't, I placed my right hand on my stomach, I was dizzy and I wanted to vomit - I need to get some air.

I walked away from the table leaving everyone stunned, Eamon tried to hold my hands but I got out and went to the door.

"Rheira!" My mother yelled at me but I just ignored her and ran home.

I ran as fast as I could on the snow until I reached my home, I opened the door and I felt that everything was spinning around, I leaned on the table where we ate and noticed the envelope my father was reading before leaving home.

Tears had begun to run through my cheeks, but my curiosity was greater and I opened the strange envelope, it was a letter, addressed to my father:

“Honourable Aldric Targentia,

I trust that this letter will reach you in good condition and health. We face again the dark threat that requires the dexterity and courage that only Drakarian warriors possess. The end of Jadis is near. At this critical moment, I implore you to gather the most skilful warriors and blacksmiths, those whose swords have resonated with victory and whose anvils have forged the weapons that have defended our lands in the past. The time to raise the swords and hammers again in Defence of our kingdom has come. I trust in his wisdom and the iron determination that has always guided his people. May the banner of justice and the flame of hope burn strong in their hearts as they march towards battle. We are waiting for you at the stone table, to plan our strategies and light the fire of the resistance. That his spirit does not know fear and that his swords are as sharp as the will of his ancestors.

With respect and gratitude, Oreius.

Commander-in-Chief of the Narnian troops"

Anger invaded me and I felt that my teeth would break because of how hard I was squeezing them. The door of my home opened violently and my mother and father appeared, the latter took me by the arm aggressively and made me face it.

"The only thing I asked you was to behave!" his voice resounded throughout our home, my father's purple eyes reflected pure anger.

I let go of his grip and yelled at him with all my strength—I won't get married out of duty, father! I can't accept this—my voice was full of frustration while my hands trembled with rage.

"It's your duty, Rheira. This alliance is vital for the survival of the people. You can't ignore your responsibility—my father's screams would usually have made me tremble, but I was too angry to remain silent.

The room vibrated with the echo of our fight, the words resonating like swords colliding in the heat of the battle.

"And what about my happiness, father?" And what about my choice in this life? I protested, with my eyes calling for determination and with hundreds of tears sliding down my face.

My father, angry, answered with a harsher tone—You will learn to be happy, you will learn to love Eamond.

The tension reached its peak, and I was unable to contain my anger, I shouted with everything I had—I will not allow you to decide my destiny in this way! I won't marry someone I don't love.

My father's face hardened, and his voice resounded with severity—It's your duty, Rheira! You can't disobey!

"My duty," I spit with sarcasm. "My duty is to get married and yours is to die in a war. Is that your duty, father?

My mother, who had stayed away from our hair, approached my father with a face of fear. What is the Aldric girl talking about?

It seemed that from one moment to the next the words had vanished.

"So you not only hide things from me, but also from my mother, very well," I said giving the letter to my mother to read it.

My father tried to explain the situation to my mother before everything got out of control, but she finished reading it and threw the paper on her face.

"You won't leave," she said resolutely.

"It's my duty," my father's eyes avoided my mother's furious gaze.

"I'm not interested in what your duty is," he said, holding his tears. "Your brother died in front of you at the hands of that witch, I won't give him the opportunity to kill you too.

The three of us were silent for a few seconds.

"I'll go," my parents' eyes landed on me.

"You're crazy if you think I'll let you do it," the tone my mother used made me angry again.

"You prefer that I live unhappy in a marriage with someone I don't love, instead of letting me do what I want," I approached and faced her. "You're really hypocritical.

My cheek burned and the dry blow of my mother's hand against my face resounded throughout the home.

"It's very different," he tried to justify himself.

"You will do what we tell you you will do and in 3 days you will be in Dragonlithos marrying Eamond, whether you like it or not," my father spoke again.

The despair I felt inside me I had never experienced, my heart hurt and my head was spinning.

"Why should I get married?" My tears filled my eyes again. "Do I have to be unhappy for the people to stay together?"

But at that precise moment something clicked inside my head.

"You want to marry Eamond so that he is the future leader of the village," I whispered when everything made sense. "When you die, the one who will govern the town will be him and not me who am your daughter, that's why it must be before you go to war!"

In a chilling moment of despair, my father released the most hurtful words of the whole discussion—If you had only been born a man, you wouldn't have to do this. If you had only been a man I would have named you as my successor from the day you were born, but it was not like that and now I cannot make a woman the guide of our people. That's why you will marry Eamond whether you like it or not and you will lead as your mother does, from your home without getting involved in things that do not correspond to you!

My mother covered her mouth and let out a scream that reflected her surprise.

Completely wounded by the cruelty of words, I responded with bitterness and hatred—I'm very sorry not to be what you expected, father. Maybe if you had died in that skin none of this would have happened and you would not be ruining the lives of everyone you know. But I'm never going to be the heir you wanted and I won't side just because I'm a woman!

My father took me by the arm and dragged me to my room. He threw me against my bed and closed the door without saying a single word.

I don't know how many hours passed, the anger I felt in me didn't diminish, I knew what I had to do and it didn't matter what my father or mother thought.

I took a small bag that I used when I went on expeditions with my father and filled it with some dresses, I put on my armour and the sword I had received at 5 as a birthday gift. Once ready, I opened the door with the help of a small knife and went to the front door, Aslan's letter was still on the ground, I picked it up and kept it to get out of there and go for a horse.

I rode my mare and started riding leaving my home and my family behind. I didn't know if I would come back and that caused my already broken heart to break a little more. I would ride north in search of Aslan's camp. I don't know how many days it would take, but if I kept the pace I was carrying maybe I would be there in 3 days.

With the wind caressing my hair and the sun as a witness to my rebellion, advance into the unknown. Leaving behind my father's impositions and the weight of expectations.

The darkness was not terrifying, but it was a mantle that enveloped me in freedom. I closed my eyes for a moment, savouring the sweet feeling of emancipation.

I felt alive, as if every step marked the release of a past version of myself. The first rays of the sun illuminated my path and guided me to a future that would be sculpted by my own decisions.

The snow I stepped on became a map of possibilities, and each breath was a reminder that I was now the owner of my own destiny.

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