#instead of a tragic wilting flower

[ranticore]

a common theme I like to explore is the unlikable guy - unlikable in a mundane way, he's not a serial killer and isn't trying to take over the world, you don't get that degree of separation from him, this is someone you can and probably have met irl. pushy annoying inconsiderate weak bigoted toxic etc. this is who we're reading about today. and he's not necessarily going to improve either. i find that people react to "evil" and "just kinda shitty" characters very differently, usually hating the latter more - a vampire who kills people is whatever but some guy cheating on his gf provokes a stronger disapproving response. i think it's interesting how the closer to home you hit, the smaller the bad act is on the scale of badness. anyway it's really obvious why this is and I am partially just retreading very well trodden ground but it's this sort of kneejerk negative response to mundane shittiness I like to explore more than I do "he did commit the atrocities and I love him for it" style stories

[plagueoffools]

I saw that you write for land of the lustrous so i was thinking hat maybe you could write moon phos and a lunarian reader??

"GOD BLESS MY FLOWER, LET IT BLOOM FOR THE WORLD TO BEHOLD AND LET IT NOT BE SO COLD."

(REQUESTED) MOON! PHOSPHOPHYLLITE / LUNARIAN! GN! READER

LAND OF THE LUSTROUS

[ slight ANGST ] 799 WORDS

[SEMI! HC AND SCENARIO FORMAT.]

⸺SONG// the perfect girl by mareux //

Moon Phosphophyllite is a gem of much curiosity, going through far and wide to busy his head in somewhere it shouldn't be. This is no surprise when you manage to catch his eye, though you take the form just as similar as all the many lunarians that he has become familiar with. He cannot seem to place where the source of his intrigue and fascination with you has originated from.

⸺Perhaps, it was the fact that you brought him back to a past. A past where he was not so burdened with the responsibilities that he holds today, he reminisces in memories filled with grassy bedding unlike the smooth surface of the cold floors he walks upon now.

⸺Though phos is a gem of confrontation, he finds just as much relief in glancing at your form from a distance as well. He decides in this one instance that he won't headbutt himself into the situation like he always does instead he'll simply just -stalk- watch you.

⸺He's a gem who has known helplessness like the back of his hand, like a familiar foe who he fights off every time he watches you slip past his peripheral vision or a familiar friend who he invites back when an unsettling void has settled inside of him.

⸺In his days of stress, he can't help but find relief in this odd -obsession- fascination he has harboured for you. A subject to take over his mind when he need not to think most, an object to pry his eyes away from visions he does not want resurfacing.

⸺ After a short amount of time ( he's a gem with a patience as low as his hardness ), he goes around subtly asking his fellow gems and lunarians. One time being as desparate enough to seek information of you from the admirabilis. Perhaps it was your odd nature, you had an aura of enigma that a curious person like he was magnetised to.

⸺ Sometimes, he finds himself searching for your presence in every room he walks in subconsciously. Sometimes, he even finds himself at places he has heard you frequented usually with a look of expectancy. Amongst the tall artificial meadows and gardens that overlook the scenery of kumera.

He discovered that you were a botanist of some sort, retrieving plants of varying kinds from earth and documenting them by writing encyclopedias. However, the plants retrieved from earth dies sooner or later due to the lack of oxygen that was supplied.

So you started to pursue a new project. To grow authentic plants on the moon, ones that could replicate the beauty and vibrancy the ones on earth held. Of course, it was discovered that the experiment had a difficult time progressing due to the moon's contrasting nature compared to earth's. Even though the meadows he stands in hold a serene view of vibrancy and colours, he'd find that after wandering through, a green house of sorts. The green house houses a view of solemnity, wilting petals are scattered on the floor as they slump.

Tragic, he mused at the odd division separating the tall moon flowers swaying along his movements and the wilting brown of the earth's flowers inside. However your form sticks out the most amongst all the slumping flowers. Your slouching form almost resemble the wilting flowers that you have encassed yourself with, unlike theirs your vibrancy never withered nor your beauty. ( That's what he thinks at least )

He reminisce back when he was tasked the same, almost wishing how he should've gone through with the job and gain some extensive knowledge just so he could find a reason to strike up a conversation of sorts with you.

Though with the overwhelming situation at hand, he finds it difficult to indulge himself in your presence. Usually being taken from here to there for this and that.

However he'd find that he wasn't the only one with a keen eye for engimatic figures,

With colours like the convolvulus tricolor plant, a true morning glory he was. You found yourself eyeing the gem often, it really wasn't your fault. How could you deny such an inviting glance? You were well aware of the effect you had on the gem, though you weren't aware of how deep the depth of this effect went.

It was still quite a comedic situation, peers would confront you one after another about the inquiring gem and it only brought a smile out of you after each one. It was only fair to reciprocate the interest he has showed, you were just as interested in the byronic hero as he was in you after all.

Unfortunately, work's calls and demands will not go unanswered. Though you walk in the same garden, you both have different paths to travel upon.

[ofbrokenstarlight]

— James Farrow 🪶 🕯️ ☕

They had crowned him a prince in a tower, waving from a balcony as throngs of adoring fans cheered his name. They loved him, looking upon everything he did as if he were God himself. They saw him as sunshine, daylight, and the faint traces of dawn as the sun peeks through the clouds. He was the softest rose petals tinged in the fairest shades of pink; the gentle breeze that ruffled ones hair and the comforting feeling of drowning in satin sheets that you never wished to tear yourself free from. He was everything lovely and soft and ethereal… or at least, that was the portrait the world had painted him out to be.

When james looked at himself in the mirror, he saw nothing soft or sweet or beautiful… instead, all he saw were fragments: broken shards of glance from a mirror that had fractured under the weight of trying to be so many different things at once. He was supposed to be a hero, supposed to be tragic, supposed to be fair and good and kind. But trying to be anything different was unheard of. He could never be a storm-cloud for they would run from the rain that poured out of him. He could never be a wilting flower, in fear that they’d cut him from the ground and discard him as trash. He must be perfection incarnate: a collection of beautiful brushstrokes that stayed suspended in time.

But each splatter of paint that made up his canvas was riddled with pain: each gorgeous hue and gentle flower was worth a lifetime of sorrow. For what happens when someone touches a immaculate portrait… what happens when someone pushes the limits of something so delicate? It shatters. And yet, despite it’s broken state of being, no one seems to care. For if something looks beautiful while shattered, why would you ever try to fix it?

[latibvles]

SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful magic. // a heart's first flutter

they wrote, and then she stopped.

masterlist | gallery | taglist

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: a series of letters spanning over eight months between Ronald Speirs and Daisy Clarke.

TAGLIST: @softguarnere , @liebgotts-lovergirl , @monalisastwin , @brassknucklespeirs

formatting this chapter was a nightmare

i also recommend listening to this for more DaisRon letter-writing feelings.

APRIL 1942

Dear Ronnie, Things have finally quieted down around here. Everyone always gets so excited when you boys march off to war — I’ll never understand it. Your mother’s doing fine — your sisters were able to console her some. Although I don’t think I’ll hear the end of it from them now. They think something’s going on between you and me. I told them it was nothing but I don’t think they believed me. Guess you’ve got a lady waiting at home for you after all — according to your family’s logic. You’ve dug your own grave at this point.

All of this, and I won’t even be getting any of your benefits. What a shame.

Missing you already, Daisy

Daisy, Good to know that mom’s in good hands — but if you think I’ll be able to change their minds then you don’t know my sisters. Should I ask them to change my status to married on my recruitment forms? Your brother’s gonna be real mad we’ve apparently been in cahoots this whole time and left him out. It’ll make for one hell of a Thanksgiving story — and maybe the guys here will leave me alone about having a girl back home. Don’t know what’s got them so curious.

Sorry about the benefits. Guess I’ll just have to send a part of my officer’s checks to make up for it.

Missing you too, Ronald Speirs

Dear Ronnie, I definitely wasn’t expecting you to change their minds, but let it be known that I am expecting flowers on Valentine’s Day now, or else you’ll have a very upset letter waiting for you in the mail. Jimmy says that Boot Camp should be called a Hell Camp instead. Of course, you know how he is. Probably got in trouble for something dumb, like having one of those graphic magazines in his bunk.

I suppose I can forgive you for the benefits. I’m feeling charitable. You’ll simply have to pay for the rest of my debts at nursing school. How does that sound?

Thinking of you, Daisy

Daisy, I’ll write a reminder for that. Daisies right? Or is that too on-the-nose? I’ll do my best to ensure they don’t wilt when I send them across state lines otherwise. Boot Camp is about as “fun” as you’d expect it to be, at least by Jimmy’s standards. You get up early, you work your bones into dust and everything comes out of a can for your meals. Showers also run cold pretty quick, so yeah, it probably is hell for him.

Mrs. Speirs, your debts from before our nuptials are not my burdens to bear. You’re lucky I happen to like you and I’m feeling nice.

From, Ronald Speirs

MAY 1942

Dear Ronnie, Everyone in my class is getting all antsy. I guess with the war and everything a lot of the people here want to help. Better us than a bunch of people who don’t know what they’re doing. Or even worse — people who know what they’re doing but their hearts aren’t in it. A few friends of mine have already been sent out to the Pacific, if you can believe it. They’re setting up hospital stations for the incoming troops.

We’re all okay up here. Just restless. Everything on the radio’s all about the war. The troops. More and more boys leave every day. Makes my head spin, to be completely honest. I want to ask if you’ve made any friends but it almost feels weird to phrase it that way. I mean, it’s not like school is it?

Try and let me know whether you end up in the Pacific or Europe at least. I don’t want to ask any stupid questions.

From, Daisy.

Daisy, I’m glad you’re okay. I still don’t know where I’m headed, but I’ll let you know when I find out, if I can. I don’t think you’ve ever asked a stupid question, but that’s besides the point.

It’s not a weird question to ask. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not like school, no. In school they can’t make you crawl through mud and barbed wire if you forget a math textbook. But it’s hard not to get to know the guys you’re with when you all share showers and bunks. I’m getting along with most people just fine, if that’s what you mean.

Bet there are gonna be a lot of jobs open once you’re done with school, if so many women are becoming military nurses. I’ve only met a few. They’re okay.

Good luck on your finals.

From, Ronald Speirs

JUNE 1942

Dear Ronnie, We went dress shopping today for graduation. I’m having a hard time picking something. Our high school photos were so nice, I guess I just don’t want these ones to look bad either. It seems silly to worry about in the grand scheme of things, I hope you don’t mind.

I hope you had fun in Florida. The other guys aren’t still ribbing you for not having a girlfriend, are they? I remember you mentioning it. Just use my name if you have to.

Mom and Dad say hello. They hope you’re well. Mom’s sending some of her peanut butter cookies, I hope you like them.

Sincerely, Daisy.

Daisy, You’re going to look pretty no matter what you wear, and I don’t mind you telling me about this stuff. It’s a nice break from all the talk about war. Keep talking about it, I don’t mind. I’m sorry I can’t be there. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.

The men still do, sometimes. More often than not they try to set me up with their girls’ friends who need dates. But I might take you up on that if it gets too annoying.

Tell your mom I said thanks for the cookies. I’ll have to safeguard them with my life.

From, Ronald Speirs

JULY 1942

Ronnie, Mom’s having one of her spells again. The tears and all. It used to be easier when you and James were still here. Now I feel like a little kid again. I know by the time this reaches you it’ll be over, but this is just a long winded way of saying I really miss you. Just not the same without seeing you everyday, I guess.

James writes. He says he’s getting ready to ship out soon. He’s headed to the Pacific. I wish you two weren’t so far away.

Missing you, Daisy.

Daisy, I don’t know if this makes it any better, but if I could be there I would. I hope that she’s feeling better by the time you get this. I miss you too. Please try not to get too down about it, though. I think they’ll let us go home for Christmas, so we can count down the days until then.

We still don’t know where we’re headed. I’m thinking about transferring to the Paratroopers. The pay’s better anyway and they’re supposed to be the best of the best. I got this on one of my trips to Florida on pass. I hope you like it

162 days until Christmas.

Hang in there, Ronald Speirs

Dear Ronnie, The bracelet is beautiful. You really didn’t have to get me that, but thank you. I think it might be a new favorite. I’ll have to send you something really nice in the mail.

I don’t know how I feel about my best friend jumping out of planes, but as long as you come home in one piece then you have my blessing. If the pay’s better and you really want to do it, I think you should. You should tell James. I think he might even get a little jealous. He’s always wanted to skydive.

148 days till Christmas.

Hanging in, Daisy.

AUGUST 1942

Daisy, That new Abbott and Costello film just came out. It’s better than the films they show on base, to give you some idea. I don’t know if you’re planning to see it. I’d like to go see a movie with you when I come back up there. For the sake of fairness, I’ll let you pick.

I nearly beat a guy running Currahee today. I was able to keep up just fine. Georgia heat makes summers up there seem like nothing. But I can complete the trail in 45 minutes now. My ankle’s hurting something fierce though. Hope it’s not a sprain.

128 days until Christmas.

Take care of yourself, Ronald Speirs

Dear Ronnie,

I haven’t seen it yet. Some of my coworkers wanted to go out and see it. You’ll have a review in your next letter, promise. But I’d like that a lot, now that you mention it. We can go halves on the tickets since it’s my pick anyway. Don’t forget.

I know that in the Army you’re all supposed to be a bunch of “tough guys” but please don’t make me come down there. Get it checked out, or Camp Toccoa will have a very disgruntled visitor in the coming weeks. And don’t you doubt that for a minute.

121 days until Christmas.

Worry about yourself, Daisy

SEPTEMBER 1942

Dear Ronnie, Summer heat’s finally going away. Leaves haven’t started to change quite yet though. I can’t believe I’d ever say that I miss football season. To be honest, I mostly miss your track season. I liked watching you run, and you were always good at it. I really took little things like that for granted.

Mom’s apples are coming in nice. She’s excited to start making cider and tarts and all that other stuff. I’ll try to send you some, when I can. She’s always worried about what they’re feeding you down there. Dad’s been trying to get her not to worry so much.

106 days until you’re home.

Sincerely, Daisy

Daisy, I didn’t know you liked watching me run. I always thought you were just there for Jimmy. It still feels like summer here sometimes. I think we both took it for granted. I liked walking you home after your ballet practices. You probably already knew that, though.

I finally have my dates. I make my last practice jump on the 26th, so the day after Christmas. I’ll be home right after that for ten days. Tell your mom they’re feeding me fine. My mom has similar worries, but I don’t think she actually listens when I tell her I’m okay.

94 days until I’m home.

See you soon, Ronnie

OCTOBER 1942

Dear Daisy, Turner is still as much of a jackass as usual. With all the arms training we do I’m shocked he hasn’t been accidentally shot yet. If I ever start acting like one of those self-righteous West Pointers I want you to set me straight immediately. I don’t know what he wants from me, but he can lick my goddamn boot.

If he wasn’t a superior officer, I would’ve socked him in the jaw by now.

At any rate, jump training starts after Thanksgiving at Fort Benning. They had us officers all compete to be leading the sticks in an Olympics of sorts. I’m finally used to crawling through pig guts.

81 days until I’m home.

Thinking of you,

Ronnie

Dear Ronnie, I know you hate the guy, but please don’t do anything stupid. That includes punching anyone in the jaw. I don’t think you have the ability to act as arrogant as this man sounds, but you can count on me to set you straight if it happens. You get along with the men under you and that’s what matters. Hang in there.

Is it weird to say I’m glad you’ve gotten used to it? At least it isn’t so awful anymore. Unfortunately hospital work isn’t as invigorating as crawling through pig guts. You’ve got me beat there.

67 days until we’re together again.

I’m in your corner,

Daisy

NOVEMBER 1942

Dear Ronnie, Happy Early Thanksgiving. Mom ran a food drive out of the school and it did great. Dad had some of his veteran friends who hadn’t been called back help promote it. A lot of people won’t be going hungry this winter.

I’m getting a little antsier now. I can’t wait to see you. We’re all missing you up here. My Aunt Marie and Uncle Allen are coming up for Thanksgiving from Maryland — she’ll probably end up asking about you. I’d send you leftovers if I could.

There’s something I want to talk to you about when you’re back. It’s nothing bad, just something I’m curious about, really.

47 days until the movies.

Yours,

Daisy

Dear Daisy, Happy Thanksgiving, Dais. I hope you’re having a good time with your family. I’m glad that your mom’s food drive went well and that your dad’s friends helped. Sounds like a lot of good things are going on.

Try not to lose your head, alright? I can imagine you doing the leg-bounce thing right now. But I hope Remembrance Day went by fast for you. I know how hard that day is — if I helped at all with that, then I’m glad.

32 days until the movies.

Yours,

Ronnie

DECEMBER 1942

Dear Ronnie, By the time you get this, you may already be packing your bags. Apparently we’re going to Aunt Marie’s for the holidays. In Maryland. And we won’t be coming back until after New Year’s. Do I want to go? No. Not really. But family is family.

At any rate, leave a letter in my mailbox and I’ll read it when I come home. And whenever you come home next, you can pick the movie. I’ll try to keep my head up in the meanwhile.

I really, really miss you.

Yours,

Daisy

[chiimaera]

‘ try me. ’ // @ persephone

MORTALS WERE SIMPLE CREATURES, their survival was fickle and ever under threat since they had reached beyond their means. whispers of the infinity stones in the human realm had been a surprise, along with the merry little band of heroes they seemed to throw at every problem that arose. it was so predictable that it took very little effort to find herself the concern of the season. the daughter of demeter was not the sweet little girl that her mother still believed her to be. the tragic story of persephone had pervaded the human realm, used as a cautionary tale for little girls to mind their mothers and keep away from men who might snatch them away. a tale that was believed so deeply that it had been far too easy to fool their so called protectors.

the air was thick with smoke and rebellion, mortal voices raised in war cries and chanting protest rhymes. the streets of new york were filled with their discontent, shouting and picketing at the steps of their institutions. she couldnt help but bask in the nostalgia — though that time there had been more rope and guillotines. her mother had very disappointed in her 'silly tantrum', riling up the mortals just to watch the chaos. boredom picked away at her sanity along with the ache of longing that never seemed to dull this time of year.

that was under she heard her name in a familiar baritone.

the goddess spun around, her flouncy pastel dress fluttering unmarred by the destruction that surrounded them. the street was vacant save for the man with the metal arm and his spangled flying companion. the moment that her gaze fell on the ever so serious expression on her husbands faces, the barren dry trees began to flourish and bloom around them. the dead flowers on stoops and balconies finally began to stand, home gardens bearing their vegetables and fruit. it was the middle of summer yet the surrounding fields and mountains had been stripped of their color — until now.

persephone grinned prettily, running toward @unseenking until she could fling herself into his arms. the chaos around them seemed to stop, the two mortal heroes watching in disbelief. if she had just been in a battle, no one would have known it. her attention was completely raptured by the man in her arms, eyes bright with elation and adoration that the spring blooms paled in comparison. that was until she realized that her husband was not reciprocating her joy. not that he was one to be jumping into someones arms — or smiling for that matter. her smile fell a bit, forming more of a pout.

" you wont understand— "

" try me "

her pout deepened, glancing back at the heroes who had picked themselves off the ground to stare in confusion. buildings were cracked, cars destroyed, glass and plaster glittered the pavement. she was not allowed to meddle in mortal affairs, her duties were to bring the spring so that the world kept turning. instead she had stripped this side of the country of its fertility, letting everything wilt and die. moods fell into depression, food became scarce. when faced with adversity that could not be controlled, mortals tended to rebel against those in power, grasping for solutions. so she offered herself as one.

worship of the old gods had dwindled with the passage of time, was it so wrong to remind them? yet they both knew that was not the reason for her meddling. not really. persephone looked up at her husband, arms still around his neck on her tip toes. despite being barefoot in the streets of new york, the soles of her feet had no markings, cuts or dirt.

" i missed you, my love, and i was so bored, " the blonde whined. a curse escaped the metal armed man, his anger held back by a hand to the chest stopping him. the goddess smiled with a sweetness that made her dangerous, hiding the cunning queen of the underworld under its bright sincerity. " historically speaking, the gods are supposed to test mortal heroes, are they not? "

[cherryjuicegf]

death of a poet

for @whataboutthebard september 16 whump prompt: major character death || geraskier, T, 1.8k, angst, implied/referenced suicide (kind of)

ao3

The greatest act of love, they say, is to die for it.

Jaskier laughed, always laughed at this concept. There’s no doubt, of course, one’s whole life lost as a declaration of love, the highest sacrifice. But not the only one. And it amazed him, how people never seemed to acknowledge anything else, how fairytales of noble knights ended with them throwing their lives away, and for what? For love. Always for love. There was no doubt, and if there was, who was he to utter it?

Still. He wondered, the roots of the poet he was meant to be growing inside him, blooming since childhood. And he wondered, why, why die for love, why not live for it? Why waste this blooming of hearts in the eternal darkness, in grief and the wailing complaint of what could have been? Why, when there is so much beauty in the love of living things? He wondered, always wondered. And his mother smiled, with this faint bitterness of unexpected knowledge, and whispered, you can live for love if you want, sweet child, but one day you’ll understand.

Yet he didn’t understand. And he hated it, hated that he didn’t. Hated that he couldn’t find anything to try and understand in the first place. One day he would understand, yet people smiled at him, flowers bloomed in spring, birds sang on the branches, the wine tasted so sweet and the strings of the lute sounded so magical in the evening hush. And he wondered, always wondered, when would the day come, and what greater love there is, that you’re willing to die for it, even if you don’t lay eyes upon it ever again?

The fire in the hearth suddenly goes out.

A tragic fate, the mage had laughed. True love’s kiss. No one could ever love a monster.

I love him. He’s not a monster.

He’s not?

Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.

There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.

The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.

It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.

A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.

And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.

And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.

He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.

“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”

What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.

He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.

So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.

It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.

It’s nothing.

The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.

He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.

Instead.

“Jaskier!”

He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.

It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.

He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.

The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.

It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.

I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.

A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.

Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.

It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.

Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”

A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”

He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.

To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?

The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.

There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.

They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.

They stare, and Geralt finally stares back. And slowly, agonizingly, like a sob echoing in eternity between the pages of every promised fairytale, he screams.

[dreams-of-yunho]

summer strawberries

yunho x y/n

rating: m

genre: smut with a dash of fluff

wc: 2.4k

warnings: steamy shower sex!!!! oral (f r), kinda hand job idk if it counts, light praising, mentions of melted ice cream :o

summary: the hot summer sun is horribly unforgiving. and what's better on a hot summer day but a cool shower? or, even better, a cool shower with mr. jeong yunho? <3

______________________________________________________________

It was hot. Unberably, ridiculously, stupid, dumb hot. The kind of heat where nail polish becomes sticky and ink won’t dry. Brain melting hot. At least there was a breeze; wind riffled through leaves causing storms of maple tree seeds to fall to the sun torchered ground. Birds cried harshly as winds jostled their homes. Small creatures kept to the shadows: rabbits, squirrels, and chipmunks skirting the sickening heat. Delicate and dainty flower petals wilted tragically.

And what were you to do? It was too miserable to even lift a finger. You were surprised your body was still functioning, believing your heart should burst and your blood boil. Simply miserably miserable you positioned yourself upon the sofa in the living room, the shades drawn so as to not let the fires of hell enter the home. If it weren’t for his promise of ice cream in the next ten minutes, you would have removed all the food from the freezer and shut yourself in, even if it meant asphyxiation, you could not have cared less at this point. If the universe wanted you to melt so badly, why didn’t it just get it over with, the sadist?

Eleven minutes, you thought to yourself, if he takes eleven minutes, we’re through. The prospect of ice cream was not taken lightly in your family. Ice cream was a happy escape for you. A brief moment of release from the trials and tribulations of everyday life. In reality, it wasn’t that great a deal but, today, as the sea of flames spilled through the glass window panes, ice cream was life or death and you would kill for it. You would kill anyone.

As minute ten neared and beads of sweat ran down your back, the door opened and in walked your Knight in Shining Armour, Jeong Yunho.

You watched Yunho as he stood, pantting, in the entryway. You knew the heat was real because of the way he was dressed; he wore a simple white tank top and camouflage cargo shorts. His lightly curled, night black hair was concealed by a ballcap. He removed his sandals and walked towards the living room, barefeet softly padding across the hardwood.

“Okay,” he started. You stared up at him from your place on the couch as he stood in front of you. His cheeks were flushed and his face glistened with a sheen of sweat. “We have choices:” a drop of clear liquid emerged from his hat-covered hairline and dripped to his eyebrow. “Chocolate crunch,” he pulled an ice cream bar from his left hip pocket. “Strawberry and orange cream,” he held two bars previously in his right hip pocket. “And,” he pulled a final bar from his bottom left pocket, “brown sugar boba.”

You carefully observed the selections he held before you. You would take anything frozen, even black cherry walnut.

“But, the thing is,” his tone dropped. “They’re melted.” He shook the bags and you could hear liquid sloshing around.

A quiet rage filled your chest, burning through your lungs. “Yunho!” He lowered his head and dropped his shoulders. “Why did you put them in your pockets?”

“I thought it would protect them from the sun but, I think it acted as a sort of convection  oven and escalated the melting process… don’t be mad at me.” He looked down at you through large, heart crushing, puppy dog eyes.

“Hmmmmmmmm,” you whined, destroyed by the lack of immediate ice cream. “We can put them in the fridge I guess. But, that’ll take forever, ugh.” You slowly dragged your hands across your face, collecting far more sweat than you could have imagined. “Ew,” you cringed, looking at your silken hands. “I guess I can shower while they’re in the freezer.”

“Wait,” Yunho called from the kitchen. “I need to shower first; I am drenched.”

“No, me first.”

“You’re not even off the couch,” he shut the freezer door. “How are you going to beat me to the bathroom?” A cocky smile spread on his rose petal lips.

“I’ll beat you.” You made an attempt to stand but your legs felt like jello-twigs and they collapsed under you. “Fine,” you sighed. “I’ll drown in my own sweat. Tell me you love me before it’s too late.”

It was impossible but you could hear him smiling from where he stood.

“y/n, my love,” his footsteps neared. “There is room for more than one in the shower.” Yunho extended a hand.

“Carry me.”

“Hmm,” he pretended to contemplate. “Fine.”

His actions were swift; strong hands reached under your legs and back, pulling you off the couch and to his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck. He was sweaty but you didn’t mind.

Your feet met the cold, stone floor as he set you down in the bathroom. He moved to turn on the shower and you faced the mirror. Your hair was terribly frizzy (on account of the humidity) and fell this way and that, sticking to your damp forehead. Your face was puffy and your cheeks awfully rosy. You wore, it could barely be called, a tank top and no bra.

“Yunho,” you called gently. “I don’t think I want to do anything. I don’t feel very sexy right now.” You watched as he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His hot breath stuck to your skin. “You’re hotter than this weather, darling.”

You laughed. “Cheesy.”

“Yet, completely true.” he set his chin on the top of your head and looked at you through the mirror. “Just a shower,” he promised. “Nothing more.”

Chilly water met your shoulders sending a shiver up your spine. But it felt nice. Water trickled over your face, down your neck and back, dragging the sweat and hardships of that day down the drain. Delicately scented, strawberry soap bubbled as you lathered it over your collar bones. “Let me get your back,” he said. Strong hands met your shoulder blades; massaging with his fingertips. Hands worked down your sides, gripping your hips and pulling back to rub the soap into your lower back.

“Mhm,” you moaned out as his fingers worked through the knots and tension.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” his hands ghosted lower.

“Hey,” you turned to face him. “You said just a shower.” He stood in front of you: tall and broad; godlike. The water was cold yet, blue veins pressed against the skin of his arms and hands. His dark hair was slicked back, accentuating the perfect bone structure of his face.

“Don’t you want a relaxing shower?”

You eyed his lush lips which were slightly parted in a gentle smile. Your gaze traveled his strong features and came to rest on his eyes. Those beautiful eyes; the eyes you fell for. The eyes that could never hide his feelings; eyes that told everything. There were little droplets of water caught on his eyelashes and he blinked them away.

You felt the urge to kiss him; setting your hands on either cheeks. You stood high on your tippy toes but he was still out of reach and was unwilling to help. “Yunho,” you gripped his face tighter. “Come here. I want to kiss you-”

He put a finger to your lips. “Just. a. Shower.”

“One kiss,” you whispered over the stream of the shower.

“One kiss,” he agreed.

You closed your eyes, waiting, expecting his lips upon yours. Instead, you felt his hands graze down your sides and hips, resting on the tops of your thighs. You opened your eyes to see Yunho drag the tip of his nose down your stomach. His warm breath hovered just in front of your sex. “Yunho, that’s not what I meant.” You put your hands on his chin, trying to pull his lips back to yours.

He only gripped your thighs harder. “You asked for a kiss,” he breathed. “I’m going to give you a kiss, my love.”

Every hair stood on end as his nose ran over your clit. He tilted his head back to lick a wet stripe against your sensitive nerves. You whined as his tongue landed directly on it, circling again and again. You could only whine as his lips enclosed you and your legs became wobbly.

“Y-yunho,” you moaned as he sucked. “I’m going to fall.” You tried to balance yourself against the wall and he wrapped his arms around your back, trying to stabilize you as he continued to suck and lick relentlessly. “Ah,” you could feel that familiar knot twist in your stomach as he began to kiss you harder. And, when that knot was at the verge of snapping, he removed his lips with a wet smack.

He groaned as he stood and met your eyes, watching you as you breathed haggardly, mouth gaping. A hand fell to your shoulder, moving a wet strand of hair back. “I’m a good kisser, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nodded.

“Yeah,” he hummed, running his hands up and down your back. “Would you like to kiss again?”

“Ha,” you scoffed and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss. It was heavenly as your bodies collided; your hands tugging at his silky hair, tits against his abs, his nails pressing crescent moons into your hips.

You pulled back to catch your breath, still winded from him eating you out. “God,” you ran a thumb over his cheek. “You are a good kisser.”

You thought he would come right then and there, the look he gave you was steeped in passion and lust. His hand met your ass, pulling one leg up to his waist as he moved to press your back against the cold tile wall. He winced as his hard on pressed against your lower stomach.

You loved that look. You wanted to see it again; to know you made him feel good.

Your hand snaked between your bodies as you began to pepper light kisses across his collar bones. He gasped as you grabbed his dick in your hand. You felt his Adam's apple bob as your lips moved to his neck. You squeezed him a little harder and his head fell back with a moan, giving you more beautiful canvas.

Warm fingers met your clit and you dropped your head to his neck, already sensitive from his mouth. “You’re so wet,” he ran his fingers back and forth through your folds, each movement causing you to moan against his chest.

“We-we’re in the shower,” you managed.

A deep laugh vibrated through his chest and his dick twitched in your hand. “I guess you’re right.” He pulled at your other leg. “Come here.”

“Yunho,” you raised your head. “If you slip and drop me,” you warned as effectively as you could with his fingers working you so wonderfully.

“I would never let you fall,” his strong arms pulled you close. “Jump.”

You managed to jump the best you could and one of Yunho’s hands was there to meet you. “Good job, baby,” he lowered you down his body a little.

You could feel him lining up, his tip pushing at your entrance. His eyes fell to yours, watching your face as he lowered you slowly onto him. You groaned as he moved deeper into you, parting you. “Is it okay,” a hand rubbed your back lovingly.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “You can keep going.”

He smiled slightly and loosening his grip on your back one last time, bottomed out with a moan.

You tugged at his hair as you adjusted to his immense size.

“Okay?” He kissed your cheeks.

“Yes, just give me a sec.” You moved your hips up and down, desperate for the pain to subside.

“Jesus,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “A warning next time.”

You clenched around him in response.

“Cheeky,” he chuckled.

“Okay,” you breathed out. “Move.”

“Okay,” he smiled down at you. He captured your moans in a kiss as he thrusted into you.

He was gentle with you, as he always was. He carefully watched you, making sure everything felt good, that he made you feel good. “That’s it, baby,” he cooed. “You’re so pretty.”

You gripped his shoulders as his pace began to quicken and you couldn’t help but clench as his veins dragged against your walls.

“If you keep doing that,” he choked out between thrusts. “I’m going to come right now.”

You slumped against his chest. You wanted to listen to him but he was making you feel so good. Your body was coming completely relaxed and undone in his touch. Your mind, your body, your heart; you were so at ease being with him.

However, your nerves began to spark as his fingers fell to your clit. You could tell he was close because he dropped his forehead to yours wordlessly, his nose scrunched. And he loved when you two came together; Completely free in each other’s arms.

He seemed to completely forget about the slick watery surface he stood on and began to pound into you as fast and as hard as he could. You moaned and mewled as he hit deeper and deeper with each thrust.

“I’m gonna come, y/n,” he warned, his pace becoming erratic and you clenched harder around him, feeling your high approaching too.

“Me too, Yunho,” you whined as he hit your g-spot with a particular force.

You came loudly, fingers desperately searching for something to grip, finally resting on his toned biceps.

He followed you almost immediately, his hips ramming into yours sloppily as his dark eyes bored into yours, a lazy smile on his swollen lips. He pulled out and slumped to the shower floor, holding you tightly in his arms. He gently peppered your face with kisses. “I love you, y/n.”

You giggled as he found a ticklish spot behind your ear. “I love you too, Yunho.” You sighed as you saw his cum run out of your pussy and down the shower drain. “We should have sex in the shower more often; easier to be lazy.”

“I tire you out that much, huh?”

“My god,” you scoffed. “Cocky bastard.”

“You love it,” he teased, massaging the inside of your sore thighs.

You rolled your eyes. “Wanna wash my hair?” You asked, only half kidding.

“I would but, I don’t want to. I want to stay like this.”

“Me too,” you agreed, sinking deeper into his arms. “I could fall asleep like this.”

“Yeah,” his raspy voice responded. “Me too.”

[rhine-gold-archive]

Yo i don't know if anybody has discussed this yet - but i think somewhere i read "HoYo will eventually kill one of the playable characters" and like, this memory just randomly woke me up at 3 a.m. I wanted to ask if you might have an opinion about this topic? If any major, playable character - might die, for example near the end of the game? Like Dain (if they release him as playable) - but it might just as well be, like, the traveler, or Kaeya, or Lisa (if HoYo remembers she exsistes) - ???

well, it's a popular topic for speculation, but at this point its all we can do - speculate. but yeah, some characters have narrative death flags all over them, especially everyone associated with Khaenri'ah - like Dainsleif, travelers, Kaeya, Albedo.

Dain's entire story is about being in constant suffering for 500 years and he basically announced himself as a final boss in Teyvat chapter trailer.

Albedo not only has the ongoing shitshow with his doppelganger, but also, we have a storyline of Durin, the first creation of Gold, who also created Albedo. Durin is known as an evil black dragon, who attacked Mondstadt and had to be killed by Dvalin. But if we read lore of some items on Dragonspine, we can learn that Durin wasn’t actually evil, in fact, he had a very gentle and poetic soul and died, admiring Dvalin and wishing they could be friends instead. Re: Albedo, hoyo pushes very heavily that Traveler is Albedo’s only close friend, whom he admires and shares secrets. while at the same time, we have Albedo’s bombshell line “Will you stop me, if one day I lose control... destroy Mondstadt, destroy everything.” so it seems, they are heavily seeding the “at some point Albedo becomes corrupted, loses control and attacks Mondstadt, and has to be killed by the Traveler, his closest friend and confidant,” narrative, in parallel to Durin’s story.

both traveler and abyss sibling I’d say are at risk. especially after the lore drop about the inteyvat flowers (flowers that Lumine wears in her hair) from Dain in the chasm - how these flowers only grow in Khaenri'ah, but if you take them out, they will crystalize and never wilt, until you take them back to Khaenri'ah - then, they will crumble. And counting that abyss sibling keeps talking about restoring their homeland and they are both seemingly immortal and hundreds of years old, they can either be from Khaenri'ah (with some time fuckery) or from the previous civilization from the same place where later Khaenri'ah was built. Either way, motive of being immortal and then crumbling to dust when returning to homeland doesn’t bode well for both siblings.

Kaeya has I’d say several narrative death flags, the whole “last hope of Khaenri'ah” and allusions to being it’s prince, the whole eyepatch and “celestia’s needle stashed in a cave” i talked about recently, the choice Mona alleges he’ll have to make, the angsty standoff with Diluc. Though if they kill him just to get some Diluc angst, like “oh Diluc thought he was a betrayer, but Kaeya sacrificed himself to save Mondstadt, they reconcile and Kaeya dies,” I’m gonna be so mad, it’s such a tired cliche.  

Honorable mentions to Lisa (if they remember she exists) who had half of her life eaten by the cursed book and whose constellation is time sands, Venti, who has a tragic backstory with many dead friends and “ehehe” demeanor that positions him very well as a tear-jerker sacrifice, Tartag who just like... has the vibes, due to foul legacy eating his life, abyss association and the whole “corrupted into constantly seeking bloodlust and battles” thing. Maybe Zhongli? He has a storyline of slowly degrading and killing him off would be both a shocker moment to the audience, kinda taking the safety net away - now there’s really no Morax looking over from the shadows, and also loop back to how his entire storyline started with his funeral. 

[floridabaiter]

y'know the headcanon where george grows mushrooms out of his skin? what if after meeting XD he starts blooming a rose out of his chest.

it starts small at first, a raised bump turning to bud turning to a beautiful rose displayed for everyone but himself to see love in.

he missed when flowers used to grow from him, tulips from his neck when he was scouring the smp with his knight at his side. daisies coming up out of his feet when he touched the water, petals blooming from his red cheeks when he laughed. he and dream would watch them flutter to the ground together and try to figure out where they came from, when the earth was alive and so was he and nothing felt wilted or burned or destroyed. when tigerlilies would drape over him in peacetime, in times of love and family and passion. when kisses and love bites would leave tigerlilies over his collarbones, tigerlilies on his neck and everywhere his knight would worship him.

george is made of earth and moss and dirt and all the love that comes bursting out of the ground.

he's made of dirt and love and the water that rushes in rivers and the breeze that flows across the smp and all the little joyous things everyone experiences in their lives. the proof is in his body, shelves of fungus slotting off his ribs and moss in patches across pale skin. mushroom heads hanging off shoulders and nails coated in a thick layer of moss and grime, george's well-loved body never wilting.

then the rose appeared. he lost dream, the earth died a bit. sorrow laced rain and sleet and hail when he was so angry he could burst apart, but still after he awoke from dreams his flower clawed its way out of his ribcage.

when the earth was burned he would feel it, every tnt strike and tragic loss of land was a blow to some part of george, long sleep slumping his body wherever it would fit. oftentimes hed sleep at riverbanks or in clearings, mossy areas or dead logs just big enough to squeeze his shoulders.

the rose still bloomed when he was awake, faster now when XD would come to him instead of the other way around.

he became a devout to his God, vines dotted with thorns pouring out below the beautiful bloom in the middle of his chest scratching and scarring wherever they could.

it hurt. the thorns did. he missed it when the tulips and daises and tigerlilies would come instead. when thorns didn't adorn him with lovebites he couldn't take back.

he wanted his tigerlilies back, even in his apathy.

even when lava scathed the backs of his heels over meaningless nothings, risks getting heavier as reality blurred in his bottled distress he still wanted them.

even when he felt nothing real the ache would linger.

something about a tragic love story.

(/dsmp ^_^)

[noramoya]

“I don’t consider myself a singer,” says Paris Jackson. “I can carry a tune. I can sing in key. But there are people who are professional singers n’ they will blow your socks off. I don’t do stuff like that.” “I can reach a register that is so high that it sounds like I’m whistling,” adds the L.A. native. “but the only time I really use it is if I am singing along to a Van Halen song. I can scream like David Lee Roth, but it’s more of a party trick. That’s not how I express myself. I’m a songwriter more than anything else.”

“It’s a hot, midsummer afternoon, and the 24-year-old musician, model and actress – the only daughter of the legendary Michael Jackson – is settled into an armchair in the lobby of a West Hollywood hotel. Jackson, whose layered blond hair is lightly streaked red, is wearing dark, loose clothing – an unbuttoned billowy burgundy blouse over a brown cropped tank top, and grey, three-quarter-length pants with a pair of sandals. Except for a touch of makeup on her striking green eyes, her face is otherwise bare. With Jackson’s acute sense of fashion, her Prada bag, John Lennon-style sunglasses, rings on almost every finger, nose piercings, plus a necklace, anklet, and toe ring, she looks every bit boho rock star chic. Over the last several years, Jackson, who has been playing guitar since age 13, has been establishing a solid music career, which began with The Soundflowers, an indie folk duo with her then-boyfriend, Gabriel Glenn. The pair met at the famed Rainbow Bar & Grill on the Sunset Strip in 2018 and immediately began dating. Within a week they were living in Glenn’s van and making music together”.

“In June 2020, they officially launched The Soundflowers with a self-titled EP and a six-part Facebook Watch docuseries, Unfiltered: Paris Jackson & Gabriel Glenn, providing an intimate view of the couple and their musical journey. With strife brewing in their relationship in the final episode, however, the pair broke up shortly thereafter, leaving Jackson heartbroken. “It was the deepest I’ve ever loved someone. It was the most intense that I’d felt so far, and the most intense betrayal that I’d felt so far and experienced...,” Jackson told Willow Smith on Red Table Talk last year. Jackson is reticent about discussing her breakup at this point, preferring to speak, instead, through her art. Politely, she says answers to questions about her former relationship can be found in her music, which is where she turned, writing songs to channel her pain. The end of Jackson's relationship sparked the start of her solo musical path, and it didn't take long before she landed her first record deal, signing with Republic Records in fall 2020. From there, she wasted almost no time, releasing her debut solo LP, “WILTED”, a melancholy, ethereal alt-folk concept record about love, heartbreak, grief, and rebirth”.

“Called “well-crafted indie pop” by Rolling Stone, “WILTED” reached #1 on the U.S. iTunes Alternative Albums chart. Lead single “Let Down” racked up 1.5 million streams within the first two weeks of its release and was accompanied by a gothic music video that was executive-produced by horror director Eli Roth and directed by Meredith Alloway. The video opens with the sound of a heartbeat as Jackson wipes away blood streaming down from her eye. “Head hanging down / Shredded evening gown / Eyes painted black / A tragic paperback,” she sings plaintively, reflecting on a tragic romance. Wearing flowers in her hair and a Victorian gown, Jackson dances with her lover at a masquerade ball. As the night progresses, things take a dark turn, leaving her anguished and alone. “Let me down again / Break me, flush me down the drain / Let me down again,“ she sings, reuniting with her beloved for a final dance that turns fatal when he dips her, rips out her heart, and sets it down next to Jackson’s dead body lying on the floor. She’s like, ‘Here’s my pain and struggle and what I’ve gone through and, boom, here are my songs.’ It’s all so personal and I respect and admire that,” says Manchester Orchestra singer/songwriter Andy Hull, one of Jackson’s songwriting heroes, who co-produced “Wilted” with his band’s lead guitarist, Robert McDowell. “I love anyone who is willing to let it out in the open, especially somebody like her who deserves as much privacy as she wants.”

“Indeed, it’s a testament to Jackson’s strength of character that she writes unguardedly, with a down-to-earth quality that belies growing up in the spotlight. With raw, personal and earnest lyrics, Jackson articulates her pain and longing with rich metaphors and vivid imagery, effectively conveying the emotional trajectory of her broken heart, and expressed by her sweet, warm and soulful vocals. “I want to be descriptive and poetic,” she says. “I like to go into deep detail and see what I can get out of it.” For years, Jackson kept her soul-baring songs to herself, afraid to reveal them publicly: “The songs I write are very vulnerable, and we can all be scared to be that level of vulnerable — not just with another person, which is already scary, but with a crowd of people, it’s pretty terrifying.” It was even more terrifying for Jackson to conceive of releasing music while shouldering the weight of her father’s legacy. As she carves out her own musical path, she faces the understandable yet wholly unfair pressure, both from within and without, to live up to an impossible standard. The intensity ebbs and flows: “It depends on the day,” she says. “Some days I feel that pressure, and some days I feel…well, the music I make is completely different. I’m not making R&B and soul and funk.” The media often calls Jackson “pop royalty,” but she is extremely talented in her own right. When reminded of the nepotistic title, she says, matter-of-factly, “I don’t use labels.”

“Jackson is quick to set straight her father’s title, though, when he is referred to as the “King of Pop.” “Pop, rock and soul. That is actually the full name that he was given,” she says. “When he was introduced [at the 1989 Soul Train Awards], it was Liz Taylor …she labeled him the ‘King of Pop, Rock and Soul’… Everyone else decided to shorten it to ‘King of Pop,’ but it’s a lot more than that. He had Eddie Van Halen and Slash play on some of his [music] and Carlos Santana. That’s not necessarily pop. There’s nothing wrong with Pop, but there are a lot more layers to it.” There are also more layers to being the musician offspring of an icon beyond being planted in the obvious shadow. While most performers have the freedom to develop their skills in anonymity, Jackson was under the microscope right from the start. “Those first couple of tours that you go on are where you put your hours in, you find your way, get comfortable and you learn how to handle mistakes,” she says. “Every artist that is going to go on tour and play has that experience but for me…those mistakes that everyone makes…mine will get magnified.”

https://open.spotify.com/artist/11I8qWK4foqycuPFRDFH6e

@swift-fated @mjslays @mj-fans-alliance-blog @mj-confessions @mjvideos @mjjsecretlovers-blog @mjjproductionz @mjjsourcesblog @mjjofficial @mjjalways @anneke-treasure @annievvv7 @annievvv77 @anniemjjloverr @anniemjjloverr @jackson-royalty-blog @jackson8520yuleidy @jacksonprince @michael-jackson-blog @michaeljacksonslegend @michaeljacksonlooks @michael-jackson-is-invincib-blog @kingofpopmichaeljosephjackson @kingmjjpop @kingmjjpop

[lanawinters-ily]

The Way We Were

The reader has a stormy, bittersweet relationship with Lana; when they meet again, will it end in happiness, or will she walk away?

Based on the Barbra Streisand song ‘The Way We Were’

Pairing: Lana Winters x Reader

Word count: 1400

Warnings: a LOT of metaphors & a turbulent relationship

Memories Light the corners of my mind Misty watercolour memories Of the way we were

There she was. Lana Winters. Your Lana.

Well at least she was at some moment in time.

You had met on a typical stormy Tuesday; yet another grey, bleak day in what seemed like a melancholic lifetime at that point. Your job was the same every day, no change, no variety to break up the never-ending cycle of life.

Until you saw her. The rain had been streaming down the train window, mirroring the tears of pure frustration that fell down your face, monotony overwhelming & reminding you of just how ordinary you were. But then she had tapped your shoulder, turning to meet sad eyes with chocolate orbs of wonder.

And you fell for her immediately.

Because if there was one thing that was for sure in such an unpredictable universe, Lana Winters was far from ordinary.

Scattered pictures Of the smiles we left behind Smiles we gave to one another For the way we were

Make no mistake, Lana was just one woman, but her presence packed an almighty punch, transforming your outlook by filling it with positivity & absolute joy. The tedious routine of life soon became glimpses of heaven in every moment, the beauty of simplicity revealed by the love of your life.

Before you were looking at the wide view, insignificance in such a vast planet making every aspect of life some sort of mocking cosmic joke; as if you were the extra in the movie of someone else’s existence.

Then Lana pointed out every detail that made up the world around you; the details on the petals in the flower fields you walked, the birds chirping each morning from your bedroom window, the leaves rustling in the gentle breeze singing a lullaby to rock you to sleep.

She turned the negatives to positives, the rain no longer a reflection of God’s sadness, becoming Mother Nature’s nurturing of the planet; watering to sooth the wilting souls that walked the ground.

She was your personal land of Oz – bringing plain Dorothy into a bright technicolour vision, worlds away from the black & white Kansas you had been stuck in for so long.

Can it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time re-written every line?

But once a plane has left the ground to soar above the clouds of dreamland, at some point it must return to lucid reality. Romanticizing love is never idealistic, the honeymoon period often fades into truth when the couple learns all they can about their partner, bringing along the flaws & sufferings of life.

Only the Gods are immune to the human affliction of pain; immortality granting wisdom & maturity that only originates in the freedoms away from the confines of time.

Despite the naivety of the beginnings of a relationship, Lana was not a Goddess, & not a Queen; she had cracks in her porcelain surface, deep ones at that. You had your own insecurities of course; cruel voices pointing out every blemish, every sentence spoken, every outfit worn, but not to the multitude of how Lana had suffered.

Her horrific traumas were never verbally revealed to you, triggers providing peepholes into the haunted era of her twenties – scars both physical & mental slowly chipping away at the bridge of your union. You would never know if the truth could have saved you both, or ripped the bandage of the inevitable split, but either way, you never fully understood each other.

The romance of nature seemed to be your only continuous bond, reliance on surroundings to further linger the magic spark of your first glance at each other.

A distraction from the fractures slowly creeping over the glass, ready to shatter at any given push.

For some, putting two broken halves together heals the damage, comfort providing the ultimate cure, but not for you. The shards were too sharp, too jagged, too complex to be fixed with a few words or physical affection.

Really, fate had doomed your love from the beginning, the universe’s entertainment as the new Shakespearian- style tragic romance of the century.

If we had the chance to do it all again

Tell me, would we? Could we?

Oh, but how you yearned for her. It was like having a half ripped away, functions of the body barely surviving, not even close to thriving like you had been with Lana.

It was as if you meant to have your appendix removed, but lost a lung instead. How long would it take for you to not be able to pull in a breath without her nearby?

No matter how broken the sides where, you were willing to try every single possibility to make it work again, but was she?

Is there such thing as a one-sided soulmate? The sun gives so much to the earth; a way to survive, hope for the future & security with the warmth that radiates.

But the Earth simply looks back in appreciation, not providing much in return.

One simply orbiting the other.

Memories May be beautiful and yet

The times shared were just too wonderful & joyous to be abandoned; a lighthouse shining through the grey fog of memories.

Every time you heard Lana’s name, all you could think of were the bright summer days in which you would both sprint through flower-filled fields, chasing each other & giggling like you were little girls again – a childish blissfulness under your shining sun.

You were surrounded by Lana in those glory-days; she was radiant to you, with comfort in all the seasons.

And you would kiss softly under a blanket of darkness as night fell, whilst the stars looked on with their bright, twinkling smiles.

You longed for that eternal summer again, the beauty, the meaning to every moment.

What's too painful to remember We simply to choose to forget

But of course, the seasons carry on, melting into each other as the weather changes. And, as the weather fluctuates, so does the mood of nature; calm, peaceful summers fading into temperamental, dreary winters.

You were children of the earth, the outside world shaping your love for each other, so how was it to last as the seasons moved on? There was no eternal summer for you.

Like frostbite you nipped at each other, the snow beating down outside; stamping on the flowers of hope that you had nurtured in the sunlight.

Frostbite if left untreated, will only spread, much like the little flaws in your relationship that were growing as the days advanced, darkness threatening to hold you hostage.

So your sunshine left, & the flowers were buried under the ground again.

So it's the laughter We will remember

And here she was again, in the present day.

She peered at you with those muddy eyes & flashed a smile, igniting a switchboard of emotions within your very core.

The smile sounded like a thousand jokes shared on a beautiful day, & seemed to last for eternity in your mind. It was bright & warm, evoking a feeling of security, of home at last.

The smile sounded like bickering & arguing; short insults hit in a cruel game of lover’s tennis. It was pierced with venom, teasing with the prospect of a future that was promised, but never received.

It seems that the seasons were now inside of you, a turbulent cycle sped up to feel like an entire year worth of emotion as you flitted through them wildly.

Well, at least she had followed through with the vow that monotony & blank feelings would escape you after the day you met.

It was so bittersweet; should you live in the past or move forward with a different future?

Whenever we remember The way we were The way we were

As if to answer your question, Lana broke your gaze & looked up at the sky as grey clouded the sun, & rain started to spit onto the ground.

She just turned around & walked away, leaving you with the hums of life you began with, beautiful song dimming into the last teasing notes.

The crescendo of your existence faded into the distance, as you wondered if you would ever hear music quite like this,

Ever again.

Taglist: @ka-s @ninaahs @stayeviildarling @babypocahontas @lilypadscoven @winters-witch-bitch @basicasshole @bottom4delia @forevercountess @violentwavesofem0tion @sporadicsupercorpquotesmonger @liberosisaspire @mellowalieneggsknight @thecasualgeek1 @lucykilljoy

[novelconcepts]

fic: the shape of it

for a prompt from @karatam

They expect the Lady to come, one day. They expect the Lady to take Dani, in the end. 

They did not expect it to go like this.

“She’s going to take me,” Dani says in a voice so thick with resignation, it nearly kills Jamie outright. Says it like a foregone conclusion, like something biblical ingrained in her from childhood. Jamie looks at her, and thinks, She believes it. Nothing else matters. She believes this with her whole heart.

Jamie takes her hand anyway. Offers her company anyway. Loads up the car with bags and dreams of outrunning all of it anyway. The way she sees it, it’s the only path forward. Anything less would leave bits of Dani--bits of Jamie, too--behind in this house forever. 

They are not running away together, exactly. They are moving slowly, carefully, checking the road ahead for obstacles and cracks in the pavement as they go. Slowly, the distance between the pair of them and Bly Manor expands. Slowly, the world stops looking so much like a ghost story. Jamie, more and more every day, thinks, She believed it with her whole heart, but maybe not so much anymore. Maybe not so much. 

Even so, even as the months turn to years, Jamie can’t forget the certainty in Dani’s face that day as she said it. She’s going to take me. The most certain Dani has been about anything except Jamie herself. Though the days are gorgeous, long and lazy, stretching on like there will be millions more ahead, Jamie can’t forget. She’s going to take me. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she murmurs, brushing Dani’s hair back. She’s fallen asleep on the couch again, her head in Jamie’s lap, and though it’s well past midnight, Jamie can’t bring herself to wake her. Moments like this. Moments like this are so many, and so precious, and so much more than how very small they seem. 

Dani thinks the Lady will take her, someday. Jamie thinks Dani knows her own mind better than anyone. In two very different ways, they’re both primed to fight. 

And even still, when it begins, it’s a blind strike to the side of the head. 

***

Dani has lost her key. 

It sounds so small, so nothing. She turns up at the shop an hour after she’s gone home to get dinner started, looking more than a little sheepish. Jamie, wrist-deep in repotting some of the hardier flowers, cocks her head. 

“What’re you doing back? Don’t tell me the apartment caught fire.”

Dani, head bowed, sits behind the counter. “Can’t get in,” she says miserably. “Left the key somewhere.”

Jamie smiles. Dani hates making silly mistakes--she sometimes thinks it’s this vaguely type-A attitude that drew her toward teaching in the first place, toward helping kids not screw up the little things in life. It’s endearing, the rare occasion Dani lets her see a side of error not confined to her tragic inability to make a hot beverage. 

“I’m sure it’s in with the laundry or something,” she says, brushing off her hands and setting aside her trowel. “No worries, I’m just about finished here anyway. You want to pick up tacos on the way?”

No worries. That’s how it feels, as a pouting Dani tucks her arm through Jamie’s bent elbow and follows her out of the shop. People misplace things every day--it’s not like Dani pitched her key down a gutter or something. It’ll turn up.

And, within an hour of arriving home with the best Mexican food suburban Vermont has to offer, it does: under Dani’s purse, dead center of a couch cushion. Jamie produces it with a flourish, dropping to one knee like a knight of old and raising it upon her palms like a magic sword. 

“M’lady,” she drawls. “Your treasure.”

Dani laughs. She plucks the key from Jamie’s hand, tucks it into her hip pocket, pulls Jamie into a giggly kiss--and just like that, the matter is forgotten. A nothing. A moment. 

If she looks a little puzzled, a little irritated with herself, it passes before Jamie can even comment. 

***

The plants in the back are wilting. 

Jamie stands, hands in her pockets, regarding them with some alarm. Shouldn’t be a problem, she thinks, running through the possibilities. Roots should have plenty of space. Lights are working fine. No sign of rot anywhere to be found. They just look a little...

“Dani,” she calls, eyes still on the yellowing leaves. Dani pokes her head through the door, a bundle of roses in her hands.

“Yeah?”

“Have you, uh. Watered these recently?”

She waits for the obvious answer. Dani always waters this side of the room. She takes the left, Jamie takes the right, and everybody gets the nourishment they need. 

When Dani doesn’t answer for a full ten seconds, Jamie turns to her with a frown, surprised to find Dani’s brow furrowed like she’s thinking hard. 

“I...thought I did,” she says slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I must have.”

“How many times this week?” Jamie asks. Dani closes her eyes as if counting. 

“I...” She steps into the room like she’s half-asleep, staring at the plants so hard, it’s a wonder the flowers don’t burst into flame. “Twice? Three times, maybe. Or...”

More than that, Jamie thinks, gently lifting a drooping leaf and inspecting its unhealthy pallor. If she didn't know better, she’d say Dani had watered this poor thing twice a day for the last week. 

“S’okay,” she says, though a faint bloom of annoyance is opening in her chest. “It’s salvageable, I think. Just so long as we let ‘em dry out some. Leave this side to me, okay?”

Dani is staring at the plant nearest to her like she’s never seen one before. Whatever annoyance Jamie feels at having to quite possibly start over with previously-perfect plants vanishes at the sight of her expression. 

“Hey,” she says, taking Dani’s hands and squeezing. “Honestly, Dani, don’t worry about it. These things happen.”

Dani’s frown deepens as if to say not to me, they don’t. Jamie gives her hands a gentle swing from side to side until that frown lightens. 

“Maybe I take care of the watering for a bit, yeah? You can supervise.”

She doesn’t look too closely at any of it, at the way Dani’s brow creases like she’s still trying to keep track of how many days are in the week. She doesn’t look too closely at why she’s just heard herself say “supervise” instead of “keep the books”, as she normally would. Don’t look at it. Dani’s fine. 

Just a little scattered today, is all.

***

“It’s, uh...hang on...”

Dani is scowling at the ceiling, racking her brain for something Jamie can’t help with. There was a woman, a woman in the grocery store, who spoke to Dani as though she’d done it a hundred times. 

“Barb?” Jamie suggests, plucking a name out of thin air. “Carol. Monica.”

Dani shushes her, flapping a hand for silence. Jamie shuts up, her mouth pulling into a relaxed grin she doesn’t quite feel. 

Dani’s been doing this more and more lately--stopping mid-sentence to grope for some detail Jamie can’t see behind her eyes. It shouldn’t worry her. She doesn’t want it to worry her. 

These things just happen, she tells herself, watching Dani bend forward to press her face with frustration against her knees. They’re getting older--have been together almost ten years now--and their lives are busy. Busy brains are easily worn out by an abundance of minor details, and sometimes, the less important stuff slips. It’s okay. It’s nothing to be concerned about.

Except Dani looks like she’s on the verge of tears, scraping around in her head for the name of some woman they ran into in the bread aisle. Dani is dragging deep breaths in that old familiar way that says the trigger is small, but the imminent explosion could take out the whole night.

“Poppins,” Jamie says, prodding at her ribs until she sits up and stares with wet eyes into Jamie’s face. “Is this a woman I’m meant to invite to dinner?”

Dani shakes her head. Jamie shrugs. 

“Then I’m going to go right ahead and call her Honeywheat, and we can just be done with it.”

Dani laughs--not a real laugh, but a huff through her nose to tell Jamie she’s trying. Jamie smooths a thumb across her cheekbone, pretending this hasn’t been happening more and more frequently. Pretending she hasn’t noticed just how badly it pulls at Dani’s threads, each time she loses track of something small. 

“Charlene!” Dani says, half an hour later, practically shouting the word into the silence of the living room. Jamie jumps, losing her place in her book, looks up to find Dani staring at her with a fierce sort of pride that scares her. It’s a look that says I did it, and I’m okay, goddammit, and this is not happening. 

“Charlene, hm?” Jamie repeats. “I think I prefer Honeywheat.”

***

The day of the fire, she has to admit there’s cause for concern. 

She thinks, at first, it’s just her. That she’s had such a long day at the shop, been yelled at by far too many young men who didn’t understand why it’s less than appropriate to give your spouse flowers by way of asking for a divorce, and her brain has been scrambled. It’s the only explanation, she thinks, for smelling smoke the minute she walks into the apartment building. 

Except it gets worse as she heads up the stairs. Worse still, until she’s fitting the key into the lock, opening the door, realizing with a jolt of horror that the smell is both very real and very much coming from the kitchen. 

“Dani?” she calls, and her voice sounds to her own ears like a scream echoing over a moonlit lake. She forces the panic down, forces herself to walk--not run--to the kitchen and survey the damage. 

A plate of something undefinable is sitting in the microwave. It is no longer on fire, she notes, but the microwave is still, as she wrenches it open, counting down. The little green numbers flash 40:03, blinking at her, waiting to resume their cook time. 

“Dani!” she calls again, jamming her thumb into the Clear button and slamming the microwave shut on a wall of acrid smoke. 

“Yeah?” Thank Christ. Dani, poking her head out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body. “You’re home! ...what’s that smell?”

“You tell me,” Jamie says, more sharply than she intends; her heart is in her throat, blocking off anything resembling restraint. She staggers toward Dani, whose face is the picture of bemusement. 

“It’s not...coming from our kitchen?”

“Dani.” Jamie takes her by the shoulders, reassured by the soft slide of Dani’s skin against her palms. Real. Here. Okay. “You had something cooking. Did you...”

Forget, she doesn’t say. The color pours out of Dani’s face, answering the question so completely, Jamie sags against her. 

“Threw it in,” Dani says slowly. “Leftovers. Just...”

Jamie thinks she can guess. Threw it in, walked away, forgot it completely. Would have been fine, if that had been all. If Dani had simply spaced on the idea of retrieving the dish before it grew cold, if she’d opted for a shower instead, there would have been no harm done. 

Except that counter was so high. Except Dani had, plainly, set the timer for nearly an hour. 

Dani is looking at the smoke hazing the air, polluting the hall, with an expression of such grim anxiety, Jamie nearly forgets to breathe. Pull it together. She needs you to keep focus. 

“I’m sorry,” Dani says, so softly, Jamie would have missed it if not for staring at Dani’s face like it might slip away at any second. “I don’t know how...”

“It’s okay.” Jamie pulls her close, struggling to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. So much could have gone wrong. If they hadn’t gotten lucky. If she hadn’t gotten home in time. So much could have-- “It’s okay.”

“Jamie?” Dani’s voice is tiny, her face turned against Jamie’s neck. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

***

She calls Owen after Dani falls asleep, careful to keep her voice down. France is six hours ahead, and it’s clear her call catches him still in bed, but his voice is cheerful all the same.

“Jamie! Big surprise. How’s everything--”

“How did it start?” Jamie keeps her voice low, her eyes on the hall. She doesn’t like leaving Dani alone in the bedroom, doesn’t like the idea of Dani waking and not knowing where she is. Make it quick, then.

“Sorry?” Owen sounds confused, and rightly so. “How did what start?”

“Your mum.” She can’t think of a cleaner way to approach it, a nice, easy route to opening Owen’s old scars. “How did it start, with her?”

He’s silent for so long, she wonders if the connection has severed. Finally: “Jamie, what’s going on?”

She can’t. She can’t get into it. If she says too much, if she explains what she’s been seeing in drips and drops over the past few years, it might cement the whole thing into reality. She can’t. 

“Please,” she says, hearing her own voice break with exhaustion. “Just tell me.”

***

There are tests. Dani doesn’t want to take them, and Jamie quite frankly doesn’t want to force it, but there are tests all the same. CT scans, and doctors who ask probing questions that grit Dani’s teeth and put fire into her eyes, and Jamie thinks for a hopeful few minutes that this is stupid. That they don’t need to be here. That Dani is okay, and fierce, and strong, and here. 

“I’m not going to say there’s no cause for concern,” the doctor says, when Dani has jumped through all his hoops. “But your scans don’t show much yet, and your grasp on those questions seems strong. Keep an eye on it, all right? Call me if there’s any change.”

He’s looking at Jamie like he knows why she’s here, why she’s standing just a few inches from Dani’s side. She nods once, sharp, and he pats Dani lightly on the shoulder. 

“You’re young,” he says, like youth means anything at all where tragedy is concerned. “I have a good feeling about this.”

***

Jamie starts coming home when Dani does, starts waiting for her to get ready before going into the shop. She can’t help when Dani loses track of details inside her head--the date, their plans for the weekend, a longtime customer’s name--but she can help with other things. With knowing exactly where Dani’s purse is at all times. With knowing exactly where Dani’s favorite earrings are. With knowing exactly when Dani last ate.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dani says in a voice like iron. Jamie raises her head from the salad she’s preparing for lunch. 

“Don’t have to...?”

“Fuss,” Dani says, almost coldly. “I’m fine, Jamie.”

It hits her like a punch, almost doubling her over, the look in Dani’s eyes. Some horribly chilly combination of frustration and anger, maybe not at Jamie, but directed her way all the same. She pauses, setting the cheese grater down, looking Dani in the eye. 

Really? Only, the last time I didn’t set us up with a timely meal, you went ten hours without eating anything and nearly passed out on me.

She doesn’t say the words. Instead, she says, “I love you.” It’s become a mantra in moments like this, when Dani is so not herself, it’s like staring at someone else in a mirror. I love you. I love you on bad days, and I love you when you remember every detail of our first kiss, and I love you tomorrow.

The fight goes out of Dani’s body, her hand cupping around her eyes. The gold of her ring stands out in the afternoon sun, and Jamie thinks, It’s still her. It’s still her. 

“I’m sorry. I just...I feel...”

Jamie moves toward her slowly, like approaching a trapped animal. She's never moved like this with Dani in all the time they’ve been together, never felt the need, but lately, Dani is so unpredictable it hurts. 

“Trapped,” Jamie suggests softly. Dani nods into her hand. “I’ve been hovering.” Dani nods again. “Too much?”

Hesitation. A final nod that is also sort of a shake. Jamie sighs. 

“Just want to make sure I don’t--” Lose you. “--miss out on something important, is all. I’m sorry, too. I can back off some.”

It terrifies her to say so, to promise that when Dani sometimes looks around the living room like it’s brand-new. But Dani’s right. She isn’t a child. She doesn’t need Jamie to treat her as such. She’s okay. She’s still here. 

“I love you,” she says again, and Dani walks into her arms like she’s the only thing in the room not spinning. 

***

She tries not to panic, when Dani doesn’t come home. Tries to will herself back to ancient therapy techniques, to breathing rituals, to steady reminders that Dani is okay. Dani is fine. Dani has had a really good couple of weeks, in fact, and when she told Jamie she wanted to stop off at the store after work, Jamie had agreed. 

An hour passes. Two. Jamie’s pacing, doing fevered mental math: the shop is a ten-minute walk from the apartment, the grocery store a five-minute walk from the shop. How long does it take to pick up eggs, cheese, tomatoes? Half an hour? 

Okay, she thinks, forcing a calming breath through her nose. Okay, so that’s five--fifteen--forty-five minutes...

Not five minutes after this less-than-bracing thought, she’s throwing on a jacket and storming out the door. A fifteen-minute walk to the grocery store, she completes in eight. The cashier is a teenager in an outdated Nirvana t-shirt, looking at her like she’s out of her mind when she blows through the doors and says, “Blonde woman, brown jacket, one blue eye, one brown. Seen her?”

He has not. She forces herself not to sprint through the tiny store, peering doggedly down each aisle in turn. No sign of Dani. 

The shop, then. She makes her way back, cups her hands around her eyes as she leans into the dark window. Door is still locked, and not a light is burning.  Dani wouldn’t shut them off unless she was at the door--no matter what happens, no matter how confused she gets, she never plunges herself into darkness until she’s ready to make an escape into light. 

Breathe, Jamie thinks. Breathe. Maybe she’s just taking a stroll. 

She walks for blocks, her legs carrying her at twice the normal speed, looking around every corner with absolute terror. When she finds Dani at last, seated on a bench outside their favorite Mexican restaurant, the relief almost stops her heart. 

“Dani.”

Miserable eyes turn up to her, Dani’s face shell-shocked. “How long,” she says brokenly, “have we lived here? In this neighborhood.”

Jamie swallows. “Fifteen years.”

Dani nods, like she’s just given a complicated multiplication problem to a student who got it right on the first go. “Fifteen years,” she repeats. “Jamie. I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember--”

Jamie drops down beside her, arms wrapping tight, not caring who might be looking. Dani is so small, hands gripping Jamie’s shoulders, shaking all over. 

“I’ve got you,” Jamie murmurs. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

***

“It’s her,” Dani says. They’re laying in bed, Jamie’s head on Dani’s chest, Jamie trying desperately not to count all the things that have gone wrong in Dani’s head this week. How Dani stared in confusion at an order she’s put together a hundred times. How Dani snapped at a customer, who looked at her like she’d just stabbed his mother. How Dani had been midway through a joke when she lost track of the punchline, and looked ready to burst into tears. 

“It’s her,” Dani repeats. Jamie raises her head. 

“Dani...”

“It’s. Her.” Dani reaches for her hand, fingers pressing down on the gold band she once hid in a plant. Jamie closes her eyes, inhales. 

“Dani, I don’t want you to--you can’t go thinking--”

“Every day,” Dani says, her eyes on the ceiling. It’s like she thinks looking at Jamie would splinter her self-control. “Every day, I feel it a little less.”

Jamie waits. She’ll go on, eventually, explain herself. Jamie hates cutting her off, hates stepping in the way of a thought, lest Dani never quite get it back again.

“Every day,” she says at last, “we’re here. Living our lives. I see that, I feel...I feel you touching me, I feel how much we...and still, it’s like...like someone’s putting up glass. That fogged-up glass you can only see shapes through, you know? I can see us through it, but every day, that fog gets a little thicker.”

Her voice trembles, her throat working. Jamie shifts until her fingers are threaded with Dani’s, clenching tight. 

“You’re here,” she says, unable to think of anything more reassuring. It’s what she’s been telling herself about Dani for months. Years. That Dani, no matter what else is going on, is still here with her. Still smiling at her. Still whispering her name in the dark. 

“What if I’m not?” Something in Dani’s voice wavers to breaking, a hairline fracture in the words. “What if I’m looking at you, and I...I...”

Jamie can’t breathe. A muscle is jumping under her jaw, straining against the sob she’s been holding back for days. 

“What if I’m looking at you when she takes me,” Dani whispers, and Jamie breaks. Can’t not. She presses her face against Dani’s skin, tears coming hot, and Dani holds fast to her like they both know the ship is going down. 

“I love you,” she says, that same voice Jamie’s been leaning into for almost twenty years. “I love you. I love you. I love--”

***

“How is she?” Owen crosses his legs, sips his beer. Jamie’s own leg is fidgety, sock-clad foot hammering a mad rhythm against the floor. 

“She’s...”

“How is she?” Owen repeats before she can polish off a pretty lie. She shuts her eyes against his too-kind stare.

“Told the same story four times yesterday.”

He’s nodding, sympathetic. “Mum used to get stuck on one about the best dinner she ever made. How she rescued it at the last second from burning. Proudest moment of her life, I think, except for the day I got into culinary school.”

Jamie sighs. “It was about the kids.”

“Ah.” He leans back, surveying her as though looking for cracks. If he finds any, he wisely keeps it to himself. Jamie, bottle still angled toward her lips, leans a little to look down the hall. The bedroom door is shut, no sign of Dani waking.

“I tried to get her to stay up,” she says, wondering why she feels the need to convince Owen, of all people. “She does miss you.”

She doesn’t tell him about the heartbeat of confusion, the way Dani’s brow had knit when Jamie mentioned he was coming into town. How, for a second, Dani had seemed uncertain if she knew Owen from Bly, or from Iowa. 

“There’s always breakfast,” he says, placidly keeping tempo with this song they’re tossing back and forth, the one that goes everything is okay, everything is just fine, so long as we don’t look at it. 

It’s good to be around someone who understands, even if she doesn’t really want to talk about it. Good to know Owen, who is watching her with knowing eyes, remembers all too well what it feels like to watch someone slip away. 

“Seem to remember,” she says, taking the last swig and dropping the bottle against the breakfast bar, “saying once that this was a just shoot me situation. That it wasn’t fair.”

“And now?” He unfolds from his seat, moving in three strides to the fridge to replace her drink. Owen Sharma, at home in any kitchen without even trying. 

“Now,” she sighs, “I don’t care about fair. I don’t care about burdens. I don’t care about anything except making sure she still....she’s still...”

He hands her the bottle, leans his elbows against the counter. There’s an abundance of gray in his hair these days, and contacts in his eyes. He smiles like Owen, though. Always that familiar, warm smile. 

“She’s still your Dani,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Even on the days she isn’t. It’s the hardest part, maybe, remembering that. When she slips up, or can't remember the apartment number, or gets angry because you’ve reminded her of a gap she knows shouldn’t be there. But, Jamie, remember. She is still Dani.”

“I know.” Jamie scuffs a hand under her nose, rubs hard against her wet eyes. “I know. And sometimes she is so Dani. As if she was never anything else.”

As if, she doesn’t add, there wasn’t something else in there with her. Wiping her away a little at a time. Something else, matching her movements. Waiting. 

“To Dani Clayton,” Owen says, raising his bottle and clinking against her own. “Your anchor.”

***

She thinks she’s getting used to it, if this is something one can get used to. Thinks she’s building a rhythm, a routine, around Dani’s bad days. Little jokes work sometimes. Little kisses and touches. Dani responds to Poppins better than her own name now, and Jamie leans into it, trying to pretend that doesn’t tear at her. Trying to pretend she can go back to a time when safety was a nickname, a silly joke on her lips to keep the well of feelings from overwhelming her good sense. 

She says, “Morning, Poppins” and “I love you, Poppins”, and “G’night, Poppins”, like she hasn’t mostly been calling Dani by her real name since the day she admitted just how in love she was. 

Even so, it’s a method of getting by. Dani is still Dani, after all, just as Owen said. Maybe sometimes she thinks it’s 1987, and maybe sometimes she thinks there are ghosts in the mirrors, and maybe sometimes she looks sharply up from a movie with the name “Eddie” harsh on her lips. Sure. Sometimes. But, mostly, she is still Dani. 

Jamie is prepared, most days, for the mood swings and the bewilderment. For finding Dani’s toothbrush in the bedroom, or relocating Dani’s wallet back into her bag. She’s prepared for almost all of it, after so much time. 

Nothing. Nothing can prepare her for the day Dani forgets her name. 

They’re setting about readying for the day--readying themselves for the plane, in fact, which is slated to leave in three hours--and Dani has gone off to the bathroom to shower. She returns in one of Jamie’s softest shirts, her legs bare, her hair dripping. Jamie raises her eyes from last-minute packing, smiling. 

“Nice and clean, then?”

Dani freezes. Turns slowly on her heel. Stares at Jamie like she’s never seen her before. 

Something in Jamie cracks. Something in Jamie, something she didn’t even know could break, splintering wide open. 

“I--who--” Dani, backing up fast, backing toward the door. It’s like she walked into her apartment to find some burglar lurking at the foot of her bed. Her hand extends, warding Jamie off, and Jamie realizes she’s been trying instinctively to move closer. To take Dani into her arms. To remind her. 

“Dani. Poppins. Hey.” Each word, a knife turned back on herself. Each word, a question. She’s never said Dani’s name like this, with so much uncertainty weighed into each letter. “Dani, please.”

It’s the please that really breaks her. The please, like begging Dani for the kindness of her own name on Dani’s lips is something she ever thought she’d need to prepare for. 

Dani blinks. Blinks again. Raises her left hand, stares hard at the band wrapped around her third finger. As Jamie watches, she touches the heart, the hands, the crown. 

“Jamie?”

She’s on her knees, she realizes, on her knees on the floor with her arms wrapped around herself, and Dani is all but running to her. She’s on her knees, sobbing, feeling as though she could not be more wrung out if she’d walked in to find Dani cold on the bed. 

Don’t let me find out, she thinks desperately, please, fuck, don’t ever let me find out how that feels compared to this. 

“Jamie,” Dani says against the top of her head, holding her, “Jamie, hey, shh, come on...”

She doesn’t know, Jamie thinks wildly. She has no idea where she just went. No idea what almost washed away just now. She doesn’t know. 

“Still here,” Jamie rasps through a sob. “You’re still here?”

Dani is silent a moment, and Jamie knows she’s heard it: the question at the end of the sentence, placed there for the very first time. Her hand tucks beneath Jamie’s chin, guiding her face up until her swollen eyes are staring into Dani’s tired ones. 

“Still here,” she says softly. “I promise.”

***

Twenty years. It’s been twenty years, almost to the day, and California is glorious. Vermont is home, and Jamie would never trade it, but there’s just something about California she loves. The air is sweeter, somehow. The people, warmer. Or maybe they just care less. 

Dani holds to her arm like a life preserver as they make their way through people much younger and more aloof than they’ve been in years. Jamie tries to stand taller, tries to look as though she belongs among Flora’s friends. Flora, who barely knows who she is, even--her eyes coasted right over Jamie when she walked up, right past Dani’s smile, the polite disinterest of a stranger. 

It’s different than what she’s been watching with Dani. Different--but no less harsh, in its own quieter way. 

Miles, practically a man now, shakes their hands with undue formality. Henry, just this side of relaxed, kisses her cheek. Embraces Dani. Jamie tries not to notice how her wife goes stiff in his arms, like there’s some part of her that can’t quite put a finger on why he feels entitled to such friendliness. 

“Flora’s uncle,” Jamie whispers against Dani’s hair under the guise of a kiss. Dani nods once to show she understands, smiles at Henry like it’s summer, like it’s ‘87, like she couldn’t forget her past no matter how hard she tried. 

“Lovely to see you both,” Henry says, oblivious to it all. Jamie’s glad she kept this to herself, kept it between Dani and her and Owen. No one else knows Dani here, anyway. No one needs to pry into the battle she’s been waging for two decades. 

The rehearsal dinner is pleasant--everyone drinking a little too much, Flora beaming up at her groom-to-be, Owen telling bad jokes and advising them both to run off to Bali. With Dani’s hand gripping hers on the tablecloth, in full view of the world, Jamie almost feels at home. If she has to lean over from time to time to whisper a name in Dani’s ear, if she has to gently guide Dani to the bathroom, it all feels fitting of an out-of-town wedding. It’s fine. It’s okay. They can do this.

They’re sitting in the parlor of a presumably-haunted wedding venue, Dani leaning out of her chair to hold Jamie’s hand, when Jamie hears herself say it. She hadn’t planned on it in advance. It feels like flirting with fire, somehow, something that might keep them all warm or burn them all down. 

“I have a story,” she says, Dani’s fingers warm around her own. “Well. It isn’t really my story...”

She glances up, catching Dani’s eyes, and for a heartbreaking moment, finds them blank. Dani, looking at her with jaw clenched and brow furrowed, trying to place herself. Trying to ward off the thing still working so hard to take her from all of them. 

“It isn’t my story,” Jamie says again, a question, seeking permission. Dani’s face clears. She smiles. Nods once. 

Jamie leans forward, takes a steadying drink. This may not do anything, she cautions herself. May not matter beyond the scope of a single night, with a room full of strangers waiting on her next words. Tomorrow, Dani might wake and not have the first idea whose bed she is sharing. 

That, Jamie thinks firmly, is tomorrow. 

“The teacher,” she begins, squeezing Dani’s hand, “was, by choice, a solitary young woman...”

[philliamwrites]

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.6]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 5.1k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 5 | Chapter 7

Chapter 06: From The Beyond

Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace.

[Mary B. Shelley, Frankenstein]

    Thinking back on it later, the events during Garland Moon were probably what set the hare running toward its demise. Not that any of you could have known that. Not the students who joyfully spend their days in cherished halls where daylight passes through coloured glass; not Byleth with her gift to correct past mistakes with a flick of her wrist and change the course of time; not you with your foresight to see what dangers await in the future and prepare a different path for those you care for to walk safely.

    Thinking back on it later, everything that followed surely ascribed to and served Fate, and not even Sylvain could charm her with his silver tongue and golden wit, for Fate’s lover is Time and she does not look kindly upon those who enslave him.

    Maybe that is why things turned out the way they did for Byleth and you.

    But that future is still far away and every single one of you still believes the goddess has Fate tightly leashed to her side, her benevolence endless and spreading to every corner in Fódlan.

    That is why you don’t think too much about it when one day, Seteth disturbs your seminar, a deep frown settled in his features as you explain how to turn an ambush to your advantage to the students.

    “Apologies for the disturbance, Herald. Lady Rhea asks to see Ashe.”

    The boy gives a pitiful squeal but is up on his feet nonetheless. “Me? Why?”

    “You will see. Please come.” Seteth holds the classroom’s door open.

    You nod, a little worried about the frightened glance Ashe sends your way like he hopes you can actually say no and decline Rhea’s command. An encouraging smile is everything you can give him on his way before the door shuts behind him. Its sound wakes everyone else from their slumber and it takes a few minutes to reclaim order and their attention. It certainly does help that the Blue Lion House isn’t as chaotic as a certain other, not to name any names.

    Said house proves again to be more difficult to teach. Or tame. You didn’t have the courage to ask why they thought it was a good idea to see whose shoe would leave the darkest stain on Claude’s bedroom’s ceiling. Even days after their mischief students kept talking about how they have never seen Seteth this furious.

    “Herald, please,” Hilda cries, tragically draped over the back of her chair, a maiden in bittersweet agony over her loss of free time. “It was all Claude’s fault.”

    “Liars never prosper,” Claude calls from the far back of the room. He’s hunched over his papers, working vigorously on Seteth’s punishment. He ordered them to write hundred times I shall not throw footwear against any ceiling in the monastery. They’ve been at it for about twenty minutes and Claude’s quill hasn’t stopped its furious scratching against parchment at all.

    “I won’t mess with Seteth,” you tell them and lean dangerously far back on your chair to place your feet on the teacher’s desk. “And you deserve it. Or do they not teach you proper manners in your noble homes?”

    “Well, it’s not like anyone taught us not to do it,” Hilda chirps. You throw a glare her way and she quickly dugs her head and continues writing. Quills scratch on paper for about seven seconds before Hilda stops again.

    “Herald,” she says. “What do you think about Lady Catherine’s Thunderbrand?”

    You look up from your book titled Noticeable War Generals. Smile gone from her face, Hilda looks up at you with sharp curiosity. It’s eerily silent now, and a quick glance towards Claude shows he is listening as well.

    Catherine’s Thunderbrand. Its sight is still burned into the back of your closed eyes: Golden ivory forged into a grotesque sword, a blood red Crest Stone in its middle that seemed to pulsate—as if it breathed. As if it was a living thing with a heart. You had simply stared at it in awe and thought What a mesmerising weapon.

    “It’s … fascinating,” you manage. “A Hero’s Relic. There are more than just Thunderbrand, right?”

    “Ten exist,” Claude calls from the back. “Bestowed by the goddess upon ten heroes, they are passed down to their descendants. House Riegan and House Goneril have one in their possession as well.”

    “Then why don’t you use it?” You certainly wouldn’t miss a chance to own and wield a mighty weapon like that.

    “Wield that?”Hilda shudders in disgust. “No thank you. It looks so weird, pulsating and moving like an insect.”

    “And we’re way too inexperienced to use it in a real battle.” Claude puts his quill between his nose and upper lip and tries to hold it there. “They’re locked away anyway and hidden from those who might misuse their power.”

    Claude has a point. Nonetheless, you’d gladly take a look at them. Maybe even hold one … Did the Herald own one as well? A special weapon only forged for the Herald. A slight shudder runs down your spine at the thought of using it in battle.

    Ten minutes later, Claude jumps to his feet. He hurries towards you, slams his parchments on the table and leaves just as fast. “Bye Herald!”

    “No way!” Hilda pales. “How is he so fast?”

    You wonder as well and take a look at his papers. Instead of writing what Seteth has told them, Claude simply left poor drawings of their crime and promised with one sentence he wouldn’t do it again.

    And we of House Riegan never break our promises, reads the last line.

    You groan. Now it’s your turn to think about a good explanation to Seteth’s questions why you haven’t paid more attention.

    Month three passed within the blink of an eye. Garland Moon brought the sweet smell of white roses to Garreg Mach, a tradition much anticipated by the students. Everywhere you went, garlands and gifts made of white roses were given to each other as a sign of friendship or budding love. Some found their way to your desk, though your admirers preferred to stay anonymous whereas Byleth was busy to stow them somewhere—not a day passed without her receiving something or a group of giggling students following her around.

    “I really don’t know what to do with all those flowers,” she told you one day during a tea session, a deep frown on her face. “They wilt. Then I throw them away. It’s a waste.”

    “Your students love it,” you replied but were glad not to be in her place.

    Another good deed Garland Moon brought with it is longer days and shorter nights. Students lounged outside in their summer uniforms after class, enjoying those last warm days before raining season arrived with fierce gusts and heavy pouring, forcing them back inside where they spent their free time inside the library or the dining hall, playing little games to kill time.

    For a change of pace, Byleth and Jeralt decided they’d hold a grilled fish dinner on every last day of each week and most of the invited either didn’t have the heart or the courage to tell them once every week was once every week too much.

    Everything happened too fast after that. Rhea informed the teacher’s faculty and her Knights of Lord Lonato Gaspard’s planned rebellion against the church. With that, the mystery of why Seteth had demanded to speak with Ashe was solved; it also explained why he spent so much time inside the chapel, praying and wondering himself about his adoptive father’s reasoning.

    “There is no question about it,” Rhea says in her cool, demanding voice once every teacher and Knight of Seiros gathered inside the War Room to discuss the matter. “We will send a troop to meet them halfway in Kingdom Territory. They will pay for mocking our goddess.”

    “Allow me to lead the Knights, Lady Rhea,” Catherine says. Even now, you can’t take your eyes off Thunderbrand strapped on her back. “I know Gaspard and what he’s capable of.”

    “We did not forget what you’ve done back when—” Seteth starts. Catherine silences him with one look, leaving no doubt she doesn’t wish to speak of it.

    “And that is exactly why I have to go.”

    Rhea nodded. “So be it. I know I leave this mission in your capable hands.”

    “But why is he leading this rebellion?” you wonder. “I thought the Kingdom is strongly devoted to Seiros’ teachings.”

    “Every flock has its black sheep,” Rhea says, sounding sad. “We will get our answers once we defeat and capture them.”

    “What about the surrounding villages and those who support Gaspard’s rebellion but don’t fight?” Byleth asked. Until now, you haven’t really thought of those not directly involved in it, but she does make a good point.

    Rhea squared her shoulders. “What about them?”

    “They’re not directly involved but might try to get in our way.” Byleth glanced at the strategic map laid out before her. There is a way through the forest for your units to approach Lonato’s stronghold. Surrounding villages are marked with a red pin. They surround the forest in a loose circle, making an intrusion possible, though sending Knights of Seiros out to watch them and stop them could be quite easy—

    “Everyone who supports this foolish rebellion should receive the rightful punishment,” Rhea says, her voice so cold it freezes your thoughts of how to make the villagers stay out of this. Your head snaps up as you stare at her. Byleth raises an eyebrow but remains silent just like everyone else. Something about that makes you shudder.

    “But they’re civilians, right? If we can avoid having them interfere—”

    “By joining Lonato Gaspard’s rebellion they pledge guilty to his cause.” Rhea looks up at you, scorn flashing briefly in her eyes. “I will not have them simply go if it opens the possibility for revenge one day.”

    If you squinted really hard, there was reason behind her words. Still, your stomach turned at the thought of endangering civilians even though it could be prevented. Without any protests, that was the plan for the operation.

    You sat this one out. There was much to prepare for the upcoming Rite of Rebirth, a ceremony when the Church of Seiros and its believers unite to pray for the return of the goddess. Even though you wouldn’t call yourself a believer—many find it strange that you remember the way of war but not the way of the Church as if you lived somewhere without Seiros’ teachings—your presence was of outmost importance as well. Though after you heard how the mission went, you really wished you had joined the Blue Lions fighting against Gaspard instead of sitting around and deciding which ceremonial robes fit better.

    Loud voices drift through the closed door of a classroom, voices you immediately recognise belonging to Dimitri and Byleth.

    “Are you insane?” You flinch back even though a heavy wooden door separates you from what is undoubtedly Dimitri’s wrath. “Those were civilians.”

    A reply is lost, too quiet for you to hear, but whatever Byleth said, it wasn’t the right thing. A second later, Dimitri storms through the doors. The distress in his features stops you from asking what is wrong, a flash of betrayal lurking in his eyes seals your mouth shut. You look after him until he disappears around the corner, only slowly turning towards Byleth. She is propping herself up on the table, learning on her strong arms and staring at the opposite wall, her mouth a grim line—solid rock that stands against the raging waves summoned by Dimitri, her grip on the edge of the table hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

    “Everything okay?” An unnecessary question answered by a simple shake of her head. You lean your hips against the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

    Byleth is silent. Only slowly, like a tight knot finally coming lose, the tension in her shoulders dissipates and she takes a long, deep breath.

    “Dimitri told me about their mission. How they dealt with Lord Lonato’s revolt.” She finally steps away from the table and kneads the muscles in her shoulders. You imagine they’re hard like a rock. “They faced simple peasants who defended their Lord. Peasants who didn’t even know how to wield a sword without cutting their own thumbs off.”

    “And Rhea made quite clear how to deal with them,” you finish, summoning unwanted imaginations about a gruesome butchery in your mind. Byleth nods.

    “Dimitri asked for my advice,” she continues, her gaze drifting towards the door as if said young man might return like a bad haunting if his name is simply muttered. “If there was anything they could have done different. I told him there wasn’t.” She tears her eyes away from the door and fixes them on you. “I told him that is the way of war.”

    She is right, a part of you insists. Such facts cannot be changed and claiming anything different is foolish, naive. Yet, something stirs, a tiny tiny voice, a feeling, that challenges that thought. A feeling you didn’t expect to be part of you.

    “I don’t know about the details,” you say, shuffling from left to right, “but maybe it was avoidable. Lord Lonato must have known how his subjects felt about it. He didn’t need to involve them.”

    “I think they joined on their own. The students gave them a chance to lay down their weapons.”

    “Still—”

    “Still they decided to follow their foolish Lord,” a voice from the door joins, cold and imperious, chilling you to the bone. Rhea enters the War Room, her expression void of any warmth or kindness. “There is no place for doubt. We must punish any sinner who may inflict harm upon believers, even if those sinners are civilians.”

    “And you think to have the students punish them is right?” Byleth asks, earning a sharp glare from Rhea. She quickly, but somewhat begrudgingly adds, “Your Grace.”

    “I have heard that some students struggled with completing the task,” Rhea acknowledges, doing her best to show how unaffected she is by Byleth’s criticism. “I pray they learnt a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens.”

    An icy shudder crawls up your spine, cold fingers tighten around your throat to keep you silent—a leash forged of obedience and intimidation, the mistress standing before you. It would be wise to keep your mouth shut, not draw unnecessary attention; keep your head low and nothing can slice it from your shoulders. But the words, burning hot on your tongue, demand freedom.

    “Fearing the Church isn’t the same as respecting it.”

    Something sharp flashes in Rhea’s eyes. “If fear is the only way to control them, then so be it. They are traitors to the holy teachings.”

    “They are people. People with families.”

    “People who would be wise to remember it was the progenitor god who gave them these lands and their life,” Rhea answers, growing impatient. She notices something in the way you look at her, for she takes a moment to collect herself by taking a deep breath. “I do not enjoy seeing those who wronged our holy teachings punished, Herald,” she continues, now much calmer. “But punish them we must before they hurt those who are dear to us.” Upon her last words, her eyes dart to Byleth, looking at her with so much fondness and care, a sting of jealousy in your chest forces you to avert your gaze to the ground. It isn’t the first time you notice Rhea’s palpable interest in Byleth’s wellbeing though no answer comes to mind why it is like that. If Byleth noticed the same, she doesn’t show it.

    After that, the incident is quickly forgotten, making room for the new incident occupying everyone’s mind: an assassination plot on Rhea on the day of the Rite of Rebirth found in Lonato’s possession. You aren’t the only one wondering why he’d carry something like that around where it’s easy to find. Multiple theories go around, one more farfetched than the other. One particular makes sense, its source none other than sharp witted Claude who thinks this plot is a simple distraction for something much bigger.

    “If security is focused on the Rite of Rebirth inside the Goddess’ Tower, pretty much anyone can simply stroll around the monastery and do who knows what,” he told you on the day Byleth and her class set out to discover what important places might become a target. Garreg Mach hides many secrets and treasures. Some of them even you are not allowed to see like relics passed down from archbishop to archbishop, guarded by the elite of the Knights of Seiros, tall and bulky men and women with grim mouths and determined eyes rooting them in place day and night in front of locked doors only Rhea knows what they hide.

    With every passing day, tension hangs in the air like a thick blanket waiting to smother you all. But it isn’t simply the anticipation for whatever the Western Church has planned. It is also the holy ceremony of the Rite of Rebirth, one you’ve practised under the stern eyes of Seteth who doesn’t settle for anything less than perfect. Every word, every step is engraved in your mind.

    On the day of the Rite of Rebirth the sun relentlessly blazes down at the monastery. Your ceremonial robes are heavy and woven from thick jacquard fabric lined with fine golden patterns that depict the Herald’s Crest on the back. You’ve barely finished preparing everything inside the round chamber inside the Goddess’ Tower but perspiration glues your hair to your forehead.

    A whole feast is prepared; food offerings and gifts from the townsfolk and priests served on golden and silver plates on long tables covered with white table clothes. In the middle Seteth prepared a small platform for Rhea to stand and speak in honour of the goddess that she may return to Fódlan and show its people her infinite grace. In short, you’d do anything to join the students who are securing the locations lacking in defence right now instead of standing around and waving at pilgrims. The only joy lies in Flayn’s bright presence and her never ending optimism. She’s a sweet girl and has been looking forward to the ceremony since the beginning of Blue Sea Moon. Looking upon her, it is hard not to catch her excitement and joy when the ceremony finally begins.

    Because of certain circumstances you couldn’t quite follow, the holy relic used for the ceremony, the Chalice of Beginnings, has been missing for a long time. Because of that, a mock chalice was prepared by the cardinals, a handful of high authority men and women who make it no secret they can’t quite decide if they like or dislike you and your position.

    “You must excuse them,” one of the cardinals says after a group of them simply shook their heads at you happily scooping tons of food on a plate. His dark hair falls to his shoulders and unlike the other cardinals, his brown eyes are filled with kindness. “They simply think in old patterns and value their old traditions. You are quite young, Herald. They don’t know how to handle that.”

    “But you do?” you wonder and notice too late how unfriendly that sounds. But he simply laughs.

    “I do frequent with young folk, yes,” he says. “They are my flock and I will do anything to protect them.”

    “That again, Aelfric?” Catherine joins you and slaps his shoulder just when he was about to drink from his cup. You pretend the pastries on your plate are far more interesting than watching him choke on wine. “You’re way too good for them, you know?”

    “Who is ‘them?’” you ask but Catherine just sways her hand as if he wants to get rid of a nasty fly.

    “Unimportant. You did a good job carrying the chalice to the podium.”

    “I did almost trip over these.” You pluck at the heavy robes, already looking forward to getting out of them.

    Catherine laughs but it is short lived. Out of nowhere, a knight hurriedly approaches and leans over to her, muttering, “They are after the tomb of Saint Seiros.”

    Glass shatters as her grip tightens around the fragile stem but without so much as noticing it she storms towards Rhea, fury blazing in her eyes. Something happened. Something far more exciting than playing a believer in front of everyone, so you follow her to listen in more.

    “Those dastards from the Western Church infiltrated the Holy Mausoleum,” she says. Rhea pales. “I will take some knights and go there at once.”

    “Go and be swift, Catherine.” Rhea’s words are barely a puff of breath, those news shaking her but she remains stoic in front of everyone to prevent panic. Her voice drops dangerously low. “Punish those heathens.”

    Catherine’s head dips in a slight bow. “I will, Your Grace.”

    “I want to help too.”

    Both turn around at your voice. Catherine narrows her eyes to sharp slits, but it is Rhea who says, “No. I need you here for the ceremony, Herald.”

    “Please, let me,” you beg. Something inside you demands to follow, demands to see what is inside the Holy Mausoleum that causes so much bloodshed. “I can’t explain, but I need to be there.”

    Rhea presses her lips into a thin line. Before she reopens her mouth to decline your wish, you whirl around and leave the ceremony room, Catherine in hot pursuit. You manage halfway down the hallway before she reaches you and grabs your arm hard.

    “Even though you are the Herald, I won’t allow you to show this disrespect towards Her Grace,” she snarls. “If she tells you to stay, you listen.”

    “I don’t expect you to understand,” you say, trying to free your arm from her bone breaking grip. “But something calls me to this place and I need to follow it.”

    Catherine isn’t pleased but she knows better than do you any real harm. With a crude nod, she allows you to follow. Several knights wait for you and together you make your way through the warm evening air towards the Holy Mausoleum that lies behind the chapel.

    You enter right before chaos erupts. At the end of the hall, its ceiling so high up it’s barely visible in the dark, Byleth stands tall and rises a sword that flashes in a bright red light. A throb goes through your body and brings you to your knees. It feels like an arrow drove into your chest, the stinging pain unlike anything you’ve felt before—no, it’s a pain you haven’t felt since the Crest appeared on your eye for the first time. And then that thrumming energy within you exploded, a sharp crimson that drenched every corner of your right vision, rushing through your veins.

    “Kill them!” an enemy mage commands, fury fuelling him to a last desperate attack. With his remaining companions, they summon a giant fire spell you’ve only read about in books, a combination of spells into a group flame that covers a large area—the pre-stage to a much more fatal blaze that can scorch the land. Blaze or no, the effect watching the giant fire ball curling and sparking until it grows large enough to wipe out anything in its way is the same. Fear paralyses your body. Move, your mind screams, but you can’t. Your muscles have locked up; a high whine of terror fills your head and fizzes in your blood like poison, yet you do not understand where this fear of fire comes from.

    “Take cover!” Catherine roars but it is too late. The blast hits the ground right before you, dispersing your small group of reinforcements like wind scattering leaves in all directions. A loud crack beneath you makes your heart skip a beat, a rumble shakes the hall and before you can fully comprehend what is happening, the ground gives way.

    The last thing you hear is Byleth shouting, not Herald, but your name before you plunge into darkness.

    Wake up.

    You have to wake up.

    This darkness is terrifying, so utterly black and choking, curling around you like a tight fist. Like someone is holding you in their dirty, tainted clutches, smelling of death and horror. Wake up, you tell yourself, more urgent now, your mind struggling to escape from claws digging into your consciousness, their goal unknown but you don’t want to stay here to find out what they are after. What they want to take from you.

    Wake up, this time another voice, the voice, echoing like a sweet bell’s chime, the flicker of light in a darkness so black it hums. You have to wake up.

    Your eyes snap open, the sudden white ceiling hurting like a sudden flash of light. Once you’re used to the brightness, you realise this isn’t a room, this is … this is your consciousness—no walls, no windows. It’s just a space, and yet you can clearly determine borders. Somewhere is an exit you’re free to use, nothing holds you captive. It’s your safe place. Your haven. Which doesn’t explain how you’ve gotten here.

    All you know is it feels safe. It feels like a warm embrace, the feeling of hope, watching a budding flower embraced by soft, fragile hands—asteritrope, your mind provides out of nowhere, the flower always turning its head towards the Blue Star.

    It is like breaking a spell. First, everything is simply white, empty, a second later, you stand in a vast field of asteritropes, an ocean of purple, gently swaying flowers at your feet. Everything smells of sweet innocence, of honey dipped fingers and bittersweet regret. It is a familiar scent, one your body remembers and reacts to with a shudder so strong it rattles deep in your bones; a chill so cold it freezes you on the spot, the slightest movement threatening to shatter you entirely.

    What is this grief, this sadness? Is it your own or have you fallen into a sea of tears wept by someone else? Your chest is heavy with a burden, a pulling towards the unknown that is yet so familiar. It is homesickness towards a place you have never been but long to visit.

    The flowers shaped like little stars stretch beyond what you think are the edges of this place. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up anytime soon, relishing in this peace and quiet.

    A peace and quiet that lasts only a moment until you notice it. Not it, him. In the middle of the field, a boy sits, bent over something that demands his complete attention. Dark curls fall against pale skin, his brows pulled tightly together as his fingers work something in his lap. He is wearing a simple white robe, though it is unlike any of the religious wear you've seen on the priests and nuns; it seem ... too old for that. Only after you approach, you see he is folding purple flowers and green steams into a crown.

    “Hello?” you say, only now entertaining the idea you might have died and this is the afterlife, the first point before returning to the goddess’ side. It is a strangely tranquil thought. “Can you hear me?”

    The boy’s head snaps up, his eyes wide as he momentarily forgets his work, and you take a step back, struck by how bright his steel grey eyes are. They roam over you, up and down, back up again, as he slowly raises to his feet.

    “You’re here,” he says, awestruck. “You’re finally here. It is so nice to meet you after all this time.”

    His voice is like a punch to your gut. You recognise it immediately, the voice who pulled you back from the darkness.

    “You—” Nothing makes sense. “Who are you? What are you?”

    “There is nothing to fear,” he says, offering you his hand. The tips of his fingers are purple from handling delicate petals. The crown lies at his bare feet, forgotten. He looks strangely vulnerable.

    You take another step back, worry a steady, hard pulse against your neck. The air catches in your lungs. You feel like the ground is opening beneath your feet. “Are you … the goddess? A god?”

    The boy blinks, then throws his head back and bursts out laughing, the sound like sweet bells chiming in the wind. “You people love to call everything you do not understand god.”

    “Then what are you?” It comes out as a breath, and for a brief second you think it’s fear that seizes your body, but no. You should be afraid and yet instead of frenzy panic there is a calm spreading inside you as if you belong here. You can’t say if it’s the boy’s presence or the familiar scent of wildflowers.

    The boy leans his head to the side, his smile as vibrant as early sunlight casting away leftover shadows from a dark night. “Hmmm … the End, perhaps? Or why not just … a friend?”

    “The end? My end?”

    “No, the end is never simply the end,” he says, shaking his head.

    “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

    “It may be a rebirth,” he continues. “Or the passing into a new era. Into a new dawn.”

    “A new dawn,” you mumble. The realisation makes your knees weak. “Don’t tell me—” You suck in a sharp breath, unable to belief where your thoughts are hurling towards in lightning speed. You kneel onto the soft flowerbed, careful not to crush any flowers. “Why are we here … do you know me by chance?”

    “I … cannot say for sure,” he starts slowly, uncertainty turning his features even younger. “I have been watching you since you awoke four moons ago. On that day, I as well awoke from a deep slumber. But I do not know why it is you that I am bound to.”

    “Bound to?” Your head spins. “What do you mean?”

    “You must have felt it by now, have you not? I am here because of this,” he says, and lifts his hand to point at your right eye. You flinch back as if he smacked you right across your face.

    “So you are him,” you whisper, a shudder ripping through your body. “You’re the first Herald. You are Seiros’ Champion.”

    The boy smiles.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Another poem, one about Philza and seasons

“It’s springtime again, flowers budding in bloom

But it’ll be summer, autumn, winter soon

Time passes in the blink of an eye

He takes a breath and centuries go by

And like flowers plucked from the ground

All around will soon be placed in burial mounds

He flies like a crow through the familiar breeze

For once at ease as he soars through the trees

The winds as unchanging even as the ages

Pass before he notices, remaining ageless

As nations rise and fall and claw back from the ashes

It’s almost tragic, how much faith is placed when it burns and crashes

Pointless attachment to places that’ll change anyway

Wilting away like petals, changing to grey

It’s a lesson he learnt long ago in the snow

An empire of his own ready to grow

And engulf the world, and that’s what it did

And he blinked, winter left, wiped off the grid

Spring dawned, and he was a free bird again

A flock made of strays and those he called friends

And as millennia and millennia passed

His flock shrank fast, he knew he’d outlast

Hundreds of generations of beast and men

And a hundredfold more, time and again

An angel of Death, touched by Her mercy

Unable to perish without Her will, those pearly

Gates seeming further away, away from

Her touch again, his skin grown numb

He thought his heart had too grown cold

Akin to the winter empire of old

But summer wormed it’s way in and melted his walls

Coming in the form of a son he falls

To sunny smiles and daylight songs

The flock grows again and he feels he belongs

The last member of his flock still at his side

But then by lakeside the son found a bride

And soon a daughter-turned-son made four

Something to adore instead of endure

Five and six, like before, were strays

And these days, he hopes and prays

To keep by his side a family that stays

Even as the world is set ablaze, the rays

Of summer and spring for eternity

To shine upon his heavy wings

But winter snaps feathers and bones

Autumn tones paint summers shades unknowns

Leaves falling red on his fingers and sword

Icy gashes that will never be restored

Summers smile fading, cradling and draping

Aching tattered wings he can’t stop from shaking

Over the body of a boy, his boy, his boy

Hands hanging limp like a rag doll toy

And now spring blooms again, rebirth anew

He seeks and he searches for ways to break through

Bring back the springtimes he had long ago

When his sons sunny smiles remained aglow.”

[ichor-and-symbiosis]

So would the Shig meister ever feel bad for accidentally standing up his crush?

yes yes and yes

_______________________________________________________________________

Rarely did you ever have the chance to enjoy relative normalcy with Tomura. Rarer still was when he made the effort to invite you anywhere at all, much less to your favorite cafe on White Day. You were shocked senseless when he brought it up. The fact that he would fight through his misanthropic tendencies to take you out to a public place meant more to you than he could possibly understand.

If Tomura wanted to put in the effort, then so would you. He would undoubtedly tease you for bothering to wear a nice outfit and putting on makeup, but you were determined to have the last laugh when he got to see the lingerie you were hiding underneath. It would be a lovely day, and you were incredibly excited.

You had waited for a few minutes outside of the cafe, none the wiser for what was to come. He must be a bit busy. Maybe Kurogiri is holding him up. You could wait. Maybe you should go inside and grab a table while you wait.

This naive line of thought continued for twenty minutes. You had texted and called to no avail, and your immediate reaction was one of anxiety. Tomura never mentioned an impromptu meeting with the League. A hasty text to Toga put your mind at ease — we don’t have any missions today, silly! hey, how’s your date? — and now …

Now you were pissed.

You really sat by yourself for half an hour like a naive idiot, tolerating sympathetic looks from the waiter and ignoring all of the couples surrounding you. You really sat there and thought you could pretend your life wasn’t insane and that you weren’t dating an emotionally stunted man. Too good to be true.

And this had to happen on White Day, no less. Not that you ever really gave much thought into commercial holidays, but it was simply the principle of the thing. Tomura wan’t just late or offering half-assed excuses. He never even showed up or bothered to call you.

Well. You were never one to pass up an opportunity for self-care. So what if Tomura ghosted you? Nothing would stop you from ordering an obscene amount of pastries and bringing them back home. You sat your ass down on the couch, fancy clothing and all, and proceeded to binge your favorite movies with the bag of dessert by your side. Sure, you might have spent the first hour crying your eyes out and feeling sorry for yourself, but once numb indifference set in, you finally got comfortable.

You were going to enjoy your evening eating good food and feeling sexy without your boyfriend. Maybe the real boyfriend was the hand you used along the way.

Halfway into a tragically bad zombie movie, Tomura finally graced you with his presence. With flowers, scratching at his neck as he stepped through the portal and staunchly avoided eye contact. The small bouquet of roses was clutched in a death grip, as though he could not figure out if he wanted to immediately disintegrate the flowers from the sheer embarrassment of holding them at all, or if he should bear the brunt of your glare and offer them to you with as much grace as possible.

The silence between you hung in the air, thick and heavy and only slightly funny from the intermittent zombie screeches that emanated from your television. Tomura still refused to look at you, standing awkwardly as he stared at the floor. You sighed and muted the movie.

“I’m going to hazard a guess and assume that Kurogiri thought of the flowers.” Better to break the ice with him. You may be upset, but you were more interested in an explanation. And when Tomura felt like he was cornered, he lashed out. Neither of you needed that right now.

Tomura grimaced and inspected the bouquet with distaste. “He said I needed to show some effort.” He mumbled the next admission. “After my fuck-up.”

“What effort? You went to a flower shop?” He threw you a rueful glare. “Right. The only effort I’m seeing here is the fact that you bothered to shower before coming here.”

“ … but you like when I’m clean.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. This man better not have any intentions of getting near you tonight. “Put the flowers down,” you said exasperatingly, waving a hand towards the coffee table in front of you.

Tomura dropped the bouquet with disinterest. Something about that movement, that zero effort to go out of his way to even find a vase instead of taking the easy way out, reignited your ire all over again. You threw all of your anger into your stare as you examined the bouquet, hoping those stupidly luscious roses would wilt from the weight of your annoyance.

The bag of sweets had dethroned Tomura from his usual spot beside you. It innocently took up his favorite place, and even though he intentionally eyed the space, you folded your arms and refused to move the bag. Your other side was occupied by a mountain of pillows. Let the fool stand.

“Where were you?” you asked, letting him hear the tiredness in your voice. “Toga said there weren’t any missions or meetings today.”

He did not answer. You waited patiently for a response, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as his bangs fell over his face and obstructed his guilty expression. “I got caught up,” he finally replied, raspy and quiet.

“Caught up with what?”

Another period of silence. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned away. “Gaming. Lost track of time.”

Wow. That should not have hurt as much as it did. You knew this was a way for him to forget about reality, to let loose and pretend like everyone in the world was an NPC but him. His tendency to slip away from you was painful. You wanted him to think about you, at least.

“You stood me up to play video games” Tomura opened his mouth. “I dare you to say it’s not a big deal. See how that goes for you.” He shut his mouth. “Thanks for being honest with me, I guess.”

Tomura hovered nearby, unsure of what to do with himself or what to say. You did not want to make it easy for him, and he could feel it. Tension was beginning to build up within him as he scratched at his neck. You stared at the television, letting the muted screen recapture your attention.

“You can leave,” you said, unwilling to look at him.

From your periphery, you could see Tomura flinch imperceptibly. “Don’t be like that, we can still go somewhere.”

“I’d rather not.”

”Why?” he growled, an edge of hysteria coloring his voice. “Why are you being so difficult?”

The words left you before you could stop yourself. “Because I’m really upset, and I don’t want to be around you right now.”

Tomura stilled, hands hovering near his neck. You didn’t need to look at him to know his eyes were wide and panicked. He stepped forward, paused, and clenched his hands into fists, breathing deeply in a bid to tame himself.

A part of you felt guilty for being so harsh. But you said what you said, and it was too late to take it back. Not that you wanted to, anyway. As much as you missed him, you really did feel prickly and unwilling to be near him.

You expected Tomura to call Kurogiri right in front of you and demand to be whisked away. You expected him to throw a tantrum, angrily yelling at you for being cold and cruel.

You did not expect him to march over to you, toss the bag of pastries to the floor, and plop down so close to you that he was practically pressed up to your side as he rested his head on your shoulder. "Tomura — “

“I’m not going anywhere,” he stubbornly said, linking his arm with yours for emphasis.

Bitter words died down before you could voice them. This was all you wanted, to have Tomura spend time with you. You just felt tired at this point. Tired and miffed and in desperate need of feeling wanted.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The television blared on, offering a comfortable buffer between you. Tomura gradually melted into you, until you had no choice but to loosen up your tense posture to support his weight. Every fiber of your being wanted to move away to get a pastry, but even the slightest attempt to shift out of his grasp was met with firm resistance.

He was pouting. You could see the frown lines etched into his face from your vantage point. Several times he would try to shift in such a way that signaled his desire for your attention. He even somehow managed to wrap his arms around your waist and nuzzled his face along your collarbone, hoping for your loving caresses.

“Sorry,” he quietly murmured. And against your better judgement, you felt the last remnants of your anger dissipate. You lightly stroked his hair in answer, enjoying the familiar lavender smell. He had used your shampoo.

Tomura angled his head down just enough to make it obvious that he was staring at your cleavage. You were too amused to stop him from hooking a finger into the collar and pulling it away to give himself a better view. He hummed thoughtfully. “Don’t think I’ve seen this before. Since when do you wear lace?”

“Since I decided I wanted to surprise you after our date.”

He kissed your clavicle in apology, warm lips lingering on your skin as he trailed along your neck and whispered in your ear, “You look really nice.”

A blush colored your cheeks. “I tried.”

Tomura snorted and rested his forehead against your temple. “You could wear a trash bag and I’d still want you.” He ran a hand along your outer thigh, blindly searching for a way to get under your clothing. “The evening doesn’t have to be a total bust, you know. Why don’t you show me your little surprise.”

“Hell no. You’ve got a long way to go before earning that right.”

He sighed, dousing your face with surprisingly odorless breath. “But I showered,” he whined.

“Yup. And your reward is a heartfelt thank you from my nostrils.” You wriggled in his grasp, and before he panicked over the loss of physical contact, you draped your legs across his lap as you made yourself comfortable against the cushions. “Fetch me a pastry, asshole.”

Of course he would be too captivated by the opportunity to stroke your legs to care about your insult. You expected him to ignore you entirely, but much to your surprise, Tomura quickly leaned over to rummage through the bag and plucked out a donut. Your mouth watered in anticipation. He held it between thumb and forefinger as he examined it, then looked at you from the corner of his eyes. “Come here for a sec.”

You sat up out of sheer curiosity. Tomura eyed you for a moment, his expression somehow apologetic and determined all at once. With the donut angled away, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was the tamest kiss you had ever experienced. Just a soft, prolonged brush of his lips against yours, lingering in between interspersed pecks before you finally melted into the kiss. Distantly, you registered his unoccupied hand squeezing your knee. Who knew Tomura could exhibit self-restraint?

You pulled away from each other after one last chaste kiss. His cheeks were tinted red, and you mindlessly reached up to caress the side of his face. Your heart stammered as he leaned into your touch, looking at you with unfiltered longing.

“I’d like my donut now,” you cheekily said.

Tomura narrowed his eyes, brought the pastry between you, and hastily took a giant bite right in front of you.

You proceeded to wrestle him and smother him in pillows for committing what was arguably the worst transgression of the entire day.

And movie night promptly devolved into Tomura figuring out the best way to convince you to show him your surprise.

It took him all but a second to admire the expensive lingerie before he disintegrated everything to dust, and it took him the rest of the week to make it up to you. You were getting that damn date no matter what. And you were going to keep him away from his computer for as long as your body could handle his undivided attention.

And most importantly, you were owed a whole donut.

[arcstral]

𝑫𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. ( i - v )

     i.

As of late, there is his fixation with mirrors.

Wise and motherly Elice. Tragic, dead Elice. He peers at himself and some calming likeness of his older sister is reflected back. They’re distinct enough when he presses himself to remember, through the thick wet blanket of the Darksphere’s muddle that has fallen so heavily over his head. The airs of male gallantry and female chastity that even two remarkably similar sibling faces could convey apart from one another. 

Merric had fancied his sister. If Elice had been so sure a beauty to her futile suitors, to the maidens Marth must have seemed as their chimeric princes of song come to life. Not that any of it mattered now.

An unbreakable sense of justice and blinding white smile. Chivalrous ideals and warm receptions of love both given and received.

He is not that sort of prince anymore. Not really.

Elice would be disappointed.

He dare not think of the other great loss of his life that would feel the same.

     ii.

The widower king, the people have now taken to calling him. The Hero-King who went mad for grief. Where they speak fearfully of Dark Emperor Hardin’s brutality, they whisper instead of Marth’s tragedy. The pity that has become his once shimmering existence. Where Hardin had fashioned the globe into his bloody plaything of conquest and vengeance, Marth wanted little to do with it and simply cared no longer for the things he once did.

Tax reports and revenue projections, restoration projects, bandit plagues, and official government memorandum that had once topped the list of the diligent monarch’s priorities now hung freely at the bottom. As few truly important documents were signed off with a whimsy hand, many more were delegated to the waste-fires.

His is an illusion of productivity and the world suffers for his indolence, even if his Altean vassals in particular do not believe it at first.

‘His Majesty is suffering, he will return to his senses after his grief has abated.’

‘It is the weight of Archanea upon his shoulders that has turned him to this.’

‘Have pity. He is an overworked candle that has melted on both his ends.’

They do not know the full truth of it.

Marth merely does as he pleases, as he has never done before. 

     ???.

His recent decrees have flooded his rooms of authority with a new wave of silence. The tensity in the council room is broken only by the occasional ugly hacks emitted by Arran who tries without success to stifle his sounds. Each one shatters the very air like a crystal glass lopped against the floor. 

As this unstoppable effusion of water in sorry old Arran’s lungs, there is a sickness breeding within the young king as well. He trades his brooding for a flurry of many radical new statutes. Criminal offenses of all nature and all possible standing are deemed punishable by death. Manaketes and convicts seen treading within a few miles’ radius of the Pales capital will be shot down. Families who cannot pay the entire extent of their taxations are made to do so with their lives. So on.

Where the prince he was had advocated justice and equality, the king he is was a gravely twisted version of those ideals.

He rolls around the Darksphere in the palm of his hand, feeling for its sweet seductions. Like Hardin, Marth alone indulges the impression that he has never changed.

     iii.

Eventually, Marth commands the tombstone silence of his halls as well.

His knights have tasted his sweet light and now they fear the difference of his shadows. Jagen. Cain. Frey. Draug. Gordin. Ryan. Rody. Cecil. Astram. Midia. Defectors attempt to leave his court in droves until they learn he will not allow it done. Former friends become plague rats that he burns out to the loyal, unquestioning torch of Merric’s Bolganone or an Archaean firing squad.

They are traitors in the vein of Gra who have betrayed his kindness and his trust. Their deaths hold as little value to Marth as their lives in that regard, but replenishing his depleted ranks qualifies as both a nuisance and sizable difficulty.

He seeks out the conscription of old faces. Knights are more reliable in proportion to their training, but hired swords will care less for the muck of his deeds and more for the shine of his imperial gold. Radd accepts him on this useful ideal, then Caesar. Of Navarre, he curiously receives no word, and of Ogma there are a few, albeit the kind that leaves the fallen Hero-King with much to be desired.

“It is said that Sir Ogma was not the same after Princess Caeda’s passing, Your Majesty. Upon one night of disorderly drinking, he was tossed out of a Knorda tavern where he landed upon his face in a wet patch of bog beside the cesspits. There, he fell fast asleep, and–”

“I understand,” Marth finishes for the messenger suddenly, disturbed.

     iv.

The crown chamber is exceptionally quiet, as it usually is with King Marth and the mysterious weight of his thoughts. The overhanging fear of his retribution that choked his few remaining followers upon their bold and progressive proposals for His Majesty to pray reconsider his seat upon the throne. For once in a long time, it echoes with the soft admission of his pain.

“If it was not the Darksphere that claimed my life, it would be the devil’s drink that bewitched Captain Ogma until his lungs could not tell mud from air. He and I are not truly so filled with differences.”

“Even so, the few differences to be had are not regrettable, my liege. Your Majesty is still alive.”

Marth looks to his shadow after a long moment. A fragile distance to his voice that marked the difference between the Darksphere’s diamond barrier and the glass man who stood behind it.

“Don’t be silly, Kris. He is with her and I am still here.”

Like a kernel of honesty buried within the rotting fruit, his words illuminate the grander scheme to his motives. His longing for the death that has so generously evaded him by God’s will only to take his sister and lover instead. 

But with his face as a tortured statue, his most loyal knight offers no response.

No solution. No release.

Not yet.

     v.

An unexpected visit from Julian brings news that has already taken the rest of the continent by storm. Princess Minerva is raising an army in response to his crimes. The diplomat she has sent is not so much a proponent of politics or any particular nationality as he is of significant attachment to abbess Lena, a Macedonian. The fact means that he can navigate enemy territory with more delicacy than Minerva’s pegasus knights. She has indeed chosen well. 

Marth has already drawn his notions for the visit and so he allows the man to speak for the enemy. Another traitor for another traitor—

“Before she raises the Archanean League’s standard.. She wishes to extend her offer of peaceful surrender to both His Highness and his loyalists. I believe there is still a fond remembrance by the princess of your meaningful friendships.”

Archanean League. Loyalists. His army is Archanea and he is its heart. The choice of semantics is insulting.

“I will think on Minerva’s offer,” Marth says at last to his former friend, an involuntary twitch of his dominant hand. Beside him, Merric stirs as if acutely aware of his moods. Kris stares with solid interest at a painted mosaic across the ground. 

“You must be exhausted by your trip from Macedon.”

Just as any flower grateful for the sunlight, Julian blooms before he ever wilts. “I am, Your Majesty—”

“Good,” Marth interjects. “You will not need to make the journey home. I will send clear instruction to sister Lena so that she might collect your body within the fortnight.”

He will give Minerva her answer and he will use Julian to do it, for all the goddess of wisdom in her name and god of war in his. In spite of this hammer of injustice, Julian willfully does not scream as he’s dragged away. Split open by the headsman’s axe and carted off in twos to the castle gates before the morning brume has settled. 

Sister Lena does. 

Just as Marth expects, the Macedonian declaration of war follows mere days later.