#justice for mareth

[nirikeehan]

Oh no, Niri, here I am, ready to angst up your DADWC evening. Here's one from the 'Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows list': lachesism, or the desire to be struck by disaster. I THINK WE BOTH KNOW WHO I WANT THIS FOR, but dealers choice my friend, do what feels good.

I absolutely forgot this didn't even say Samson on it, but that's who you're getting.

A direct continuation of this, probably slated for the next chapter of Through A Glass, Darkly.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 992

CW: vague references to suicidal ideation

---

Samson awoke shivering, head ablaze with pain. 

He tried to roll over in his camp bed, but landed on the empty bottle he’d been clutching the night before. He grabbed it with one trembling hand and squinted down the neck. Not a drop left. He swallowed thickly. His mouth felt like cotton, the headache shooting from his eye-sockets to his teeth. 

He hauled himself up, planting feet on the floor. It was all coming back now: his war pavilion, the caravan on the move, his men ready to strike when eyes were sighted on the enemy. They camped in a desolate patch of Orlesian forest at the base of the Frostbacks, where intelligence stated Lady Thalia had holed up. 

Samson staggered to the nearby wash basin and splashed water on his face. The table had contained a looking glass once, but somewhere along the way it had shattered. (A flash of his fist, wet with blood and flecked with shards of glass.) Only the baseboard remained, and he stared at it while grasping at the fleeting tendrils of his dream. The water dripped from his chin. 

 The girl in his grasp, naked and willing. And — a child? And Maddox too, still alive. Samson forced a guffaw, wincing at the intensifying pain. Wishful thinking, that’s what they called that. 

Still. There’d been a lightness in his chest in the depths of the dream. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that carefree. Never, maybe. 

He wound his way around the ornate furniture in his pavilion — the General must travel in style — and reached the cabinet containing a full array of bottled ruby red. He popped one open, took a hefty quaff. The headache receded at once, taking with it the tremor in his limbs. He came up for air, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his nightshirt. The fog lifting, he remembered: he’d be late for the war council meeting if he didn’t hurry.

“Mareth,” he bellowed. 

His elven seneschal appeared at once. He was looking more harrowed as of late, carrot-colored hair sticking in all directions around his long ears. “Yes, milord?” 

“Help me don my armor. I’m to meet with Lieutenant Barris on the hour.” They’d likely be taking to the field today, and it wouldn’t do to let the troops see him without his iconic vestments. 

With a quick nod, Mareth hurried off to the far corner of the pavilion. Samson’s favorite blades gleamed on their racks, many hand-forged by Maddox. (The gap-toothed girl stood by Maddox’s forge, watching him fold the molten metal over and over itself with the singular awe of a child.) Mareth dashed past the weapons to the dummy fitted with Maddox’s prime achievement: the set of black metal armor, inlaid with the largest fragment of vermilion crystal worked by mortal hands. Even across the room, the steady hum of power reverberated from the armor; Mareth grimaced as he disassembled it piece by piece. 

Samson stood still as the servant dressed him. Invigorated by the red lyrium coursing through his veins and fitting to his body, his mind wandered to the tasks set before him. Retrieving the Inquisitor was of utmost importance. He needed to secure her before Corypheus knew she was gone from Skyhold. If he could renegotiate the terms of his prior offer, so much the better. (He could feel her naked flesh, soft and sweet under his touch.) For that, he was hopeful. She was alone, separated from her paramour, and under the thumb of Madame de Fer, to boot. Samson knew from prior intelligence that Thalia had never got on well with Vivienne — he was confident he could appeal to her. He’d had the dress made, after all.

Cullen remained the wild card. Missing still, every report claimed. Dead, maybe? Samson could only be so lucky. Thalia would never return to him if the oaf remained alive.

“A-are you very nervous, milord?” Mareth piped up as he tightened the straps on the cuirass. 

“Nervous?” Samson grumbled. “Why would I be nervous?”

Mareth shrugged. “I dunno. Eve of battle, and all that?” 

It occurred to Samson that Mareth had never been on the frontlines before. Before his promotion to seneschal, he’d been a gardener or some such. “I used to live for this. The thrill of it.” 

“You did?” Puzzlement mixed with horror in Mareth’s voice. He snapped on the greaves, his skin seared from the proximity to the red. 

Samson smirked, thinking back to the days of his youth, when he first held a templar sword in his hand and at last knew he’d found his purpose. He’d put other recruits to shame in the practice yard, even the lordlings promised to the Chantry at an early age, practically born to it. Knight-Commander Guylian had seen promise in him, the streetwise ruffian others would’ve been happy to leave down in the gutter. He’ll wash out of the competency exams, the noble asses whispered amongst themselves as a balm for their wounded pride. He can’t even read. 

Then he’d learned, the book stuff coming to him with surprising ease. Marks as high as the rest of them. 

I knew I was onto something with you, the Knight-Commander had said at the initiation ceremony, handing him his sun shield. 

If only being a Templar had been all that was promised. Noble warriors were one thing — the degrading, humiliating work Samson had done quite another. And then the fall, and the spectacular slog that followed, when he’d found himself belly-crawling again in the muck. A lyrium-starved desperation clung to the memory of those years, culminating in a ghost haze after the Chantry explosion and the city had collapsed into ruin. He began to desire… not a quick end, exactly, but some sort of glorious disaster. Something that would make others look and point and understand his sacrifice. See that he was the unsung martyr. 

Instead, they’d nearly made Cullen Rutherford goddamn viscount. 

[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Secret Santa 2020: Nightmare (affectionately) - Part 1

A/N: This is my present for @evangeline-of-montfort and the first part of my Evangeline soccer AU! I would’ve liked to wrap it up in one story but I felt to better do the characters justice, I need a few more pages and time to brew over it. Bear with me until the next part arrives, I promise not to make you wait too long.

This idea was largely inspired PVRIS’s recent album Use Me which is why the record is alluded to in the text as I’ll also name-drop all the songs’ titles en passant.

PS: Nightmare is not on the album but a song on PVRIS’s last year’s EP Hallucinations and I couldn’t pass the chance for the wordplay and thus made it the title of whole story.

Happy holidays!

Also on Wattpad and AO3

Part 2

Mare

The chance flashes before me like a lightning strike; not stunning but charging me as Iral passes me the ball and it comes to me. I don’t dribble, don’t let the opponent grasp what I see. I kick immediately to Captain Samos who meets my eye as much as the ball, sharing the moment with me.

Consequently, she evades the opponent’s 9 in a move so simple and elegant as if she were dancing, right before she shoots, still beyond the penalty box yet straight through the gap in the defense and before the goalkeeper can react to prevent our scoring.

Captain Samos roars, once, and so do I. Just as in sync, our team gathers to cheer with her. There I’m slower, keeping it to a half-hearted hug and a few high fives. Still the newbie come from another club, but part of the win.

No time for more connecting when the match goes on and already, the captain emerges from the embrace cluster to shoo her team back into positions. She jerks her chin and a shiver runs down my spine as I realize it’s for me. I don’t know what to make of it. Acknowledgement? Praise? Or rather another, “I’m watching you, Barrow”, as to remind me she is not only the captain, but also the central conductor of the team and no matter how well I filled the same role in my old club’s soccer team, I have no place to challenge Evangeline Samos’s lead.

In the locker room, I wonder if I could’ve passed to another player, and avoid Samos entirely. I couldn’t have made the goal myself from my point, but at least I’d have been recognized for good preparation if Samos’s textbook shoot didn’t grab everyone’s awe by the throat.

She really has enough of that, mine included. Hailing from prestigious families, she’s the star of the Archeon Soccer Club, a talent able to pick pro-team scouts instead of the other way around. But her stardom begins to outshine the rest of the club like we’re the darkness between when –

I startle embarrassingly for a mere hand on my shoulder, a proof my grumbling went too deep when among a group. I can’t help it; I’m frozen even once I’ve turned. Speak of the devil, of course it’s her, the captain.

The perfect and pristine model athlete, from the curve of her thighs, to defined abs and strong arms and not a hair out of place. I’m envious of her magic tricks to fix her hair so short after the match, my short curls would take ages just to get dry.

Not that I intend to bother with her generally elaborate coiffure, with her long ponytail bleached a silvery-white the black roots shift into through carefully dyed, dark-greyish transitions.

She snorts and I cough, finally releasing the breath I’d been holding.

“Good work, Barrow”, she says with a smirk I can’t determine as ironic or genuine which reminds me that I’ve gaped enough. It’s her method, reaching out while never making you sure of your footing, encourage while letting you know her doubts. Like when she offered to drive me to training or matches in her car – our ways overlap expediently – and then never talks with me like I’m not worth the attention.

Too bad I excel at this game as well. A sneer I can return, just like her resolute posture. “I do my best for the team, Captain,” I reply.

She frowns, detecting my tease. Maybe a mistake. Maybe I should bow and flatter to rise in the team but such had never been my strength. I only know success by demanding my due. Now she leans forward, stepping ever closer as if to put me back in place.

When she lays a hand on my chest, I expect her to shove.

I don’t fall back an inch. Only her head inclines to speak in my ear as my heart beats faster with her hand pressing against my collarbones.

“If you want my position, Nightmare,” she whispers, “you’ll have to take it.”

I flinch at the blighting of my name as she shifts aside, smiling sweetly. “Don’t call me that,” I quietly retort, “not among the team.” I’m all too aware of the teammates around us and yet I don’t scan their reactions to our exchange and my hot face. I’ll be glad enough if by tomorrow, not everyone calls me Nightmare.

Her smile doesn’t waver at all. “Sure,” she mouths unperturbed and leaves me standing, back in the game that’s both soccer and not soccer at all.

 Evangeline

On autumn Sunday mornings, I enjoy running at the break of dawn when the streets are so empty as if they belong to me alone. I may exert yet it feels like freedom on my strictly scheduled Sundays. After running comes styling for the nearly endless family brunch with Grandmother Éva and Aunt Sofía, followed by the weekly soccer match, the team meeting aka fastfood feast, and another formal dinner while I’m to excel on all accounts, which is naturally impossible.

Grandmother resents the sportive break in showing me off to Mother’s and Father’s business connections in finance and industry, as I resent missing the team’s more outgoing after-match events. There were …the parties in our lake house but they grew rare since last year, like so much. Formal dinners aren’t what they used to be when hardly anyone besides the most loyal friends attend anymore, and even the brunch is make belief the Samos shipyard isn’t in decline.

Sofía and Grandmother are the worst at it, treating brunch and dinner like a family tradition when it’s always only revolved about the prestige they could reap from the family’s success, having never been their own, but always swept up in the gearing of a company that exclusively demanded from, but not encouraged them.

All they see is more reason for “networking”, as Grandmother, Sofía and my parents call their matchmaking, when my college fund was depleted for my brother and the company, as if they weren’t the ones who decided Tolly is more likely to save the company instead of giving me the chance.

Once more checking my straps, one more breathe before I break into a run. I grind my teeth for the first minute until I get used to the cold and the pace. I endure it, as I endure the stress at home. I welcome the first as a distraction from the latter.

I can’t help resenting the company, can’t ignore my aversion to ever work for it. It is not my brother who I’ll always love more that envy, though nowadays I’m almost glad when he doesn’t come to visit and I suffer our family’s reminiscences of our better times alone. He’s expected to present his efforts at connecting in college which means bringing at potential date for me.

Of course, they never call it that, as if my future lies in marriage, certainly not so soon, but what options do I have when Father won’t give both of us a company to rule? I hear Sofía’s voice and want to scream but the exertion does the job of numbing my anger just as well. Pretending must run in my blood, as Grandmother can also very well feign ignorance if I simply allude to the truth of my romantic intentions.

At least Tolly showed his instincts when such a setup couldn’t be avoided, presenting friends not any more interested in “economically advantageous relationships” than me.

Moments like that remind me how close I’ve always been to Tolly, smiles and eye-rolls our secret language. Without him, I have no ally when I can’t keep a straight face as Father rants about Lesbos and greek politics once more.

Tolly played soccer with me first, passing me the ball I never let go of. We both joined clubs, he for fun and friends, me for passion. And ever-growing ambition.

With our money gone, I’ll need a sports scholarship to study and later get a prestigious job, like a proper Samos. Or I give a fuck about the crumbles of our past glory and seek it by becoming a totally unladylike soccer pro.

Imagining my family’s faces at that news first lets me giggle, then stumble in my tracks, just for a second. If the idea hasn’t been growing more and more serious lately, I would’ve burst out laughing.

Elane certainly would’ve, her chirp-like giggling my favourite melody. The memories of her are those I hold dear, where Father dreams of vanished successes. Hallucinations both.

I take in the sight of the prism of sunrise and wish Elane was still with me. She hated my routine, both for the early hour and the work-out itself, but she’d drive with me one town away from home nonetheless, up to the parking lot before we separate so she could wait for me in a bakery-café, sipping hot chocolate until I was done and could join her for breakfast.

Our only dates not in the dead of night in her garden and yet as much out of sight.

In my now loveless days with her in boarding school in paradise – Finland – I can only imagine the feel of her hand, my hand tracing along her spine. There’s just me, the crisp morning, and the performances ahead of me.

Catching my breath, I finish my lap at my car and don’t want to drive home at all. I want to check on Barrow, my reluctant driving companion living in a village along the way, to invite her to jog with me, or her to invite me to her Sunday morning, to pick on me in her very own way, anything but to crouch back under the dead weight of expectations.

I need several more breaths before the illusions of escape vanish and my lungs relax. I lean back against the car. What a foolish notion – the weight has never left; I only need to wait for the afternoon to pick up Barrow for our match.

It can’t come soon enough, but it will come.

“Good to be alive but I hate my life” – I try to restrain from humming along to the song playing in my car, try to evade Barrow’s glances attempting to figure me out, my choice of music.

“Who can’t relate?”, she says with a shrug. A trace of a smile hides in her face as she settles in, stretching her legs and putting her ankle boots up to the dashboard. She fits there surprisingly well, thanks to her short stature. I faux-glare at her, long used to this display. I can’t refuse her the repose, not when I can hardly find the words when once more, I try to unravel the familiar secret of her perfume.

I could ask, but never do. I could tell so such but stay silent. I keep on pretending yet also want her to see me. It’s tiring to no end and still each small but true guess elates me.

Barrow, on the other hand, remains unknowable to me with her eternal frown. If my resting bitch face is noticed, for good or bad, it’ll always be inferior to Barrow’s. Perfection in its own way; perfection my eyes are ineluctably drawn to at every chance the traffic lets me.

I chew my lips at the next song, with its “love like a loaded gun”, to distract myself from brushing Mare’s hand as I use the hand brake. From laying my hand on her thigh. From –

I catch her gaze and avert it, my heart rushing as I rush back into traffic.

Barrow’s ever-apt perception didn’t miss it, of course not, the same perception that makes her so good a player she desires my position, my rank.

I can’t give it up, not when my future hangs from it, but – if she desired something else –

Foolish. Foolish. I’m sick with yearning from missing my ex-girlfriend and listening to sad sapphic songs that make me long to kiss any girl’s lips –

“Already know how to use me today, Captain?” Barrow breaks into my confusion and I don’t know if I want to thank or throttle her. Use me.

Good we’re just arriving at the club house. I lean back and flash her my widest grin. “I always know what to do with my team. Forgotten the tactic?”

Barrow isn’t intimidated. “Thought you’ve come up with something better by now.”

“Dream on, Nightmare. I’m still the number 10.”

She sighs dramatically. “Too bad I’m an 11.” And then she – we – burst out laughing, our sound both harmonious and discordant, different from Elane and me, but as engrossing. Even when the laughter dies down, the mood lingers and I touch her brown hand before I can stop myself.

“Want to come running with me next week?” I ask and don’t curse myself for it, for once.

She is silent. Ridiculously blinking for seconds as if it’s funny. “Weird way to ask for a date,” she blurts out.

Whatever we had for a few seconds is gone. “Are you fucking joking?”, I spit, my voice low like a hiss.

Her mouth opens and closes, stunned quiet.

I can’t decide whether to berate her or scream at her as calmly explaining how terrible a joke it were is out of the question. “Are you fucking joking?!” I repeat, louder, and finally shame begins to bloom on her face.

If only she took me seriously, she could know it to be true. And yet – how can saying the truth out loud feel so disrespectful? I wish, I wish –

“Gimme a minute,” I mutter and storm out of the car.

I am truly a coward. I don’t speak to her until the match begins.

@lilyharvord @mareshmallow @elliemarchetti @samanthaslytherin @redqueenetwork @farleydiana

[arcane-artisan]

Some Questions-- Kiersa

Name: Kiersa

Alias/Nicknames: The Ologist, Artificer

Abilities/Talents

Artificing (ofc)

Marksmanship 

Magic Schools: Divination, Transmutation, Conjury

Fashion

Alignment:  lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil

Religion: Not really. 

Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath

Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience

Languages: Thalassian, Common 

Family: Peralestis and Ephaeril Brightsorrow (half-brothers), Dra’danos Brightsorrow (Father), Marethe Todd (mother)

Friends: Morrowgrove, Valorian Songheart, Abighail Stalsworth, Terran Lloyd (fiance), Hotspur (Doggo),  A’zhaan (mentor and business partner)

Sexuality: heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other 

Relationship Status: single / partnered / engaged / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated

Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent

Build: slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy / other

Hair: white / blonde / brown / red / black / other (Rose Gold)

Eyes: brown / blue (some High Elvish glowy)  / gray / green / black / other 

Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other

Height: 5′5″

Scars: None

dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future

Songs that remind you of them:

1. Empire and Hard to Kill - Beth Crowley 

2. Pure Imagination Fiona Apple

3. Love Fool - The Cardigans 

4. Work B*tch - Britany Spears (lol)

tagged by : @bad-rper

Tagging: @terranlloyd @maxparkhurst @alexandria-morrowgrove​ @auggieparkhurst​ @the-elderarrow​ @abighail-stalsworth​ 

[scorbleeo]

The Shannara Chronicles Season 2 | TV Show Review

Series of adventures, war, and evil that occur throughout the history of the Four Lands.

Source: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1051220/

Watch The Shannara Chronicles Season 2 trailer here.

Why Did It Get Cancelled?!

If you looked back at my review for The Shannara Chronicles Season 1, you would quickly become confused with my sudden change of heart (in reference to the bolded title just one or two sentences up there). Yes, I admit I did not enjoy the first season and due to that, I judged season two pretty quickly. I will be completely honest here, I expected to dread each episode in The Shannara Chronicles Season 2. Yet, with a shocking turn of events, I ended up really enjoying this season. It was everything I wanted from season one but never got. To be more objective, as much as I liked this season and I do think it did doubly better than it’s previous season, there is still so much room for improvements. So, season two was good but still far from perfection.

I really liked the addition of Mareth in this season. Her character started out being so mysterious, I could not get a clear read on her at all. Fortunately, when things began clearing out, she became an extremely interesting character. Her backstory, her abilities and her capabilities. If The Shannara Chronicles had continued, I would have been so down to watch more Mareth. She was one of the reasons I really enjoyed this season to begin with. Melise Jow did this character justice.

Apart from Mareth, Garet Jax was such a fresh inclusion into the TV show too. Likewise, I could not get a read on him in the first few episodes. I do think his backstory was slightly cliche but Garet Jax made up for those cliche bits with his badass abilities. Mind you, Garet Jax is entirely human, whatever his character has the ability to do, he was NOT born with it. Which makes him even more interesting than if he was someone supernatural. Personally, I have never watched any show with Gentry White in it, but the team made a right choice casting White as Garet Jax.

Of course, with every show I watch, I look out for character growth. Although I would not consider Bandon’s character as growth, I completely understand why he chose to go down that particular path. I just hate what happened to Bandon in the end. This was one villainous character I would have looked forward to watching more of; instead of that Warlock Lord who was probably the least interesting character in the entirety of The Shannara Chronicles.

I am very sad this TV show has come to an untimely end. This will probably be one of those cancelled TV shows I had watched that I regret not getting to earlier on. Maybe I would not have been able to do anything about its cancellation, but even if it was going to just be a sliver of hope, it’s still hope. Now, I’m just downright late to the game, the results are out and I can’t help in anything. I do wonder though, if the show had more episodes per season, would it have helped? One thing’s for sure, there would be more room for plot development.

Ratings: ★★★★☆

[bleedingout4you]

Through Time and Fading Memory

Image credit: goingtodurin.tumblr.com

This is a h/c fanfiction for Allanon that I’ve been writing with help from the wonderful @swingrlm. This is chapter one. You can also read it here on AO3.

Fandom: Shannara (TV show), Pairing: Allanon x Pyria, Rating: Mature

Summary: Allanon faces off with his long time enemy, the Warlock Lord, knowing in his heart that he won't survive this stand off. Memories of his past come unbidden into his mind. He can't help but remember the many times that he's stood against evil, but he also remembers the times he spent with the woman that he loved.

Deep beneath the Enclave, the fight for the four lands had begun.  The Mord Wraiths had found them.

 Allanon hurried down the stairs in search of Wil and Mareth, when he came upon a streak of blood. Following the red stain, he came upon the body of the young boy he had been talking to earlier that day.  

Allanon turned away from the sight of the dead boy. It was clear that the Warlock Lord hadn’t changed much. The murdering of innocents, simply because he could, was a trait that he’d always carried. Allanon turned the corner and there he was. He found himself looking back at his own face, though it had been perverted with marks and piercings, but the most disturbing thing was those dark, soulless eyes. He’d never forget those eyes.

“Hello.... my old friend.” The Warlock Lord hissed, and though the voice wasn’t his, the tone was all too familiar. He could hear the sarcasm dripping off each of his words.  “Your blood brought me back, Druid.”

“Nothing can disguise the blackness of your soul.” Allanon responded. The Warlock Lord seemed to think the fact that his blood had brought him back was some sort of justice. He knew the man had always blamed him for destroying his plans.

The Warlock Lord smiled slowly, in the way that was so familiar to Allanon. He tilted his head to the side looking him up and down. “You are weak, like your pupil.” Allanon recalled Bandon’s body lying in the center of Graymark, and he recalled the young elf full of life, eager to get his visions under control. With that memory came the one of Bandon breaking under the pressure. He’d watched it happen and it had been his fault. He’d left Bandon open for the influence of the Warlock Lord’s sword. Perhaps it was some sort of poetic justice that he now had his face. “You will pay for what you did to Bandon.”

The Warlock Lord seemed more or less amused at his words. “You cannot defeat me... Allanon.”

Cogline came around the corner,  the look of surprise that flashed across his face at the sight of the Warlock Lord vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Perhaps not alone. You’ve always underestimated the importance of allies.”

“Alliances are for those who are too weak to empower themselves.” The other pointed out. It was something that he had always believed. The Warlock Lord never allied himself with anyone, unless he was using them.

Cogline lowered his voice and spoke to Allanon. “Every second we waste, Lyria is in danger.”

“Their fate is in Wil’s hands now. We have our own war to fight.” Allanon answer calmly. They would all have to depend on Wil now. He was the only hope of defeating the Warlock Lord. All he could do was slow the man down. His magic was fading, and the Warlock Lord was at full power. The two of them had been evenly matched before and Allanon had barely made it out alive. This time, he knew there would be no walking away. He had come to face the Warlock Lord knowing full well that he was facing his death. What he hadn’t counted on was all the feelings that had been stirred up inside him.

He’d heard that when a man faced death that his entire life would flash before his eyes, and he could see it now. A life of solitude and loneliness. There were flashes of warmth as the faces of people he had cared about came to mind. It was these people that had made life worth living, that had made him feel like everything that he had suffered had been worth it. It was for them that he’d fought battles and bled for this world, and it was for them that he would proudly lay down his life. Allanon pulled his sword from his belt and activated the steel blade stepping forward to meet the Warlock Lord in battle.

 Many Years Earlier

Pyria leaned against the sill of her window and gazed down at the town below. Arborlon was always a quiet place, peaceful, or perhaps boring if you looked at that way. She enjoyed peace, but today it was simply another day in her life where nothing was happening. She pushed the window open and tapped her fingers on the glass, wondering what it would take to convince her brother to allow her to at least travel to another elvin stronghold.

Sighing to herself, she looked up at the birds silhouetted in the sky. She supposed most would regard her as a spoiled princess, daring to complain about her lot in life, but she couldn’t help but wish she could have some sort of adventure. She wanted to see the distant mountains, the small towns, and feel the ocean water running over her feet.

A gentle knock on the door pulled her away from her thoughts and she turned to see her handmaid, Ashala, at the door. “My lady, your brother, the King has returned.”

Pyria pulled the window shut and rushed up to her maid, excitement glinting in her eyes. “Has he brought the Druid with him?”

The handmaid giggled into her hand. “According to the General, he has.”

Pyria gave her friend a knowing smile. It was no secret that Ashala was sweet on General Edensong. “Very good, let’s go down and see what this famed Druid looks like.” She linked her arm with Ashala as they made their way down the stairs. “I’ll bet he is an old man with a limp.” She announced brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“The Druids have been around since the beginning of time, I’ll bet he’s covered in wrinkles.” Ashala joined in on the joke as they swept down the palace halls and reached the throne room, still giggling quietly to one another.

Eventine caught sight of the two girls, beckoning them forward. “Allanon, this is my younger sister, Pyria Elessedil. Pyria, meet the Druid Allanon.”

The man had his back to her, but already, the Druid didn’t fit the description she had in her mind. He was much taller than she’d thought he would be and his shoulders were broader. Her eyes swept up his robe and over the runes carved into his skin. Allanon turned to face her, and she looked into to his gentle, dark eyes and felt her heart flutter in her chest.

Pyria released Ashala’s arm and stepped forward. “Nice to finally meet you, Allanon.” She spoke firmly, attempting to hide the blush that stood out on her light skin.

He glanced at Eventine and then looked back to her, a small smile on his lips. “It is nice to meet you too, princess.” He gave her a short bow as was appropriate to her station. “The King was just about to show me to Arborlon’s library.”

“I could take you.” Pyria quickly spoke up. She wasn’t about to let the dark stranger get away from her. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. “I’ve spent more time there than my brother, so perhaps I can help you find what you are looking for.”

Allanon looked hesitant, but Eventine seemed satisfied with the idea. “Could you? My wife is waiting for me, and I’d like to get back to her.” He rubbed the Druid’s shoulder as he passed by. “You’ll be in good hands.”

Pyria turned to Ashala. “I’ll catch up with you later.” She saw the teasing smile on her friend’s face as she turned to leave. She turned on her heel back to the Druid. “Shall we continue to the library?”

“Of course, lead the way, princess.” Allanon didn’t move from his spot until she started walking and fell in step just off her right shoulder.

She had a feeling the man knew exactly where the library was, but he was probably being polite. His politeness seemed to end there as he made no attempts to start small talk, but left an awkward silence grow between them. “So, how long have you been a Druid?”

“Since before you were born.” He responded and made no move to elaborate on his statement.

She glanced over her shoulder at him and wondered how old he was. He looked so much younger than she’d pictured. He sensed her eyes on him and looked back to her and she quickly turned away. “Here is the library.”

Pyria pushed open the doors of the large library and watched his reaction. He didn’t seem surprised by what they had to offer, which confirmed her suspicions that he’d been here before. “What are you looking for?”

“An old protection spell.” Allanon answered, walking up to the first set of shelves and trailing his hand over the spines of the books. “It would appear that you’ve reorganized the room.” He looked back to her with an expectant expression on his face.

“Um, of course.” She flipped her dark brown braid back over her shoulder and quickly led him to the far side of the room. “These are all the books that have magic. We keep them in the back, since they aren’t used that often. I can’t even read half of them.” Most of the text was written in Druid. She’d attempted to learn it, but it was impossible without some form of instruction.

Allanon turned his attention to the books, whispering to himself as he read the titles. He knelt down to look at the ones on the lower shelf, giving her a clear view of the runes carved into his skin.

She’d seen some of the runes in the books she’d flipped through, and wondered what they meant. “Did they hurt?” She asked him.

Allanon looked up, but he wasn’t confused. It was as if he could read her mind and knew exactly what she’d meant. “Yes.” He smiled at her flustered expression. “You should go find your friend. I will be fine from here.” He dismissed her so easily as he selected a book and carried it to the table.

Pyria placed her hands on her hips feeling flustered and upset. “I said that I would help you find what you’re looking for and I meant it.” She marched up to the Druid giving him her most determined look. “Now tell me how I can help you.”

Allanon looked up from his open book with a look of patience. “Princess, I don’t know what tales of adventures you hope to learn from me, but you will be disappointed. There is no way to romanticize the things that I’ve seen.”

Pyria felt her face burning in embarrassment at his words. Everything that he said made her want to do exactly what he’d suggested and seek out Ashala for company. But he had underestimated her will power. She crossed her arms and raised her chin in defiance. “If you don’t need help now, perhaps you will later.” Crossing the room to another shelf, she selected a book on healing from the top shelf. “I shall be right over here if you need me.” She sat down at the table across from him, smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress and trying to appear dignified.

She waited for some sort of protest, but all she heard was him laugh quietly under his breath. Silence stretched out between them, and focusing on the words in front of her was nearly impossible. Sneaking a quick glance up at the man across from her, she was almost disappointed that he seemed to have no trouble focusing on his dusty old tome.

Allanon placed another book down on the table in front of him. The stack of tomes was growing beside him, but the spell he needed wasn’t in any of the books he’d searched through. He rubbed his eyes trying to focus himself, but the runes on the pages were all starting to blur together. He had been researching in the library for several days now, and every day Pyria joined him, sitting at the table across from him.

At first, he’d been bothered by sensing her constant thoughts about whether he’d acknowledge her in some way or ask her to help, but he’d gotten used to her being around. It was what made today rather strange. The table across from him sat empty and he could only assume that she’d grown bored of watching him endlessly page through old books.

He rested his chin on his hands and just closed his eyes for a few minutes. He’d been working at this with barely any rest and only short pauses to eat some food that he had in his pack. He hadn’t see much of anyone, save Pyria during this time. Eventine invited him to dinner last night, but he’d declined. Paranor held the Codex sealed within its walls. He needed to ensure that the old druid keep was protected against those that would steal the book.

Paranor. He sighed heavily to himself. In his mind’s eye he could see the old keep, alive with activity. Druid masters training young magic users, visitors coming to them in need of help or shelter, and of course his master standing at the council table. He could recall the halls he’d once walked down as a boy. They weren’t splendid like castle walls, but he’d always been entranced by the runes that scrolled down the pillars.

But like most things in life, the memory faded to ash. Paranor was simply a shell of what it was. A tomb for the Druid order. He could recall the battle that took place and the sounds of his brothers and sisters dying around him. He never imagined they could lose, but lose they did. They were wiped from the face of the earth, like a message carved into the beach sand was removed with the incoming tide.

“Allanon?”

Allanon jumped a little and his eyes flew open. He looked up and saw Pyria standing at the side of the table. He didn’t need to read her mind to see that she was trying very hard not to laugh. He sat back in his chair and tried to figure out how long he’d been daydreaming.

“Well Master Druid, looks like I’ve arrived just in time.” Pyria pushed the book in front of him to the side and placed a plate of food in front of him, complete with a steaming cup of tea.

He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he smelled the food sitting in front of him. “Thank you, princess.” He felt her irritation before she vocalized it.

“I have a name you know. It’s Pyria in case you forgot.” Her hands found her hips again, as seemed to be her favored position.

“My apologies, Princess Pyria.” Watching her roll her eyes, he couldn’t help but smile in spite of himself at how riled she was about his use of her proper title.

“Now you’re just teasing me.” She took a seat on the chair across from him, watching him take a bite of his food. Her head tilted to the side as she glanced at the book next to him.

“You are still wondering how you can help me.” Allanon watched the young elf jump and glare at him. He found her to be more amusing than annoying like he had first thought.

“Would it be so bad if I helped you?” She asked, crossing her arms. “Clearly, you need all the help you can get.”

He wasn’t sure if he would have phrased it that way, but perhaps he was being stubborn. The few days he’d spent with her had revealed that she may be a young girl at heart, but she was clever and well-read in many fields. “I’m looking for books that contain this rune on the cover.” He pointed to one of the runes on the open page.

Pyria leaned closer to get a good look at the rune. “What does it mean?”

She certainly was infinitely curious. “It means protection.” He told her. “And this one next to it refers to an object or place. I need to find a protection spell for an old keep. This is a combination of runes that would be part of the spell.”

She nodded along with what he was saying, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she memorized the runes. “Alright, you just enjoy your meal then, while I go find your book.” She bounced up from the table and made her way to the bookshelves.

He watched her bound away and turned back to his food, shaking his head at the amount of energy she possessed. By the time he’d cleaned his plate she had stacked five books on the edge of the counter, and by the time he looked through one of the books the pile had grown considerably. “Princess.”

Pyria froze in mid step to cast him a disapproving look. “Pyria you mean.” She placed the two books she was carrying on top of the stack of tomes.

Allanon understood the sentiment of people with titles that preferred to go by their first names, but it was inappropriate for a Druid to be in such good favor with a royal. “You were right, this task might be best served if there are two searching.”

She looked pleased with herself. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

“It would help me greatly if you could read Druid runes.” Allanon watched her eyes light up, she was hoping that he was about to offer her the chance to learn something new. “I can give a brief lesson if you are willing to learn.”

Before he could blink, she’d settled herself down in the chair next to him. “Of course I’m willing.” Her voice laced with excitement.

Pyria was fast a learner and giving her a basic lesson in druid runes didn’t take very long. It would take her years of studying to be able to read fluently, but it was enough for now. The two had divided the books between them and started going through them.

Allanon wasn’t sure how many hours slipped by, but at some point he lit candles for the two of them. They passed the books back and forth and he answered questions she had about the runes she was looking over. He pushed the book he was looking at aside and reached for another only to find that the pile of books had disappeared. “We need to get more books.” He got to his feet and paused when she didn’t answer him. “Pyria.”

It slipped out so naturally that he realized he had dropped her proper title several hours ago. It wasn’t professional, but he viewed the young elf as a friend. It was a mistake to think that way. It allowed him to grow closer to someone that he’d just end up losing. He knew the spell he was seeking would cost him too much, and he would have to replenish his magic by going into a Druid sleep. He didn’t know when he’d wake up, but he did know that she wouldn’t be the same person.

He looked down at the girl, her arms folded over the tome in front of her, cradling her head. He didn’t know when she’d nodded off, but he knew that it was late. “Perhaps we should take rest for the night.” He smiled to himself, he had to admire her dedication. She would certainly make a great leader one day.

He blew out the candles and carefully lifted Pyria into his arms. She was so light, that it was like cradling a small bird in his hands. She buried her face into his bicep as he carefully moved toward the door, trying his best not to wake her.

Allanon pushed the door to her room open and slipped inside. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t the amount of foreign trinkets that were hung around the room. He had sensed that she had a spirit of adventure, he just didn’t know how deep it ran. In her position it could either be blessing or curse.

He gently laid her down on her bed and her eyes fluttered open. The hazel eyes looked up at him in confusion. “Allanon?”

“You fell asleep.” He told her softly.

“I did?” She rubbed her forehead and looked around. “Where am I?”

“In your room.” Allanon picked up the folded blanket at the end of her bed and pulled it over her. “We are done searching for the night. Rest.”

She nodded tiredly and closed her eyes with a tired sigh.

Allanon made his way back to the door and glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping princess. She looked so peaceful right now. He hoped that in her life she would only know peace.

Pyria sat in her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. She could barely keep the smile off her face. What happened last night was running through her mind on repeat. It was almost like a dream, but she could remember every detail. She hugged herself, still feeling the strong arms around her.

He had been so gentle that she’d almost slept through it, but she was glad that she’d woken up when he’d opened the door to her room. For a moment she’d been so close to him that she could look up into those dark brown eyes. They were so kind, but at the same time, they seemed so sad. Lonely. She wondered if he was lonely or if perhaps she was only imaging it.

She sprang from her bed with a giggle of delight. She wasn’t sure how she could possibly act normal when she met with him in the library today. She was practically floating as she raced down the stairs. A few twists and turns and she was right in front of the library doors. She reached out to open it, when it swung open and she was face to face with the Druid. “Oh!” She jumped back, feeling as if she was blushing from head to foot.

Allanon looked surprised by her as well. He also looked sad. She was certain that she wasn’t making it up this time. She spotted a book tucked under his arm. “Did you find what you were looking for?” She asked, unsure whether she should be excited or not.

“Yes.” He responded, and his tone sounded as distant as it did the first day he met her. He moved past her making his way down the hall.

“That's a good thing, right?” Pyria had to jog to catch up with him. “Allanon, is something wrong?”

“No.” Allanon stopped and looked down at her. Pyria knew at once that she hadn’t been seeing things. The loneliness that reflected in his eyes broke her heart. “Thank you for all your help, Princess, but I have to go.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” She was shocked at his words. The last few days had been so good, and now he was just leaving. “At least stay for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay.” He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the last time and then moved away. “Apologize to your brother for me.” He called back to her and paused at the great door. “Goodbye, Pyria.”

“Safe travels until I see you again.” She called to him. For a moment his silhouette was in the doorway and then he was gone. She took a deep breath trying not to feel hurt. She knew what he was doing was important. The spell was one of protection, protection for something important. She rested a hand over her heart and blinked back the tears in her eyes. He would return once he was done, she was sure of it. “I will see him again.” She promised herself quietly.

Most people might feel a sense of accomplishment after completing a difficult task, but then again, most people weren’t magic users. Allanon was on his knees looking up at Paranor, the great Druid Keep. To the naked eye nothing had changed, but the entire fortress was now cloaked in a spell to repel the forces of evil.

He tried to draw in a breath but it was more like a ragged gasp that wracked his whole body. The runes that had been carved into his skin were supposed to help him channel magic and minimize physical damage, but it didn’t make a difference when you performed a spell this powerful. Allanon looked at the book laying on the ground in front of him and reached for it. Just the attempt at moving his fingers set searing, daggers of pain lacing up his arm,  turning his vision bright white. He collapsed forward on top of the book and lay there in the sand. The last of his energy had been used when casting the spell and he’d felt the magic burning away his skin, but he’d pushed through the pain. Now he was worried to remove his clothing and see the damage, but he knew eventually he'd have to. Once he reached the Druid table, he would have to rest the healing rune craved into his back on the table. Clothing would interrupt the connection, and the process to heal would take far longer.

His eyes drifted shut. He needed to rest, to shut out the pain for just a few moments. He knew if he rested now there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up. His hand was laying stretched out in front of him and he tried to tuck his arm under him to help push himself up, but just bending his elbow made him feel like his skin cracked open. “Just a little rest.” He whispered into the dust.

When Allanon woke, the sun was hot on his back. He wasn’t sure if it was a few hours later or days, but if he’d thought that he’d feel better, he was gravely mistaken. His entire body felt stiff and just breathing made him feel like his lungs were bursting. He’d been burned by magic use before, but this time it felt like even his insides had been lit on fire.

Allanon pushed his knee up under him and managed to roll onto his back. “Ugh.” He winced as his back touched the ground. Trying to pull in enough air to whistle, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a whimper. He realized that he’d made a mistake coming here alone. He should have had the foresight to take someone with him.

He sensed the familiar tingle of panic in the back of his mind, it was causing his heart rate to increase. He needed to control the urge to panic and channel it into something useful. He licked his parched lips and attempted to whistle again. He managed to produce a weak, strangled sounding whistle and just hoped that his horse hadn’t wandered off.

He felt the horse nuzzle the top of his head and let out a sigh of relief. Now the real struggle began. He leaned his head back until he could see the stirrup of the saddle, all he had to do right now was grab that stirrup. Just reach it, he chanted in his mind.  Lifting his arm slowly, he ignored the way his skin stuck to the inside of his sleeve, the movement causing his skin to pull. Just reach it. His hand landed on the edge of the stirrup and he curled his fingers around it. He could feel the skin of his fingers tearing free from the inside of the glove and it took everything in his power not to scream and spook his horse.

Allanon tried to control his ragged breathing as he waited for the pain in his arm and hand to fade from screaming pain to an intense throb. Figuring it was as good as he could expect, he knew it was time to move again. One hand over the other. He locked his jaw together and reached his left hand over his right, grabbing onto the side of the saddle. The pain was so intense he was afraid he’d loose grip on the saddle, so without waiting, he pulled upwards, tucking his legs beneath him and pulled himself to his feet.

His vision dissolved into black spots and he clung to the saddle as tightly as he could. His jaw was so firmly clamped together that he wondered if his teeth would just simply crack from the pressure. He reached over the saddle and pulled himself up onto his horse. He knew he was just moments away from passing out so he had to work quickly. His fingers fumbled with the buckle on his belt and finally at the third try he freed it. He loosened it just enough to slide it through the front of the saddle, lashing himself to the horse. He slumped down against the horse’s neck and let himself fall into the blackness that was calling him.

Biting pain woke Allanon. He was partially slumped off the side of his horse and the belt was cutting into his side. He opened his eyes just enough to see that they’d come to a halt at the entrance of a cave. Relief flooded his mind, it was a cool reassurance that soon this would be over. He didn’t bother attempting to untie the belt. He freed his Druid sword and activated the blade, letting it cut through the leather.

He fell heavily on his shoulder and cried out in pain, unable to stop himself this time. His horse bolted a few steps from him, snorting in fear at the sound of his cry combined with the smell of blood. “Thank you.” He muttered under his breath to the beast that had managed to carry him this far.

He struggled to his feet, the hope of release from the pain was the only thing that kept him moving. He stumbled into the cave and his eyes rested on the Druid table. Almost there.  He looked down at the dust covered clothes he wore and tried not to image what his skin looked like underneath.

Allanon had faced many evils, but right now the fear of removing a single glove from his own hand seemed overwhelming. He took hold of the back of the glove on his right hand and ripped it off. The pain was immediate. It was so bad that he forgot how to scream, or even to breathe. He didn’t know how much skin had left his hand with the glove, but he could feel the blood dripping down off the tips of his fingers.

His breath punched back into his lungs and he found himself gasping and wheezing. His stomach turned over and he found himself clinging to the Druid table as he heaved up whatever was left in his stomach. He let the tears stream down his face and looked down at the other glove. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage this.

One piece at a time. He told himself. He lifted his left hand to his mouth and bit down on the tip of the glove’s middle finger. He decided to attempt a slower removal and gently slipped the glove off. Once or twice he nearly gave up, but eventually he succeeded. His left hand had sustained less damage so he used it to loosen his tunic. He slowly rolled his shoulders back until it slipped down his arms. He heard the skin on his back and shoulder ripping before he felt the pain.

Allanon had been whipped before, the feeling of a single cord of rope or leather ripping into your skin had been something he’d never wanted to experience again, but this was far worse. It was as if someone had whipped him with a heat, tempered chain. The temptation to fall to his knees was immense, but he knew that if he did, this time he wouldn't get up again.

His hand shook and the cave echoed with his gasp and whimpers of pain, but piece by piece he pulled his clothing off. Once all his outer wear was piled around the table in a blood soaked mess, he was finally able to pull himself up onto the stone. He reached down and caught the hilt of his sword in his left hand. The sword was the last connection he had to the Druid order and he wasn't about to risk it being lost.

The stone was cold, but not in an unpleasant way. It was cool and inviting against his burning skin. He slowly lay down on the table feeling the Druid sleep pulling him in. He felt almost glad for all the pain it had taken just to get this far. At least this way he wouldn’t be shrouded with regret that he didn’t get to spend more time with the people that he called friends.

[petitechristoph]

Mike Warren or Gareth Ritter?

Mareth Rarren

In all seriousness I really admire both characters and how Aaron portrays them. I love how Mike is a strong, justice driven character that comes straight out of Quantico but his moral compass is utterly rattled as Graceland advances. The manner that Aaron represents Mike’s internal turmoil with himself and the principles he’s said to follow gives Mike Warren a three dimensional character. Also, I admire that Mike is a character with faults. This shows the audience that someone, who is seemingly perfect in the eyes of everyone else, that they’re still human and will make mistakes. In addition, Mike displays that sometimes, when there’s a monumental problem, acceptance of what happened is key to amending the said problem.

Gareth Ritter, I would have to say, I like him about as equally as Mike. I admire how Aaron interprets Gareth as a guy who adheres to his own beliefs yet is able to compromise for the greater good. Gareth also has a relationship with Laurel that shows how people can still develop a connection with someone who has polar opposite beliefs, all while not discarding who you are in the process. Also I really appreciated the suits.

Regarding both characters, they have the natural charisma that Aaron possesses, and they’re both great figures in their own ways. I love both but I’m partial towards Mike because he undergoes a magnitude of obstacles throughout Graceland and his character is more complicated and comprehensive than Gareth. Furthermore, the character of Mike Warren provides Aaron the opportunity to conduct more extensive acting than the personality of Gareth can supply. With Mike, Aaron accomplishes beautifully performed scenes that display his talent. For example, the dish washing scene in Season 1, him with Lena at Sulla’s, and the progression of Mike’s addiction, to his recovery in Season 3.

I’m sorry for the mini-essay but I got really passionate about this topic. Thank you for sending in the ask :)

What about you? Mike Warren or Gareth Ritter? I’d love to read your perspective.