#king emeric

[elderscrollsconceptart]

King Emeric

Art for The Elder Scrolls: Legends

Art by Atomhawk

[incognito-insomniac]

Goddamit Bethesda, stop making me fall in love with ESO NPCs. I can't find the time to write the fic I already have let alone add to the pile!

[feykrorovaan]

I love that High King Emeric canonically knows that you're in the Thieves guild and turns a blind eye to it because you're the hero of Tamriel. He KNOWS and doesn't care. I love this game.

[bishie-in-tamriel]

A friend showed me this...

So naturally all I could see was...

[sarahreesbrennan]

Another Interesting Spoilery Evil Question

To directly answer the question before I start rambling, the Cobra’s body’s physical age is 24.

(You can stop reading here if you like. This gets very long!)

When Marius meets the Cobra (chapter 18 epigraph from Time of Iron) he correctly identifies him as Marius’s own age at the time - 18.

At the time of the book all the physical bodies’ ages are as follows.

Marius - 24

The Cobra - 24

Rahela - 24

Octavian - 24

(Pio and Nemeth, Octavian’s advisers, are in their early 40s and late 50s respectively - they’re Octavian’s dad’s people and that is part of why they are so stressed. Their king died young, Octavian became king in his teens and it has been an uneasy court ever since.)

Emer - 23

Key - 20

Lia - 19

Rae and Eric in our world were both 4 years younger than their bodies in this world (so they would both be 20 if the story hadn’t happened to them). For the moment we’ll leave aside Key, who had another life too, in a different way. (He was a little kid, but old enough to walk after his father, in the epigraph from Time of Iron in chapter 15.)

I do age shenanigans for two reasons.

—One is that age in fiction and reality is weird, and I wanted to portray that. If I had a crush on Mr Darcy when I was 7, is that okay? If I had a crush on Mr Darcy when aged 41, is that okay? Mr Darcy’s always in his late twenties: Elizabeth Bennet will never be older than 21, but she seemed so glamorous and all-knowing to me when I was a kid.

And if you walk into a story, when in their character development do you find them? Would we like Darcy when he’s sneering at Elizabeth at a ball? Who is it that we love and when?

Plenty of adult women fancied Edward Cullen, perpetually a teen (or was he? Fantasy and horror also open up the possibility of immortality - but in a way, all fictional characters are immortal. Holden Caulfield isn’t growing up any more than Edward Cullen is. And like fictional characters and immortals, the dead aren’t getting any older either—I think often of Anne Rice, author of the Vampire Chronicles, who wrote the doomed child vampire Claudia after losing her own daughter Michele as a child. Death, immortality, fiction and the overlap!) When I read or watched stories in which characters were in different/changed bodies they usually seemed younger - often their younger selves, or a younger/cuter body (Peggy Sue Got Married, Scarlet Heart). (Exceptions exist of course, e.g. Howl’s Moving Castle.) And I like magic losing something, costing you something, plus I’m a contrarian. So I wanted them older.

—The other is that LONG LIVE EVIL is a story about trauma, which often arrests your age in your mind. The period in which you were enduring the horrors is a blank in which you couldn’t develop normally, or in which you had plenty of experiences but few of them match with your peers’.

Cancer did it to me, which wasn’t horrendous as I was in my early 30s and that’s still adult, just meant a bit of ‘oh no I’m not this child’s mother, I’m too young - actually I’m a bit old to be this child’s mother now I think about it, but anyway I don’t claim her’ and the like. But I’ve seen it do the same for people with cancer I befriended or whom I mentor, and it’s a very different proposition if the lost years are 17-21.

It’s not just cancer, I’ve seen bereavement work that way on people, and apparently celebrity works on the mind like trauma and arrests you at the age you became famous in a lot of ways. It’s being taken out of the run of ordinary life, walking through your portal into strangeness.

But in the end most of us wind up with years that feel lost, I think, and playing catch-up is the only way forward.

And allegory remains allegory: if I’m writing a werewolf I’m taking about rage and body horror, sure, but I’m also talking about werewolves.

I was actually confused by this ask at first as I’d written a whole section where Eric says he’s going to die of a heart attack at 20 and Marius is exasperated as Eric is a little young to start lying about his age! But it must have fallen victim to my many cuts - stories transform! - and I can see why, because I don’t think Eric exactly thinks of himself as 20 anymore.

I had some struggles with the age stuff, it’s another layer of complication in a complicated story and there were worries raised that it was unnecessary and might make some characters less appealing but in the end I decided it was necessary to me and let the characters be unappealing, then.

I also enjoy the twisting, fluid ages because they cause conflict, and conflict is story.

Rae uses her new age (and thus doesn’t need to think of her absolutely horrible self worth) to count herself out as a romantic option in Key’s eyes.

She also thinks of the Emperor as in his mid-20s, as he is - after a time skip that happens in the original Time of Iron, years in which Key and Emer were Lia’s servants. She knows about those years, but she doesn’t put it together.

At Eric and Marius’s first meeting 6 years before the events of LONG LIVE EVIL, Eric also hasn’t been in the book that long. He was in a horrifically traumatic survival situation for a large part of the time he was inside, when he approached Marius to blackmail him. That is objectively a deranged thing to do, but Eric is thinking like a terrified 14 year old and also like a Huge Fan of Marius. aka the quintessential white knight, the Last Hope who is reserved and dignified and crucially, 24-28.

That would be the Marius Eric at the time knows when he approaches Marius in the flesh, Marius at 18 and coming off family trauma, friend trauma and quasi-romantic trauma himself. Marius actually DOES go into dissociative states and kill people, Eric was taking a huge risk with his own life that not a single person in the country would have taken. Marius is a Valerius, and they are killers. (The whole court, Marius included, thought Lady Katalin ((Rahela’s mother)) was being very daring by like, touching Marius’s hand when he was 17.)

Eric is acting wild partly because a) he is wild, b) he’s desperate but also crucially c) he’s thinking of Marius as someone that Marius isn’t yet and d) he’s not thinking of things from Marius’s POV, and doesn’t until the events of LONG LIVE EVIL. Their quasi friendship/quasi hostage situation (that the hostage had firmly decided was happening) couldn’t have happened without a perfect storm of weirdness, risks and lack of understanding what the hell was going on.

Marius would not have seen a 14 year old Eric (not a child to him exactly, but squire age rather than knight age) as a criminal threat in the same way as he saw the Cobra, his own age (18, which was definitely very adult, Marius thought at the time). Eric wouldn’t have failed to consider consequences or failed to consider Marius as person rather than character, if he’d actually been 18. But by the time anyone knew better, a status quo was established, and habit is second nature and a stronger nature than the first.

Eric’s plight is horrific initially. But at the same time, Eric is extremely intelligent (both intellectually and emotionally) and able to both cover and play catch-up to this new life, and he can advise Rae with the benefit of his experience - but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t screw up massively when he first came into the book, or that he doesn’t still have many things to work through.

Similarly, Emer is used to Rahela who is quasi older sister and quasi mistress, while Rae is now acting younger. And all of them are dealing with a gross system in which men are seen as in their youthful prime when women the same age are getting long in the tooth and can be traded in for teenagers - so even two people who are the same age aren’t treated as if they’re the same age, if they’re different genders. Age stuff is crunchy!

Also, while Emer thinks of Lia as having all the power due to class, Lia looks on someone who was her glamorous older stepsister’s age mate and went off to the big city years ago rather differently. But then, are adulthood and childhood different worlds? Is being in different social classes being in different worlds?

Can we reach the different universes of other people is something I’m always asking, I think.

THIS IS SO LONG. I AM SO SORRY.

[surelynotsid]

a merthur drabble;

Arthur barged into the throne room on the verge of losing his mind. He was clouded by emotion, irrational, and erratic. The panic and pure fury gripping him tightly by the throat, restricting the oxygen to his lungs, the blood to his head. 

He wasn't clear headed, or unbiased. He was leading dangerously with his heart as it lodged itself in his throat. He was choking on it, this foolish love that devoured him whole, a love certainly not fit for a king. But Arthur was no king, not like this. Bound to the mercy of his heart's deepest desires.

He was willing to send armies out on endless searches to scour the earth and beyond. He was too comfortable in sacrificing his kingdom for his servant. Though Merlin had never just been a servant. And Arthur had never just been a king. A king is rational and selfless. He makes the hard decisions and always does the best for his kingdom. A king sacrifices one man for the safety of his people, not the other way around.

But heavens, he could not breathe, he could not sleep, the color had been stripped from his world, and the endless darkness was suffocating. He was going mad. And his wife, oh his lovely wife who had been nothing but patient with him as he fell apart every morning he woke without Merlin to greet him with something sharp on his tongue and the usual mischief in his eyes. She was gentle with his fragile shell, with soft words of comfort murmured in his ear, a gentle caress against his cheek, warm fingers carding through his hair.

His wife, his lovely wife.

Arthur was a poor king, but he was an unfathomable husband. The term felt like bile in his throat, it made him gag. He did not deserve Guinevere, not in this life or the next. He could never be the husband she deserved, but still, he fell to one knee in a desperate plea to do what was right for his kingdom. To be a husband. To be a king.

He never quite succeeded in either area.

He was a king not worthy, with a kingdom he would dispose of for a glance upon pink lips, high cheekbones, eyes of Llyn-y-forwyn lake. Oh, his eyes, Arthur yearned to drown beneath them. To be locked in their sight, to be the object within the mischievous gaze. What he would give, what he would do, all things sacred and beautiful be damned. He would give everything; do anything.

It's only in the fleeting moments when his body is too tired, eyes too heavy where he slips into a dream that offers little relief. A small glance. A ghost of a touch. Never enough. For he wakes, desperate and yearning, his heart heavy in his chest.

And as he stares into the dull brown eyes of his lovely wife, he can't help but think about everything she is not. Or rather whom she is not.

He is certain he loves her or has a feeling of love for her, but a cruel thing is desire. Oh, and it lies within the crevices of another's skin, one he wishes to touch, to explore. To know deeply and more intimately than his own mind. He was a fool under desire's wicked hands. It was an unruly flame, and he was choking on the smoke. But he was too far gone and damn the angels that tried to save the pyromaniac fool he was.

He barged through the doors demanding attention, and maybe it was because he was king. Or perhaps the sick sadistic and voyeuristic tendency for humans to watch as one goes mad made them all look.

Look at your king, watch him fall to his knees and weep for his servant. Watch him unravel, as he falls apart. Watch as he brings everyone down with him.

The order was on the tip of his tongue crafted to perfection, go- but there was Gaius, and he was turning around, and Arthur's breath hitched in his throat. The constant worry and fear of the worst that had been clouding his eyes for days had ceased. He was calm, relieved, and smiled knowingly as he stepped aside.

And Arthur fell apart at the mere sight of him. Merlin. 

He didn't know he was a starved man before he feasted his gaze upon the very cause of his hunger.

Seeing wasn't enough; he needed to touch him. To press his palm to his chest to feel him, to feel his heartbeat. But there were too many prying eyes, and Arthur felt small and scrutinized. He felt as though he was under a microscope. Everyone was watching him, their king, waiting for his reaction.

Arthur wanted to run and hide and he wanted to take Merlin with him. He wanted to be alone with him. Just the two of them, where he could touch Merlin and not be questioned about his intentions. Where he could stare at him for as long as he pleased. Where he wasn’t a king and he could just exist with this feeling.

"You're ok," he breathed out, because he had been staring for too long, getting trapped beneath the surface of the lake in his eyes. He welcomed the drowning sensation with open arms as the feeling of death clouded his head. To die at his hands, Arthur thinks that's how he would like to go.

Merlin gave a small quirk of his lips and a shrug of his shoulders, "I always am."

And Arthur missed a lot more than just the sight of him.

They didn't have any time. Merlin was whisked away, and Arthur had duties that called for a king. But he was hopeless and his mind wandered to the blue eyed servant who occupied every space in his brain. It wasn't enough to know he was home and safe, Arthur needed to be with him. He needed to feel him alive. 

That's why that night, as the moon sits in the sky and time crawls slowly into the early hours of the morning, he lies awake.

Guinevere is next to him, sleeping peacefully with a light arm tossed over his chest. Arthur is heaving beneath the weight. He is suffocating on her naturally sweet scent, and he is close to tears. He has to see, has to feel, knowing wasn't enough. His heartbeat is unsteady in his chest, and he knows it is only Merlin who can calm it. 

Arthur moves Gwen's arm off him. It is not her touch he needs, and he despises himself for even daring to think that. But he can't hide from the truth. Not when it's so loud, so demanding, so punishing, a bright contrast against the darkness of the night. Not when it rips him apart, wields his heart like a compass, and directs him to his true north. He knows who lies at the destination. 

Slipping out of the covers, swinging his legs free, he winces when his bare feet come in contact with the chilling floor. He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face. He feels split open, raw, and hurting, and it only gets worse when he hears his name being uttered softly from behind him. 

"Arthur?" A gentle hand is pressed against his shoulder blade, and he tenses, the touch making his skin crawl. He shrugs out of her reach, standing up. "Are you ok?" she asks tenderly, and Arthur feels sick.

He stares at his feet, unable to meet her eyes, " 'm thirsty," he mumbles. 

He hears the rustle of the duvet, "I'll come with," she says. And she is just trying to be there for him like she has been trying the past few weeks. But she is not who he needs, and he is a terrible husband.

"It's just water," he whispers, glancing back over his shoulder, just in time to watch his wife's heart break in her eyes.

She averts her gaze, running her fingers through the soft fur on the blanket. It wasn't just water. They both know this, but neither of them will acknowledge it. They are married. They once held hands and made a promise. So long as the sun rises and falls, they will eternally be one together. They shall stand side by side, forever united under said sacred oath that is marriage. And she will bear the heir, and they will grow old together just as they vowed.

But Arthur's heart will always beat to the rhythm of another's laughter. And it's a damning thing, and he'll break both their hearts in the process. But truth is demanding, and they can't hide from it with matching rings on their fingers that signify nothing more than their eternal misery.  

Gwen looks up at him through carefully guarded eyes. She smiles softly, "Right. . . just," she says with a knowing nod of her head. Just, it's a surrogate, really, a word to fill in the empty space. There are many words left unspoken between them. A bandaid for a bullet wound; just.

And perhaps Arthur should say something to comfort her, an apology, or an acknowledgment, or gratitude. But he is truly a poor husband and wordlessly turns around and makes his way out of their room and heads in the opposite direction of the kitchens.

The castle feels different at night. Feels smaller, compressed with all the secrets uttered to the moon. He blacks out on the walk. It is muscle memory. Arthur knows how to get to him. The path is etched into his brain. He needn't be present. His feet know the way, for he has walked the same halls a million times before.

He hadn't even realized he reached his destination and was knocking until a delirious Gaius was opening the door cladded in his nightgown. His eyes are barely open as he looks up at his intruder.

"Arthur?" he grumbles, "it's the middle of the night!"

Arthur let out a breath nodding his head, "is he-"

"Sleeping," Gaius cuts in shortly, "like i was, like you should be," he says with a pointed stare.

Arthur's heart stutters in his chest, "I need-please Gaius, I need to know he's ok," Arthur pleads, the vulnerability and desperation in his voice clearly shocking Gaius.

The old man considers him for a moment before slowly nodding and stepping aside. Arthur almost cries out in relief as he stumbles forward. "Thank you," he murmurs gratefully.

Gaius just grunts, before padding back over to his room.

Arthur instantly makes a beeline towards Merlin's room. The door creaks softly as he pushes it open. 

Merlin is lying on his back fast asleep, and Arthur can see the rise and fall of his chest. He sits on the edge of his bed, and Merlin stirs but stays in his slumber. 

Arthur sucks in a harsh breath as Merlin lays there, motionless, moonlight dancing across his face, kissing his fair skin the way Arthur yearns to do so. He reaches out a trembling hand, pressing his palm to the exposed part of Merlin's chest. His skin is warm to the touch, and Arthur can feel the steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. He shudders, allowing peace to finally wash over him, allowing his pulse to ground him. He is okay. His own heart falls into the same steady rhythm, his wild mind finally calming and his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbs the warmth radiating off of Merlin. Warm, his mind tells him; alive.

Merlin stirs beneath his palm and Arthur watches silently as his eyes flutter open, his eyebrows drawing together in a disorientated state. He blinks, his eyes still drowsy with sleep, "Arthur?" Merlin mumbles, mindlessly reaching for him, and for the first time in weeks a small smile graces Arthurs lips.

A response catches in his throat, all words dying on his tongue because Merlin is there, alive. His bony frame, pale skin, blue eyes and he sits up. He is there, and Arthur is there and the earth starts turning once again.

"Merlin," he croaks because there are no intruding eyes, no one to see their king cry.

"I am ok," Merlin reassures, placing his hand over Arthurs, where it still sits firmly against his chest.

Arthur blinks, ducking his head down. Merlin's hand is warm against his own, rough, and callus with years of work worn into them. Arthur twists his own hand to hold Merlins. He runs his thumb down slender fingers, and around the bumps of bony knuckles before pressing his lips to them.

Merlin shifts, and the small bed groans in protest. He pulls his hand from Arthur to pat the empty spot, a silent invitation in which Arthur doesn't hesitate to accept. He lays down, the mattress is warm from Merlin's body, and Arthur is reminded once again that he is alive.

It's a tight fit, but their bodies mold together with ease. Pieces slot together perfectly like they are made for each other, like the gods took extra care, making sure they aligned flawlessly.

It's silent between them, just steady breathing and the white noise of the world still spinning. 

There are many things Arthur wants to tell him, and he does with time. After all, they have the whole night. So whispers are exchanged, along with soft touches, and it's skin on skin as they melt into one another. It's impossible to know where one begins and the other ends. It's all so sweet reserved for the night, and it is a shame this love doesn't get to grace the light of day. But Arthur doesn't spare that a second thought when he finally gets a taste of pink lips.

They fall deeper into one another, their souls intertwined and the stars bear witness as they become just another secret for the moon to hold.

[the-skooma-den]

Corinne and Emeric have their disagreements

[mazoga-the-dork]

[kingfisherbones]

Quick redraw of a recent panel from change of scenery on webtoon-fire king if you’re out there

[sirbogarde]

The Marty Archers doc is sooooo good. Powell and Pressburger you ARE loved. Seeing Anton and Roger and Eric Portman and Dennis Price and David Farrar and David Niven and Michael Redgrave AND DIRK BOGARDE on the big screen was something else. If there is a screening near you do try to see it!!!!

[harrycollins]

I love how Emeric is just a guy compared to other Alliance leaders... there you have that beautiful young Elven queen, big Nord king who have a magnificent beard and Emeric... he is my uncle.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

Emeric Covenant King

Art for The Elder Scrolls: Legends

Art by Dmytro Rudenko

[incognito-insomniac]

Daydreaming about your blorbo is out. Incorporating iconography of your blorbo into your chores/task list is in.

[soullessbullshit]

Malek: I’m starting to think reaching out to you for help was a mistake.

Khoshekh, in the most blatantly fake confused voice ever: What EVer are you TALking about.

Malek: Look, I know you don’t like High King Emeric, but these pranks are getting out of hand.

Khoshekh: I’d say they’re fairly proportionate to his bullshit.

Malek: Really. Creating a fake Grindr profile, matching him with Rada al-Saran, and making a date at the actual fucking Wayrest Castle seems reasonable to you.

Khoshekh: Most definitely.

Malek: You are making it really hard to not throw you in jail for high treason right now.

Khoshekh: I find it hilarious that you think any prison could hold me for more than a day.

[bishie-in-tamriel]

~𝘈 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘳~

[sarahreesbrennan]

My FairyLoot Edition

I wish to celebrate art, August and evil. LONG LIVE EVIL was FairyLoot’s August pick for their adult fantasy box. Do you SEE this edition? The dust jacket is reversible and the art is by magnificently talented Bon Orthwick.

I send out so much love and thanks to the whole Fairyloot team, not just for choosing LONG LIVE EVIL but for their love and dedication to stories and their thoughtfulness in creating the most beautiful meaningful editions.

The hardcover under the book is TIME OF IRON, my protagonist’s favourite book she walks into. The book within a book IS A BOOK WITHIN A BOOK. Look it’s TIME OF IRON and it has the SERIES TITLE for the imaginary book on the spine!

LONG LIVE EVIL is an ensemble book, so I was so happy to have endpapers showing all my vipers and heroes. Marius’s hair… is so beautiful it makes me feel quite unwell? He is perfect. I love how Key is Octavian’s shadow! Victoria Broccoli is there too! They are COMING OUT OF THE BOOK PAGES.

The sword on the sprayed edge has its legendary sinister name. The stained glass is there for dark divinity. Every detail is perfect. Getting to sign some Wednesday was so thrilling. I used to moon over other authors’ fancy beautiful editions, never dreaming I’d get one of my own: they seemed a thing for luckier people.

I took these in front of flowers in my wee garden because I moved into my house in the cold, unsure if I could still be a writer. When I was lonely I was surprised by an explosion of roses. FairyLoot choosing my book was like that for me. I send them thanks for changing my story, by coming like a gift. I hope their readers enjoy their special letter from me and their bonus content.

I will show you the title under a spoiler cut.

I think of it like a romantic Screwtape Letters! Anywho hope you enjoy the pictures, all.