#let's hope this post doesn't absolutely flop like the last one

[lalalian]

dr interviews: aeris lucresha greze

date: november 2, 2024

Aeris is my drself in my dragon rider academy dr (aethergarde academy dr)! this is essentially what would happen if I had to be interviewed for a newspaper-- oh, you should be prepared for that, by the way. Videos are a thing, they'll just be on newspapers, and the words from both me and the interviewer will be transcribed somewhere below the moving image.

My drself is honestly just me, but like idk, fancified? Maybe not, idk, I don���t really like to change my personality.

anyway, let's get on to the interview!

WAIT FIRST I LOOKED BACK AT THE POLL AND REALIZED I HAD MY NAME DOWN AS 'ERIS', I KEPT FLIP FLOPPING BETWEEN ERIS AND AERIS, WENT WITH ERIS FOR A WHILE, THEN SWITCHED TO AERIS... I'M AERIS NOT ERIS LMAO

I’ll explain why my last name isn’t Kashmir here in another post!

The Serpentine Record is one of most well-known newspaper outlets in aenaroth!

kalina: "By the skies, it's so exciting to see you! My name is Kalina Idreyss-- I'll be interviewing you today for The Serpentine Record, how have you been doing lately?-- I'm sure the academy's been working you and Kairos to the bone!"

aeris: "Yeah it kinda sucks. Kinda is an understatement honestly."

kalina: "*laugh* We all know how rigorous Aethergarde Academy can be, but, Cadet Greze, would you say it's harsher than your previous life before the academy?"

aeris: "Yes. I could at least sleep in peace at home, but now... oh by the six-- there he goes again."

The building trembles slightly, large gusts of wind force the slightly ajar windows open. A young black dragon roars loudly, Aeris sighs, perhaps this was a rather common occurrence.

aeris: "I told you to go play with the others. I'll be done soon, I promise."

She stands from the plush chair, her feet mourned the loss of comfort as she walked towards the dragon. Kalina stifled a giggle as she watched the scene.

aeris: "No? I can't just leave now. Kai, you have to be on your own sometimes, I can't be here all the time--"

The dragon roars loudly, snapping it's jaws and forcing its head through the window. Aeris pats his head. Suddenly, the slight eye bags below her lower lashes were more noticeable to Kalina.

kalina: "Aww, he's absolutely adorable~! He seems to be quite clingy, I heard gildeds aren't the cuddly type-- I suppose he's in good hands, yeah? Kairos, would--"

The dragon snaps his jaws irritably in Kalina's direction. Aeris swats at his nose, reprimanding the youngling.

aeris: "Sorry, he can be a bit rude towards strangers. Ah, and he's definitely not cuddly, he's clingy. I suppose coddling him like crazy from birth made him this way."

Aeris looks back to the dragon sternly; her eyes narrow-- a clear sign that the rider was speaking sternly to her dragon. The dragon chuffs, smoke puffing out of it's mouth before backing out of the window, and flying on another tower close to their location. Aeris closes the window and locks it, dearly hoping the glass frame was unscathed.

kalina: "Isn't he sweet?" Kalina remarks lightheartedly.

aeris: "He's so sweet. I love it when I find my lunch rotting in his nest. He doesn't even eat any of it... he could've at least eaten it-- why waste food just to annoy me??"

Kalina laughs again, enjoying the dynamic between the two.

kalina: "Oh, can you explain why you chose to name your dragon Kairos? It's a rather unique name."

aeris: "Well, to me, he represented opportunity. He came to me at a critical time in my life, and... I wanted his name to emulate that. I found his name in an old book back at home; I believe Kairos was the word for a critical moment in time in an ancient language, in the book, the word was Romanized into English. I don't know where that book went, but that word just stuck with me ever since I saw it"

Kalina nodded, she wasn't sure what language the name was from, but it held an air of prestige that suited the cadet's dragon.

kalina: "Kairos suits him well, Cadet Greze. I think your dragon is grateful to have a rider who's good with names. Ah-- could you expand on your life here at Aethergarde Academy? Is it what you expected it to be? Did you think you'd end up becoming an S-tier rider?"

aeris: "My life here consists of pure hard work. To be honest, I didn't really know what to expect, but at the same time, I did... I'm not sure how to explain it. I know this academy quite well, but it's not like I knew I'd end up here. Being a rider in general was out of the question for me, I never thought I’d actually be one. I grew up admiring dragons, but I always felt distant— like it was something unattainable."

kalina: "I definitely relate to that distant kind of feeling. I grew up thinking that way too, but now, the two of us are on our way to do great things, aren't we?”

Kalina gives the cadet an encouraging smile, “Cadet Greze, can I ask how you came to know of Aethergarde Academy? Some of the students Serpentine Record interviewed in the past didn't even know much about riders until they became cadets. Did you hear about riders from your parents-- maybe your friends?"

Aeris opened her mouth to speak, but decided against it. She cleared her mouth and smiled, Kalina thought her smile seemed a little mischevious, as if she knew something others did not.

aeris: "Yeah I heard about it from whatever books I could get my hands on. I used newspapers to build my vocabulary so... I... I would use them to practice writing."

kalina: "My, you must've been a smart kid! Did your parents think you'd end up here?"

aeris: "Definitely not, honestly. It's complicated."

Kalina nods, wanting to ask more questions, but it seemed Aeris wanted to keep her humble beginnings to herself.

kalina: "Alright then, Cadet Greze, is it okay if I ask about your classmates? How's your relationship with them? Is there anyone that you're interested in?"

Aeris' face sours as the interviewer asked her about any students she was 'interested in'.

aeris: "Uh, sure, go for it. I really like Miaene; she's really fun to talk to and she's in a lot of my classes. I'm honestly glad that I even met her-- without her, I'm not sure I'd make it to my other classes in time... the hallways can be confusing. I'm a bit wary of Cadet Lancaster, mostly because he's always discreetly in my business... if that makes sense. Luckily he's only in one of my classes... ah, but it's unfortunate that he's in my throwing knife class. Straus is fine; I try not to talk to him much because-- Uh... I mean, he's great. I prefer Miaene's company."

kalina: "Cadet Lumynstrov? I'm glad you're getting along with some of your classmates; not many people predicted that you'd get along so well with her. Ah-- is there anyone you're interested in?"

aeris: "I'm very platonically interested in all my classmates."

Kalina laughs, but continues to prod.

kalina: "Are you sure? What about the Lancaster Cadets? Cadet Whit?"

aeris: "The Lancaster Cadets are... very..."

kalina: "Very...?"

aeris: "...Irritating. Slightly perturbing. Occasionally bothersome."

kalina: "Callisto seems to be quite interested in you, perhaps the two of you would--"

aeris: "absolutely not, miss idreyss."

Aeris shivers in disgust. The idea of Callisto was like drinking dragon piss, perhaps even worse than that.

Kalina laughs and gives the cadet a cheeky look.

kalina: "Aw, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to explore that path, no?"

aeris: "No. Miss. Idreyss. It would."

kalina: "*laugh* Well, I would like to inform you that many people like the idea of the two of you together-- based on a few photos in some recent papers, Callisto often sneaks out to see you--"

Aeris, horrified, abruptly interrupts Kalina.

aeris: "He what??? I need to get a restraining order-- cause WHAT."

kalina: "A… restraining order...?"

aeris: "It's nothing. I just--" Aeris gags.

Kalina tries to hold in a laugh behind her fist, and takes out a few newspapers from her bag.

kalina: "Many are speculating that these students are Cadet Lancaster--"

She points to a familiar white haired boy in each photograph, with each photo, Aeris grows more aghast.

aeris: "Th-that is him...!"

kalina: "Other than personal interest, do you know why he'd be so inclined to follow you around?"

aeris: “He's GROSS, that's why."

kalina: "I'm sure if the two of you got to know each other, he'd try to meet you on your own terms!"

Kalina held back another laugh with a smile. Aeris could only respond with disgust at the prospect.

aeris: "Just... Next question please..."

kalina: "Alright, hm, oh-- What classes are you most interested in this year, and what do you plan to take later on?"

aeris: "A-As I mentioned earlier, I'm taking a beginner throwing knife classes, if Callisto wasn't in that class too, it'd be more fun. Because of him, I think my favorite class in general is my scythe training class. I'd say my favorite non-fighting class would be Magical Creatures I. I really would like to take a few Merspeak classes in the future."

kalina: "You chose to use a scythe? Most riders choose to fight with swords-- what made you choose the scythe?"

aeris: "Honestly, it just felt right. It's not like I was unhappy learning how to use a sword-- it just didn't feel like it suited me."

kalina: "Oh wow, I heard that the scythe has a pretty steep learning curve-- did class go well on your first day?"

aeris: "It went as well as it could've been. Our teacher is tough on us, we aren't allowed to leave until we've mastered the skill to a certain degree. Luckily, it seems that I've got some sort of natural skill for scything."

kalina: "That's great, I think the scythe really suits you. It's rare to see a student choose that kind of weapon."

aeris: "Yeah... I don't blame them."

kalina: "Alright then, that's all the questions I've got for today, do you want to say anything else?"

aeris: "Mm... Don't treat Kairos harshly. Yes, he's a gilded dragon, but it's not like he chose to be that way. He's powerful, but under all those scales, he's emotionally weak. I won't stop him from lashing out if someone decides to spit on him purely because of his breed-- I mean, I'll rein him in if he tries to hurt anyone, but I think people need to face the consequences of their actions. Kairos isn't the kind of dragon to take things lightly, neither am I. I refuse to have people experiment on him or examine him like he's some sort of object. Thank you for today's interview, Miss Idreyss."

wanna know more about my aethergarde academy dr? here's a masterlist with everything I've posted about it!

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I'm not too great at writing, so if it seems blocky or unrealistic, yeahhhh that's my bad 😭😭

[glitched-username]

..★soo- , urh- I got a little concept regarding rottmnt G/t, thought about sharing it with you- if you don't mind.★

★M'kay- so combining the latest analysis that you made about Donnie being a size-shifter and the turtles heights in your 'Biblically Accurate Size' AU- I managed to cook up this (no, this does not only concern Donnie by the way) :

|⭐| What if the turtles were size shifters- who could only shrink, but wait- there is a catch. What if the absolute minimum of how small they can get depends on their species height. Like, once they reach said height- they won't be able to shrink any more.

|⭐| For instance, if Raph wants to get smaller- the absolute minimum could be 30 inches- since that is his accurate height, based on your AU at least. Same goes for the other turtles as well- such as, Mikey's minimum height is 5 inches tall- Leo's minimum is a foot tall, Donnie's is 9 inches- yeah, you get it.. I hope (—‹ —⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ..

★..erm. just a thought that has been spiraling around my head. I let you do what you want with it or smth, smth..★

★soo, bye for now-★

(I might return with a little idea regarding size shifting brains & brawn duo. erm. since Raph is technically a size shifter of some sorts- and Donnie does have the potential of being a size shifer. Though I don't have much in mind for this concept.. fuck =[[)

SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG TO GET TO THIS! My brain has been mush the past few days 😔😔😔

Anyway

Yes. Absolutely

Mikey 100% does it the most. To annoy older brothers, practice his "razzmatazz", and perfect cuddle buddy. Very "marketable plushie" coded. I just have a mental image of Mikey taking the place of whatever "sports ball" they plan on throwing around. He's already the biggest adrenaline junkie on the team and in the show, they already make it a habit of throwing brothers around like ragdolls so this is an entirely real possibility lmao

Donnie does it for science purposes like 99% of the time. Especially before he got his mystic goggles/powers. Machine is down but don't wanna tear it apart to get at the ONE section failing? Just shrink down and work on it there. The next 0.50% is when he's too overwhelmed and just needs to get small to hide from the lights, sounds, everything, just 'get me the hell out of here'. The last 0.50% is purely for personal comfort. Small bath turns into massive pools for the aquatic turtle to enjoy, warm human friend is suddenly a super warm and comfortable giant heated weighted blanket.

Leo is by far the most unpredictable. He'll do it to annoy Raph and Donnie and also LOVES how it can make him the center of attention. Leo is like the master of "I'm secretly craving affection but I'll cover it up with a cool guy persona who 'totally doesn't need hugs'!" April and his brothers will just carry Leo around like that one ferret gif:

Post krang, however? That boy does NOT like shrinking down. It makes the room seem massive, never ending, cold like the prison dimension. And his brothers, normally a comfort, morph into large terrifying shapes, reminiscent of the Krang. But "EveRYThiNGs FiNE! DoNT yOU WorRY aBoUt 'ol NEoN LeON!"

Raph shrinks down the least. He's too big to enjoy the perks being small gets. Still too heavy to be casually carried around. Still too big to have a nice heated bath feel like a nice pond. Too spiky to have the same huggable qualities as the other two. Not to mention the only time he really feels comfortable is when they're all shrunk down at the same time because he's worried that he would not be able to help his family at the smaller size. But at the same time he'll have those moments where he wants to be small, to be taken care of, to be the younger brother. He'll never admit it but the others can always tell when something's off. They've figured out enough that while he can't really be carried or held like the others, Raph still makes a perfect lap dog/turtle and is perfectly happy to just flop down on someone's lap and enjoy the free scritches during chill hours.

Splinter thought he was hallucinating for the first couple years when the boys would just randomly change sizes until he actually caught the turtle tots shifting in real time. Then he just was like "yeah this might as well have been another thing Draxum did to their DNA"

Also I started writing a response before I reread the ask and noticed it said "could only shrink" so under the read more was my thought process before of how that would effect the growing part of idea 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

And to add on, what if it kinda works in the opposite way when they grow. Like the Scale for BA Mikey is about 1:10, so what if when he grew it was flipped so he's 10x the size instead of 10% (47 feet)

Same with the others. BA Raph is about 1:2.5 so 2.5:1 when he grows (15 feet). BA Donnie is a 1:7 scale so then 7:1 (37 ft). And BA Leo is 1:5.25 so 5.25:1 or 28ft.

Suddenly biggest brother is now smallest brother and the smallest brother, Mr. "more than happy to chuck himself off a building to do a cool trick" is now the SIZE of a building.

It think I'd be really funny/cool as an added thing.

[existslikepristin]

Okay, so I had someone send me an ask last night and now I've been thinking about it all day. It wasn't anonymous, which I appreciate, but I'm not responding to it directly for because

I reached out already to say I'd do some editing, and I've let them know the rest of what I'm about to rant on below, but I want to make sure at least a few more people see this

I flip flop around on how to say this shit all the time. Like, do I say that everyone's a good writer in their own special way? Do I say that you don't need likes and reblogs for validation? I don't fucking know what to say except for maybe one more thing that I'll reiterate until the day I die with various embellishments that will fade in and out

You. Yes you, the person who's reading this who is also a writer/aspiring writer. Come closer. We share a bond, you and I, so really get in physically close

Art can't be contained, you scrunge

If you don't think whatever you're creating is art, go to a damn museum. Or do a virtual tour. Or google the phrase "modern art". It doesn't matter. You're going to see some shit in there that, I would hope, makes you think the artist was a dipwad

I'm ranting more than I thought I would. Here's a keep reading line

You know who fucking sucks at art? Pablo Picasso.

Look at this absolute pile of bullshit, then look me in the eye, and tell me this isn't the colorized manifestation of an elementary school dropout's Wattpad account

"But ELP, Picasso demonstrated actual working knowledge of anatomy. This is just his AbstRACt sTyLe"

SHUT UP. Nobody asked you, Barbara

Picasso, Piet Mondrian, Andy Warhol. Their artworks are money laundering schemes. Their fame doesn't come from their talent. It comes from obscenely rich people trading blood diamond money for crisp, clean, still-fake money by claiming that poor people "don't get it"

And yet, despite popular opinions being developed because of ridiculous sums of money being pegged up these guys' assholes, artists today still find meaning in their works, tunneling straight through their cognitive dissonance to tell themselves that, no, I actually enjoy staring at blocks of washed out color until my retinas have burnt in just the right spots that I can see an actual human face because an art teacher once told me that these pictures got the most likes on the pre-internet Tumblr

Does that mean people don't actually like this art? Am I trying to tell you you shouldn't like this art? Maybe, but then you'd be obligated to remind me that Churchgirleum Yawjinius is a disgusting assault on your imagination and yet has as many likes as Definitely Real Medicine, which you wouldn't believe was actually written with all the earnestness my void of a chest cavity could muster

Take it from someone who willingly threw away the opportunity for automatic dozens of reblogs and hundreds of likes per post by telling people to fuck themselves (and still gets a bunch for some reason):

The validation is cool, but it's not worth it

The validation does not define what is good or not

What is good or not doesn't even matter

You're not going to make money off this shit

Someone who is genuinely terrible is going to get more validation than you, and is going to flaunt it in your face, and their writing is still somehow going to mean something to way too many people, and it doesn't matter because their soul is just as unfulfilled by the validation as yours is unfulfilled by the lack of it

What is fulfilling is doing something because you can

You are your only source of real validation, no matter what fuzzy dopamines you get from the vapid click of a like button

Oh, and if you do get the validation of Tumblr notes, that doesn't mean your work is shit or you don't deserve love or whatever. Accept it graciously because it's definitely not uncool that people like your shit, but recognize that it's not going to cure your depression

Art is art. We can look at Roman columns and marvel at how their art built modern civilization (though the Romans can fuck themselves IMO (oh wait they literally did haha)), but did it really? Art makes otherwise brutalist architecture tolerable, but the curly Qs at the bases and tops of columns isn't what kept the coliseum from collapsing on thousands of people watching live murder

If you have a story that has overstayed its welcome in your head and needs to be on paper or on a screen, then write the fucking story. Nobody actually cares about the qUaLiTy of your spelling or grammar. They care about being given permission to think about Karina's tits. Do you think their opinion matters?! I mean, they may have great contributions to make on their own, and they should have voting rights, and it's chill if they have something nice to say to you, but the point is that they're already thinking about Karina's tits regardless of your writing. They're just your thralls to manipulate into thinking about Karina's tits in the way that you, the all-powerful artist, want them to think about Karina's tits. If they try to tell you "Karina's tits would have tan lines" then write a whole fic about how Karina is a nudist and has a perfectly even tan, and who's going to argue about it? The idiot who wrote a pedantic comment? No! It's YOU. THE ALL-FUCKING-POWERFUL ARTIST WHO ACTUALLY MADE SOMETHING TO PROVE YOUR POINT WHETHER OR NOT IT IS CORRECT

If you're an artist, then fucking act like one. Embrace the chaos inherent in creativity. Maybe gentleman is vampire. The poison contains joy. We exist in these devastating, beautiful worlds of contradiction in which we hate people and how lonely we are, we crave kindness and embody violence, and we beg the universe to give us direction despite knowing full well that we're going to zigzag between paths. Maybe you relate. Maybe you don't. THAT'S THE POINT. You're not right. I'm not right. We both write (wow, bars)

I keep saying that everyone should just write, and it's not because I think everyone is secretly a good writer. It's because someone out there needs permission to write after being told their entire lives that their value lies in A, or they're not good if B by all the non-artists in who genuinely don't understand why someone needs to make something impractical to begin the infinitely long road to completion

The dumb fucks who don't understand want to contain you because it's in their nature to desire order. They like to come up with metrics to categorize what counts as art and what doesn't so they can change the rules on you. Chaos always wins though

So WRITE. The world doesn't need your artistry. YOU DO. If you write a bunch of shit and people like it but you quit anyway or nobody likes it and you quit, then idk. Maybe you weren't an artist in the first place, which is perfectly fine, or maybe you're giving your corporate overlords too much control over your mind. If you're an artist, you'll burn with the need to create, no matter how much you create. If you feel that, keep writing

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Braided Memories

A peek into Ghil's life throughout the stages, and his different relationships with people.

Tags: hurt/comfort, found family, grief, and trauma. Pre-transition language (ftm refers to himself as girl/sister before he's aware he's trans, as does family members). Full consent given to play with hair.

Trigger warnings: alcoholism (not from Ghil, but from family he once had), trauma, grief.

Despite the tags, this is very soft and warm. It was just mostly meant as feel good hurt/comfort and introspection.

Hope you enjoy, and if you did, please consider giving it a like or reblog! It lets me know people like my work, and encourages me to continue writing.

--------------------------

It happens while they're all talking in the dining hall. One of those group meetings that somehow happened around lunchtime, a casual affair that has Taash and Harding slinging grapes at each other.

Bellara is chatting at Emmrich, her hands wildly expressive, and she walks past Ghil’s chair to clean her plate.

Then, on her way back, Ghil feels hands sink into his hair.

He's not entirely surprised. He gave sleepy permission a while ago for her and Harding to fuss with it, the white tresses running loose and silky down his back.

It nearly reaches his waist these days.

He's half paying attention to the conversation, especially since the meeting aspect of lunch is over. Last night was rife with nightmares, and sleep didn't come easy.

Ghil wonders if Bellara used to have family members that would let her braid their hair.

Or maybe an ex-girlfriend.

Either way, it's relaxing.

Sound drowns out into white noise, a deft flick of her wrist securing another strand for her braid.

It's soothing. Safe. Even as her fingers comb through his scalp for another strand, running over gnarled scars hidden by the sheer volume, she doesn't comment on it.

It's a blessing, really. Sometimes Bellara is a little too invasive with her questioning. Ghil loves her, he does, but he's grateful she's learning to ask less about his personal life.

Laughter scatters throughout the table, and he sinks more into that touch.

Ghil wonders what it would have been like to have grown up Dalish, like Davrin and Bellara, to have lived among trees and nature instead of the choking grime of the alienage and the familiar mustiness of the necropolis.

It's a curious thought. One he mulls over in the evenings, on the rare occasion he has alone.

Another twist, another braid.

His eyes slip shut.

Giggling reaches his ears, and he smiles. This particular sound is familiar to him.

Hezenkoss is away on business, the workshop kept in pristine condition by his careful hand.

“What are you doing now?” He says exasperatedly. His voice is soft and lilting, the barest remnants of his Denerim accent clinging on.

“Nothing!” Wren replies. Her words say one thing, but her wicked tone says another.

Even post-Joining, his sister remains the same.

“Da’len,” he sighs. “Am I going to break a mirror if I look in it?”

If anything, that makes the giggling worse. “No!” Wren laughs. “You're just going to be the prettiest lady ever. All of Thedas will fall in love with you.” She leans forward, kissing his cheek.

He smiles and shakes his head fondly. “Maker, I've missed you,” he says. “The Necropolis is too quiet without you. Not to mention my studies are going slower without my genius sister to help me.”

Wren scoffs, finishing plaiting one braid. She flops it over his shoulder, the green and silver ribbons fishtailing out the end.

“You're a genius too, idiot,” she says, starting on the other braid. “Don't think I'm not aware Hezenkoss isn't teaching you. I don't see a single trace of your work here.”

He hums, shrugging nonchalantly. “It's honestly fun to piss her off. I play stupid, she yells at me, and then she's absolutely baffled when her experiments get updated and solved overnight. She never even notices when I study her notes.” His bored tone makes Wren snort, pulling on the braid she's weaving.

“Told you that you were smart. No one learns advanced alchemy and theoretical necromantic metaphysics out of sheer spite. Unless they're you.” She sighs.

This close, he can hear the rustle of her Warden uniform, taste the slight tang of the Blight-sickness that remains ever present around her. It's strong enough to change her scent, and that worries him more than she cares to admit.

“What's on your mind?” He asks in response to her sigh.

Wren sets the half-finished braid on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him. Her chin digs into the top of his head.

“I worry about you,” she mumbles. “You're so…isolated. I would've thought by now some cute Watcher would have swept you off your feet.”

He snorts. His hands slide up over her arms, doing his best to hug her back from his seated position. “No one's interested in a weird girl like me,” he replies simply. “I'm too tall for an elf, too muscular now that Hezenkoss has me taking sword lessons. She's not the one teaching me, mind you, she sends me elsewhere for those.”

Wren nods. “I figured. Still, you're lovely. Any man would be honored to have a woman like you.”

He hesitates. Wren notices.

“What is it?” She asks.

It takes a couple seconds for the words to come out. It's been on his mind for a while now.

“Wren,” he says, his voice small. “What if I'm not a girl at all? What if I want to be…to be a boy?”

There's a moment of pause.

Her arms squeeze tighter around him.

“Then any man would be lucky to have a man like you,” she replies.

He drifts. Faintly, he can still hear Bellara talking, and the dulcet tones of Emmrich replying. His companions are near.

He is here.

He is elsewhere.

A brush rakes through his hair, and he flinches.

The back of the wooden brush taps the top of his head scoldingly.

“Be still, ___.” Shanni’s voice is sharp and reprimanding, her breath reeking of booze.

He tries not to provoke her. Occasionally the big sister he knew is still in there.

Usually, she's not.

“Sorry, Shanni,” he apologizes quickly.

“Beauty is pain,” she lectures, dragging the brush through his hair. It's still choppy, only to his shoulders. One of the shem children threw something at him and it got stuck. Shanni had to cut a fair bit off. “If you want to attract a husband, you should…should…”

He tenses. “Shanni?”

When he tentatively peeks over his shoulder, her stare is glassy-eyed, off into the middle distance.

Reliving a horror that he cannot begin to comprehend.

He stays absolutely still. There are two ways this will go. Either Shanni will return to normal, or she'll have one of her screaming fits, drink more, and then he'll have to find a spot under someone's house to hide in until she's calm again.

Shanni is all he has left. Their mothers were friends, and now their mothers are gone.

Hers from illness, and his from…

He tries not to think about the strange men who stole his mother away. Tries not to think about the floorboards creaking as he hid under them, hearing the strange language of the men going back and forth as they dragged her away.

Shanni resumes her brushing.

She drags it through the snarls a few more times before giving up and pulling him into her lap.

Wraps her arms around him, as if she can protect this child from the world.

“Shanni?” He asks quietly.

She shakes her head.

“Whatever you do,” she whispers. “Don't ever get married. Don't ever fall in love. Don't give those shems anything to take away from you, because they'll take everything.”

She's trembling violently, and he'd forgotten about the third option.

Quickly, he turns in her hold, hugging her back.

“It'll be okay, Shanni,” he replies, in that awkward way that children do. “I promise. I won't ever get married. We'll live together forever, okay? I'll be your little sister, and I'll never leave you.”

She falls apart, body wracked with sobs as she hyperventilates.

That promise will never be fulfilled.

“-think you put him to sleep,” Davrin says teasingly.

“I've never seen him this peaceful,” Harding replies.

Bellara laughs. “Well, maybe that's for the best. This braid looks absolutely *awful. I don't know how people can braid other people's hair. I usually just throw mine in a bun and go.”

“Oh!” Harding’s feet make a thud on the floor. “I can show you. Here, let me. I'm sure Ghil won't mind.”

A second set of hands gently undoes the braid that Bellara made, and she steadily explains the process.

“So as you know, you take these three strands…”

A hum surrounds him.

It's an old Dalish lullaby, he thinks. Cold hands weave his hair with deft ease, practiced with time.

“Hold still for Mommy, da’len,” a voice murmurs. It's his voice.

It's her voice.

Higher pitched, softer, far more lilting than his ever will be. It's the sing-songy accent of the Dalish, a constant rhythm and quick consonants.

“Are we done soon?” He hears himself ask excitedly. “Do I get ribbons?”

She hums in affirmation. “Miss Mira bought them for you,” she replies. “Remember to thank her next time we stop at the bakery.”

“Okay, Mommy.” He tries his hardest not to bounce in place. It's almost noon, and the laundresses always have an extra sweet or two for the children who help carry the wash.

The top of his head is kissed.

“There's my good girl,” his mother says lovingly. “Your father would be so proud of how well-behaved you are.”

He gives her a gap-toothed grin. One of his baby teeth has fallen out recently, and it sits on the windowsill now to ward off spirits.

“Will you tell me about Daddy again at bedtime?” He asks eagerly. “I wanna hear another story.”

His mother sighs. It's fondness and exasperation and…something else.

Sorrow. Grief. Pain.

“Of course, da’len. But first, we have to finish your braids.”

“Rook?”

Emmrich’s voice wakes him up, and he opens his eyes. It's just them in the dining hall, now, the embers low in the fireplace.

His scalp feels a little sore.

“I fell asleep, didn't I?” He says, his voice gravelly and low. Ghil doesn't miss the way Emmrich’s eyes flash briefly with hunger.

His professor. Always so buttoned up and proper.

Ghil’s learned to love the little glimpses he gets of the man beneath the necromancy.

“You did,” Emmrich replies. “I'm quite surprised, to be honest. Bellara and Lace were tugging at your hair quite a lot, until Taash stepped in and fixed it.”

With a laugh, Ghil slowly gets up. His body’s screaming at him for sleeping in a chair, but he's gotten used to it.

“I've had worse, trust me.”

Emmrich beckons him forward, brushing something off the top of his head. “A speck of something,” he clarifies.

“Thanks, Vhenan,” Ghil says softly. He can feel the thick braid setting between his shoulder blades, discordant and slightly askew. One large braid, with two smaller ones woven in.

One of the smaller braids is significantly more neat than the other.

Emmrich smiles at him lovingly. He kisses the top of Ghil’s head, one of the few people tall enough anymore to do so.

“One of these days you'll tell me what that means,” he murmurs.

Ghil gives him a fond look. “Perhaps I will.”

Hand in hand, they walk out of the dining hall together.

[saintsenara]

subluxation is a need and i would like you to talk about it

also please god talk about gardener’s question time. i’m so serious

thank you, pal, two exemplary choices from the work in progress tag game list!

very funny to me that - having once declared yourself to not be a rare pair girly - you have come out swinging in favour of the two rare pairs on the list. the corruption continues apace...

gardener's question time is the result of a prompt i saw last year for a rare pair fest - which i didn't have the time to dive into but which has stayed gnawing at my brain ever since - for a post-war fic with severus snape/andromeda tonks as the pairing.

and you'd better believe i was intrigued...

we're still in the early stages with this one, but the basic idea is to bring these two together through the complexity of their grief. [cheerful...]

the struggle when writing things in which snape doesn't die is, of course, how you approach the fact that he has been living according to a script which has now ended. for all the implication of canon that dumbledore expected him to survive [why does he tell harry at king's cross that he intended snape to be the true master of the elder wand if he wasn't planning for his loyal spy to reveal his true loyalties by helping deliver voldemort's final death blow?], snape can be very easily viewed as having presumed - and maybe even having hoped? - that he'd die in the second war.

how he deals with - for the first time in his life - having no master and having the freedom to choose to live on his own terms is something i think is always interesting to explore.

but i think it's particularly interesting to mash into andromeda's own finished script - the fact that her war has ended so devastatingly, with her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all dead; the fact that she's gone from being a grandmother to teddy's primary caregiver [and the resentments that brings up - as we've talked about before, i'm wedded to the idea that she doesn't really like harry and isn't thrilled that he's teddy's godfather]; and, most thorny of all, the fact that her sister is dead and there is now absolutely no chance of bellatrix seeing the error of her ways and trying to make amends [which, while i loathe the common trope that andromeda and her sisters would reconcile easily, is something i believe it's entirely reasonable for her to have hoped could be possible, even if she recognised it's unlikely it ever would have been].

snape's post-war relationship with the malfoys - presumably absolutely torpedoed by the reveal that he was a spy - also has parallels with andromeda's post-war reckoning with narcissa.

the title is because andromeda wanting to grow a kitchen garden of medicinal plants [and healing through it! omg, a metaphor!] was the premise which sprang to mind when i came up with this. i may have been watching gardener's world [i'd risk it all for monty don] at the time.

subluxation is obviously something we've talked about a lot, seeing as its development has definitely run alongside percy entering his post-war flop era in beasts.

for the uninitiated, it's - in the main - the story of what percy's year of working for the death eater-controlled ministry during deathly hallows looked like.

i think we've both been struck by the fact that pretty much every fic which deals with this question has percy offering some sort of behind-the-scenes resistance to voldemort's regime - maybe not as flashy as that offered by the order members in his family [although, let's be real, what the order actually does in that year is... debatable], but fundamentally aligned with the goodies against evil.

and, i want to be clear, all of the percy-the-resistance-fighter stories i've read have been amazing. but they've still never managed to shake me from my conviction that he probably... didn't do anything substantive against the regime at all. that he just fucked around and then, as the battle of hogwarts approach, began to find out...

and i am choosing to take "fucking around" literally...

have a little snippet:

Audrey's gripping his hand.

Her palm is clammy. His isn’t much better.

She was called back from her day off an hour ago. The Minister’s full support staff is assembled in a row against the wall in Meeting Room J. Biagio is crying. Clarice looks like she’s about to be sick.

Rookwood - Mr Rookwood, they have to call him now - is slithering up and down the line, snapping at anyone with wonky knots in their ties or lint on their robes. The hum of chatter rolls in from the Atrium. It sounds warm, the ordinary murmur of people greeting old friends or needling each other over Quidditch rivalries. The staff from the canteen mingle among them with platters of canapes - the Death Eaters have upped the usual standard of refreshments, but perhaps that’s part of pulling off a coup, Percy wouldn’t know - and champagne. 

Hands are being shaken, and partners and children are being asked after, and holiday plans are being discussed, and absolutely nobody - not a single, solitary member of the great and the good of wizarding Britain - seems shocked to discover that the entire world has been upended in a matter of hours, on this completely ordinary day.

It's this which is so terrifying, that the Minister didn’t see any of this coming, but everyone else did.

Agnes Skim, who presents the six o’clock news on the WWN, kissed Mr Yaxley on both cheeks and asked if he and his wife were still coming over on Sunday. Mr Selwyn was laughing uproariously at a joke told by one of the Wizengamot’s most distinguished members as he showed him to his seat. Half of the Hogwarts governors are milling around the place, making cheerful conversation with mass-murderers. There are representatives present from Gringotts and St Mungo’s and the Diagon Alley Shopkeepers Guild. The Prophet’s chief political correspondent breezed in five minutes ago, gabbing away to Travers - Mr Travers - like he was an old friend.

Which, Percy supposes, he probably is.

The Unspeakables have crawled out of their domain to greet Mr Rookwood like some conquering hero, miraculously returned from a mission all thought doomed. And, out of all the mundane horrors of that afternoon, it is the sight of Mr Croaker - who sends his father a card every Christmas and complimented his mother on her hat at the last staff party - thumping him on the back and saying ‘bloody wonderful to see you, Gus’ and Rookwood saying ‘likewise, Saul’ and Croaker grinning and saying ‘this is quite the event, isn’t it? I hope he’s paying you overtime’ and Rookwood winking at him and saying ‘I shall pretend not to have heard that’ and both of them collapsing into laughter, which makes tears start to slide down Percy’s face.

But not for long. There is no time to panic, because Rookwood clicks his fingers at them and tells them to line up on the dais in the Atrium, as a hundred camera bulbs flash and blind them. Banners are draped everywhere, and while they show the Ministry’s insignia and not the Dark Mark, the fact that so many people are walking around with rolled-up sleeves makes clear that they are one and the same now.

The only comfort, he thinks, the only comfort, is that - as he looks out at the sea of chairs, signs affixed to them reading Avery - Dolohov - Mulciber - Carrow in elegant calligraphy, he doesn't see one labelled The Dark Lord.

A hush falls over the room as Mr Thicknesse, in magnificent burgundy robes, his hair slicked back, displaying his high forehead, steps on to the dais and places a series of notecards on a lectern. It is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Percy wonders if the hammering of his heart is echoing in the room.

‘Wizards and witches of Britain,’ says Thicknesse, and there is an outbreak of applause. He holds up his hands to still it.

‘Wizards and witches of Britain. My friends.

‘This afternoon, following a special meeting of the electors, in which they voted unanimously in my favour, I was invited by the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot to accede to the office of Minister for Magic. It was my profound honour to accept the position. I am humbled by your trust in me to steer our great nation through this time of turmoil.’

There is another outbreak of applause, another barrage of camera flashes. And Percy notices that Lestrange is standing at the back of the room, talking to a man who greatly resembles him. Who must, he supposes, be his brother.

‘I have sworn before the court and swear before you now that I will uphold and defend the values - and the dignity - of the Ministry of Magic.’

In the years to come, he will look back and wonder whether he can pinpoint the exact moment when his life changed. If he can unravel a single thread from the tapestry of a hundred thousand ordinary days and follow it back to one pivotal second.

‘But I consider it my duty to go even further. I consider it my duty not only to defend the dignity of the Ministry, but to defend the dignity of magic itself.’

And he will conclude that he can. That he can trace all of it, every single bit of it, back to Rabastan Lestrange leaning forward, and accidentally brushing against Rodolphus Lestrange’s injured shoulder, and Rodolphus wincing - only slightly, but enough to make clear to Percy that he is not a monster at all - and revealing himself to be an ordinary man, who is tired after a long day and who aches.

‘Because are we not tired? Do we not grow weary at the sight of our traditions being torn down and soiled? Do we not feel crushed as more and more of our values are washed away, as the ordinary, hard-working witches and wizards of this country are told that they should be ashamed of themselves for their faith in the might of magic?

‘I will be a Minister for those people. I will be a Minister for those who are proud to be set apart by magic. I will rid them of the filth which pollutes their lives and forces them into compromise and shame.

‘I will bring them something clean and true and refreshing.

‘Something proud.

‘And pure.’

[if you think this speech is copied from succession... you would be one hundred percent correct.]