#like if the truth was a solid object then lies are the shadows of it. the indents it leaves on the soil etc etc

[wherenightmaresroost]

.....

[33-108]

Paramārthasāra of Acharya Abhinavagupta : “The Essence of the Teachings on the Highest Truth”

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The first 50 verses – Abhinavagupta

I take refuge in you alone, Sambhu, who are beyond maya, transcendent, without beginning, one, existent in all beings in myriad forms, refuge of all, and immanent in all animate and inanimate creation. ||1

Overwhelmed by the chain of misery that begins with his birth in the womb and terminates with his physical death, a disciple asked Lord Adhara about supreme wisdom. The teacher [Adhara] instructed him on the essence of the supreme wisdom by means of the Adhara Karikas, which Abhinavagupta recasts, modifying them from the point of view of the Saiva tradition.|| 2,3

The supreme Lord creates this universe consisting of four eggs (anda): the Sakti egg, the maya egg, the prakrti egg, and the prithvi egg, out of the glory of his own divine Sakti. ||4

Commentary:The supreme Lord creates this universe consisting of four eggs (anda): the Sakti egg, the maya egg, the prakrti egg, and the prithvi egg, out of the glory of his own divine Sakti. An anda is a sphere that contains in it a series of phenomenal elements and serves as a sheath that covers and hides the divine nature of the Absolute. (i) Sakti, the divine power of God projecting itself externally and covering the Absolute with the pure creation. Manifesting diversity within unity, it hides the basic absoluteness and the perfect unity of the Absolute God and contains in it the four pure tattvas from Sakti to pure Vidya.

(ii) The sphere of Maya pushes into oblivion the natural purity and divine potency of the Absolute, covers it with five sheaths or limiting elements called kancukas and presents the Absolute as a finite being called Purusa. It contains in it seven tattvas from Maya to Purusa.

(iii) The sphere of Prakriti covers Purusa with all psychic elements, senses, organs, subtle objective elements called tanmatras, three gunas and four gross elements upto water. It contains twenty-three tattvas from Prakriti to water.

(iv) Prithvi as an anda or sphere covers the Absolute with the solid gross existence. It contains prithvi-tattva alone and consists of the whole solid existence in the universe.

(v) Siva-tattva lies beyond all these four andas.

The above mentioned four spheres contain thirty-five tattvas and cover the pure and divinely potent absolute consciousness with fine, subtle, gross and solid creation. The Absolute God creates them playfully in the process of the manifestation of His Godhead. He creates them out of His own self in the manner of reflections and covers His real self with them. Such creation is something like a kind of transmutation which is different from transformation. Neither God nor His divine power under goes any change or transformation while appealing in the form of all these created tattvas which shine in His psychic light as the reflections of His own divine powers.

This world, with infinite kinds of bhuvanas (regions in creation), with its infinite variety of physical bodies and sense organs, exists within [the four eggs]. Having assumed the form of a fettered being (pashu), Siva alone is the embodied enjoyer of all this [the created world] in them [the eggs]. ||5

As a pure crystal assumes hues of different kinds, in the same way the supreme Lord also assumes the forms of gods, men, animals, and trees. ||6

Just as the reflection of the moon appears to be moving in flowing water and to be unmoving in still water, in the same way the Self, who is the same as the supreme Lord, appears to exist as embodied beings [equipped] with sense organs in different bhuvanas (regions in creation). ||7

Just as the invisible Rahu (the shadow of the earth), when appearing on the disc of the moon [at the time of a lunar eclipse] becomes visible, in the same way, the Self though present everywhere becomes perceptible in the mirror of the intellect (buddhi) by [the perception of] sense objects. ||8

As a face shines forth in a spotlessly clean mirror, in the same way the supreme Lord who is of the nature of illumination shines forth in the buddhi (intellect) tattva that has been purified following the descent of divine grace by the Lord. (śaktipāta). || 9

The universe, composed of the thirty-six tattvas, manifests itself in the highest tattva [Paramasiva], which is of the nature of illumination, full-in-itself, endowed with infinite [modes] of shakti, [including the powers of] will, knowledge, and action , which is free from thought constructs, pure, ever at rest, and which is devoid of origination and dissolution. ||10-11

Just as variety in the form of a city, village, etc., when seen in a mirror is not separate [from the mirror], yet it [the variety of objects] appears differentiated [in the mirror] as a city, village, etc., and also as different from the mirror. Similarly the universe, though not existing as different from the pure self-experience of the highest Bhairava, appears as the world, differentiated and different from [Bhairava], the supreme tattva. ||12-13

Dividing the five Saktis [one on each level of the five tattvas,] Paramasiva manifests [himself] as the five tattvas, namely, Siva, Sakti, Sadasiva, Iswara, and Vidya. ||14

The supreme Lord’s great freedom, which is capable of accomplishing the most difficult task, is called the Goddess Maya-sakti. It serves Paramasiva as a veil to hide Himself. ||15

Enveloped by maya Sakti, the bodha (Siva’s self-aware, pure consciousness) becomes defiled and accepts the condition of purusa, a fettered being, upon being fully bound by kalа (limitation with respect to time), kala (the limited capacity to do just a little), niyati (limitation with respect to causation), raga (the limited interest in a particular something), and avidya (limited capacity to know just a little) kancukas. ||16

[The limiting concepts expressed by thoughts like:] “Now,” “something,” “this,” “completely,” ” I know” (“I know only now and know just a little and just this much of it quite completely”) together with maya are said to be the six internal sheaths (kancukas). ||17

The husk existing on a grain of rice, though existing separately, appears inseparable from the grain. But [the fettered being, who similarly seems attached to his fetters] attains purity by turning towards Siva through Yoga and treading on his path. ||18

Prakriti is of the nature of happiness, sorrow, and delusion and [from it emerge] the internal sense organs, the intellect (buddhi) [the understanding sense that forms definite conceptions], the mind (manas), [the organ of such thinking as gives rise to indefinite ideations (about phenomena)] and the ego (ahamkara), [the egoist sense that connects such psychic activates with the finite subject.] which are the instruments for determinate cognition (niscaya), volition (sankalpa), and false conception of one’s Self (abhimana), respectively. ||19

The sense organs, having sound and so on as their object of knowledge, are hearing, touch, sight, taste, and smell. The organs of action are the organs of speech, grasping, locomotion, excretion, and procreation. ||20

The subtle objects [experienced by the sense organs] are devoid of differentiation. These are the five subtle elements (tanmatras): sound (sabda), touch(sparsa), form(rupa), taste(rasa) and smell(gandha). ||21

From the intermixing of these [subtle elements] are born the gross objects, the five gross elements, namely, ether, air, fire, water, and earth. ||22

Creation, extending from prakrti down to prithvi (earth), covers pure consciousness by providing a physical body in the same way a husk covers a grain of rice. ||23

Among the sheaths, the innermost [subtlest one] is the Anava-mala. The six kinds of sheaths (kancukas) made from maya, etc., form the subtle sheath. The outermost and gross covering is the physical body. The Self (Atman) is covered by these three kinds of sheaths. ||24

On being subjected to the darkness of ignorance, he [the Self], though one by his very nature, knows himself as many in the form of the infinite variety of limited subjects and objects. ||25

Just as [sugar cane] juice, jaggery, sugar, and gur, etc. are only [different forms or states of the same thing] sugar cane juice, so all beings abide in the supreme Lord Sambhu in different states or forms. ||26

[Notions like] “stream of pure awareness ,” “the witness,” “the vital breath ,” “the all-pervasive body,” “the Universal,” and “the individual” are only conventionally true on the empirical plane. They have no actual existence. ||27

A snake does not exist in a rope, yet it can frighten someone to death. The power of delusion is so great that it is not possible to know its true nature. ||28

Similarly, merit and demerit, heaven and hell, birth and death, joy and sorrow, varna (caste), and asrama (stages of life), etc., though non-existent in the pure Self, arise by the strength of delusion. ||29

This darkness [of delusion], which is manifested through [apparently] existing objects, makes one experience the non-self in things which in fact are identical with the Self. ||30

The experience of the Self in the not-self, such as the physical body or the vital air, is like darkness superimposed on darkness. It can be likened to a boil formed on the burned [part of the body]. ||31

Just as a spider [ensnares himself] in his web, so he [the embodied man in the world] binds himself by experiencing worldly objects like the physical body, the vital breath, intellectual knowledge, and the expanse of sky. ||32

Lord ParamaSiva liberates himself from bondage by loosening its grip through the glory of knowledge of the Self. Thus bondage and liberation are his divine play. ||33

Creation, maintenance, and dissolution [and the states of] waking , dreaming, and dreamless sleep , appear in him [the supreme Lord] in the fourth state, but even in that state he reveals himself as not covered [i.e., not affected] by them. ||34

The waking state corresponds to the universe (visva) because of differentiation. The dreaming state corresponds to illumintation ( tejas) on account of the dominance of light. The state of dreamless slumber corresponds to understanding (prajna), a s this state is characterised by massive knowledge, and the fourth (turiya) state is beyond all these. ||35

Just as the vast expanse of sky is not defiled by clouds nor smoke nor dust, so the supreme Being is not affected by the changes of maya.||36

When the ether in one jar is filled with dust, the ether in other jars is not then defiled. This is also true for those souls that undergo differentiation with respect to joy and sorrow. || 37

The supreme Lord seems still when the various elements are still; glad when they are glad; gloomy when they are gloomy; but truly he is not so. ||38

The great God, having first eradicated the delusion of taking the non-self and insentient substances as self, shatters afterwards the other delusive conception of taking the (all inclusive) self as non-self. || 39

When in this way the two illusions are successfully rooted out completely, the exalted adepts have fulfilled their aim, and there cannot be any duty left for them to accomplish. || 40

Thus by the power of meditation on unity, the trinity of prthivi (earth), prakrti and maya that had revealed itself in objective form, becomes reduced to simple being. ||41

Just as a belt, a ring, or a bracelet, irrespective of their differentiation, appear simply as gold, so the universe, irrespective of its differentiation, appears as simple being. ||42

This is the Brahman (supreme being), supreme, pure, still, undifferentiated, equable, complete, deathless, real, that rests in the Sakti who has consciousness as its form. || 43

On the other hand , anything un touched by illumination (bha) expressed as the powers of will, knowledge, and action is like a flower-in-the sky it does not exist. [Illumination consists of the powers of will, knowledge, and action held in perfect equilibrium]. ||44

Initially the Lord of the lords creates the whole phenomenon within His own divine, potent and eternally existent aspect named Siva, by handling the trident of His divine powers. || 45

Commentary:The conative, cognitive and creative powers of God are His three primary powers known as iccha-sakti, jnana-sakti and kriya-sakti. The symbolic trident of Siva is suggestive of these three divine powers which constitute His essential nature. Siva, coming face to. face to such powers through His awareness, that is, becoming fully aware of His natural divine powers, becomes prone or inclined towards creation. Such a situation is described as holding in His hand the trident of three divine powers. His conative power is His iccha-sakti, which is depicted in Upanisadic passages like “Tadaiksata, bahu syam, prajayeya iti”. The basic reality visualizes, “Let me become many, let me be born (in many forms)” and so on. Before creating the phenomenon externally as an objective existence, God creates it within His own self known as Siva. His will to create a particular type of phenomenon presupposes its existence inside His awareness, because nothing particular could have otherwise become the object of His conation, or creation. The phenomenon appears initially in Him and that is due to His cognitive power. It shines clearly in Him as the object to be created and is thus created there actually through His creative power. Its outward creation is due to the phenomenal growth of His kriya-sakti. A worldly creator also follows such process. He creates only that thing outwardly which is initially created by him in his own self. A painter creates initially a wonderful form in his own will and then he illuminates it thoroughly while forming a clear idea about it in his mind and afterwards he starts to paint it actually on a board. So does the Lord create the phenomenon in His own subjective self before manifesting it outwardly and objectively. That is the interior creation which the couplet in hand is meant to express.

And again, he [Paramasiva] accomplishes the task of the external creation of the three eggs with their infinite variety in order to find him self in the external world [as innumerable subjects and objects] through the process of expansion of his five Saktis. || 46

The five divine powers of the Lord are: cit or pure consciousness, ananda or blissfulness, iccha or conative power, jnana or cognitive power and kriya or creative porwer. These powers shine in Him as His own self. Their outward manifestation reflects them as the creation of the objective existence consisting of three spheres of Maya, the causal creation, Pracriti, the subtle creation and Prthvi, the gross creation. The whole of such creation is complexly wonderful. It is the outward or objective manifestation of the essential nature of God. Here He finds out His own self in an objective aspect and that is His ‘bahiratma-labha’

[yogin contemplates]: “Putting thus playfully the machine of the circle of divine powers in motion, I am myself the Lord, with purity as my nature, working at the highest post as the master hero of the infinite wheel of Saktis or divine powers!” || 47

Commentary: Concluding the discussions noted above, an aspirant realizes that he is not a finite being but the great Lord who is the only hero having the multitudes of divine powers as His heroins. He feels actually that he is himself activating playfully the whole circle of such powers, the primary one among which are five: (1) cit, (2) ananda. (3) iccha, (4) jnana, and (5) kriya. Their amalgamated unity appears in twelve forms in the process of all psychic activities of all beings and are known as Sakti-cakra or the group of twelve Kalis. Such Kalis absorb in them the psychic activities of all subjects, the functions of their psychic apparatus and the objective elements that become foci of such activities. A successful practitioner of Saivism realizes and visualizes such fact through his personal experience.

“It is in Me that the universe reveals itself as [inanimate objects like] jars as in a mirror! From Me the universe emanates just as the manifold variety of the dream world emanates from the dreaming person!” ||48

“Just as it is the very nature of a body to be its limbs like hand, feet etc. so is the whole phenomenon my own form! Just as it is light which shines in the form of all existent substances, so do I myself glitter as all existence!” || 49

“Though in fact I do not have any body or senses or organs, and do not commit any deeds, yet I see, hear, smell and I alone compose wonderfully different sastras like Siddhantas, Agamas and logical treatises. || 50

with notes of Balajinath Pandit"

[anotherghoul666]

FUCK ME DUDE I sent the ask off without the damn answer in XD I'm so sorry hahahaha @devoured-by-shadows here's the actual post holy fuck.

(Answers 19 and 25 are below the others under a read more cause there’s talks of sensitive topics in there, 19 light mention of the topic of death, and 25 especially be wary of if you’re sensitive to topics like addiction, overdose and someone withering away over years.)

12:A song from your preteen years Ooh, interesting, what was big in my musical life between 9 and 12. Let's see. I got into metal at age 7 thanks to my dad showing me Iron Maiden, so needles to say Maiden was My Band in those years. While yes, there were other bands that managed to pique my interest then - things like Linkin Park, System of a Down, Nickleback (people need to chill with the Nickleback hate, yes they're commercial as fuck but dear god Silver Side Up and The Long Road fucked back in the day ok, and I will respect and appreciate those albums for what they were) and my first forray into power metal through Gamma Ray and Helloween and Blind Guardian - let's be real, Maiden was basically my whole life. When I discovered Maiden through their older albums, they were currently fronted by Blaze Bailey. Bless the guy, he tried his best and there are legit good songs on his two albums with Maiden, but you just can't fill Bruce Dickinson's shoes man, nobody can. All we were waiting for was Dickinson's return. So when he did come back in 2000 for the Brave New World album, that felt like the biggest event of my short life, and that album became my hyperfixation and favorite thing on the planet.

Iron Maiden - The Wicker Man I could link the entire album here as my “song of my pre-teen years” but this is the first track off of the album, it’s the start of the obsession, it was one of my favs to drum to back in the day. Lots of good memories with this classic!

15:A song that is a cover by another artist You know what's excellent music? 80s synth-pop / new wave like Tears for Fears.

Tears for Fears - Everybody Wants to Rule the World

You know what's even better? When a silly-yet-actually-super-talented youtuber band does it over 30 years later and nails the atmosphere.

Ninja Sex Party - Everybody Wants to Rule the World Listen, the world can say that it wants about the whole Game Grumps / Ninja Sex Party / Danny Sexbang persona, I kinda don't care. Objective truth is, Dan Avidan has fucking pipes, his voice is a fucking treasure, and serious albums like that one cover album from 2016 really show off these guys' potential. I get what their shtick is and I respect the hustle. But dude, when they cover 80s tracks like this one or A-ha's Take on Me? This is where they shine in my opinion. There's something so comforting, so soft and smooth in this version, this song feels like a hug for my brain. I remember multiple occasions in 2016 when this song alone carried me through panic attacks.

18:A song from the year that you were born So I was born in ‘91. Solid year in music, and in metal specifically. Metallica’s Black Album came out in ‘91. Ozzy Osbourne’s No More Tears, Soundgarden’s Badmotorfinger, classics everyone knows. Over in Europe in the Nordic countries, the late 80s to early 90s with ‘91 smack dab in the middle was the creation and solidifying of black metal. And while of course I did not listen to black metal as a baby (tho I wish XD) the genre became my favorite genre of metal nowadays. ‘91 was the year when Darkthrone released their first record. When Samael released their first record. And when Bathory, already legends back then, released Twilight of the Gods.

Bathory - Prologue / Twilight of the Gods / Epilogue Piece of fucking history this track is.

20:A song that has many meanings to you Ha XD Come try to crack the code of Genesis’ The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway storyline hahaha. 23 songs of the most beautiful madness in the world. Listen, I have listened to this album countless times, pondered meanings, I read the story, my dad saw the original show, we saw the officially sanctioned replica of the show together multiple times, with the costumes, the original videos, everything. I understand The Lamb, and at the same time I understand absolutely nothing about The Lamb.

Genesis - In The Cage Make your own meaning. The more you look at The Lamb, the more confused the creature will make you, and that’s the way I like it! Peter Gabriel era Genesis is the best music that humanity’s ever created. You can spend your whole life trying to get it and you won’t and you’ll still be on awe.

19:A song that makes you think about life I tend to think about life through the lens of death most often. Idk how morbid of a person that means I am, or how much of a realist it makes me maybe? I don’t like to spend too much pondering life cause I know it can easily take me somewhere dark in the mind. But I do instinctually think about the value of life and artistic output, and the limited and fragile nature of life itself, when I listen to songs by people I’ve never known or met or seen while they were alive, and yet here they are, alive and well somehow in my hands and ears. How trippy.

Windir - Journey to the End Raising a (non-alcoholic) glass to Valfar for his soul to share in whichever hall of the afterlife he’s at. The soul of the Sogndal scene, unbeatable creative who I firmly believe could have influenced black metal and changed the course of the scene if he hadn’t died walking home in a snowstorm in 2004. Life’s funny like that. Sometimes all it takes is a walk home that you never arrive from. That type of shit makes me ponder life and its weirdly thin meaning. You take a look at the lyrics, it’s almost like Valfar knew what was coming. Nevertheless, Valfar and Windir left us some of the absolute best black metal offerings in the history of the genre. You cannot tell me this guy wasn’t ahead of his time with that synthy / electro / dreamy second half.

25:A song by an artist no longer living Aaah I unknowingly preemptively answered this one with the Windir answer before uh XD Alright, well, let’s talk about another artist that’s passed away then. An artist I actually got to see playing live multiple times before his passing. An artist that we, in the melodeath community, thought was so fucking cool. His self-destruction, which was very vividly broadcasted to the public mind you, was glorified, it was so epic and wild and awesome. The Wildchild, Alexi Laiho of Children of Bodom fame. We aspired to be half as cool as him. Because for some strange reason when you’re a teenager, a person showing off how much he can drink and do drugs is cool. A metal musician you admire showing himself blackout drunk and passed out and making himself sick day and day out, was cool.

That’s nuts to me now, as an adult, as someone who has mildly dealt with addiction and even that fucked me up, as someone who works with addicts and sees the damages of this disease day in and day out. We all watched Alexi killing himself slowly in front of us, at shows, on camera, on the tour buses, etc. and thought it was cool. We encouraged him, egged him on. Fucking madness. It claimed him, in the end. In 2020. I saw it coming for a few years so I was zero percent surprised. I know it caught some fans off guard, I don’t understand how.

I saw CoB in 2019, less than a year before the guy passed. I also saw CoB multiple times from 2011 to then, so I saw the decline of the frontman, and I feel you had to willingly be blind to it to not see it. In 2019 the guy was a living skeleton. No energy, barely able to play on stage, haggard unfocused eyes, caved in face, skin over bones. I read reviews of this 2019 show, people wrote about how he looked good and had energy and was “at his best”, like?! Was it denial about their favorite musician’s health status? Or pandering to the music industry, unable to review a show honestly? That performance was beyond difficult to watch. It hurt. Still hurts when I think back on it. I was physically uncomfortable. We left before the end. I couldn’t stand watching a literal wraith shredding guitar on stage knowing full well this night too would end with him passed out drunk at the bar after.

It was a whole story, Alexi’s antics. It caused tension and conflict within the band, and of course, how can it not be harmful to watch your frontman and friend do this to themselves. But metal was and unfortunately still is a culture of excess and substances, and nobody did it “better” than the Wildchild. We all thought it looked rad, but in the end we watched this guy die for two decades. When the news of his passing came out in 2020 (from an overdose of lots of different substances on top of liver disease and basically an organ breakdown) I cried a ton. For the reality behind this precious piece of my childhood and teenage years that was CoB; but mostly for how unhealthy the live music scene can be and how it can encourage artists down very dark paths. I don’t understand anymore how watching people get fucked up on substances is supposed to be cool. So I do my part when I can, to honor Alexi Laiho and other musicians like him whom addiction claimed, and to remind whoever reads me that alcoholism and drug abuse isn’t “cool”. Taking shit doesn’t make anyone more manly or more metal or impressive. Addiction shouldn’t be trendy. It cost us too many great musicians already.

Children of Bodom - Thrashed, Lost & Strungout Man I miss this motherfucker.

[jetaime-jespere]

Old Times All Over (Part 1 of 2)

A very special thank you to @sequinsmile-x for the beta!

Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore.

Aaron takes a risk and goes to Emily while she's undercover in Paris.

Rating: M

Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore. The weight of her absence is unbearable; it follows him around as if lingering in hidden shadows and settling deep in his soul, an indelible stain that doesn’t fade as the days pass by. He bears the team’s grief, shoulders it and doesn’t let himself handle his own. It feels wrong to mourn her as if she were actually dead when in reality she lingers somewhere very different, another kind of hellish existence. He often finds himself wondering what she’d say about all of it. Emily would have scoffed at the ornate casket, rolled her eyes at the formality of the Catholic service the Ambassador insisted upon. He’d been the one to make the call on the flight back to DC. Elizabeth knew right away why he was calling, and the detached coldness in her tone was merely a coping mechanism, for the older woman’s grief seeped through the phone as he relayed the news. Aaron could scarcely reach her eyes as he offered condolences in person, the words heavy and thick on his tongue. Elizabeth’s questions were answered with the vague formalities that were constructed as part of a grand lie, held together with threads that ran the risk of being unraveled with the slightest misstep.

Read the rest below the cut or on Ao3

Emily’s life depended on the sanctity of those lies, as did his own.

No one can ever find out about this, JJ had whispered to Aaron and Clyde behind a firmly closed door in the depths of that hospital in Boston. It was eerily dark, their heads bent together in near silence as initial plans were laid. For her safety, and all of ours. It felt oddly conspiratorial to plan her disappearance as she laid just feet away, oblivious to it all and very much alive. But Doyle escaped into the night like a ghost, and that meant Emily had to go too whether they liked it or not. It didn’t matter that they hunted monsters like him every day. They knew the moment her heart started again, that she would pull through, that she’d never be free. He’ll never stop looking for her. Clyde’s voice was like rubbing salt in a wound that burned through his skin.The tension between them was thick, laden with the unspoken tension of a tentative truce and a keen awareness of the pain that coursed within each of them. He will go to the ends of the earth to find her.

Aaron disliked Clyde Easter from the moment he laid eyes on the man. Perhaps it was his closeness to Emily - she trusted him, more so than she did Aaron, as was being made abundantly clear. It still stung - that she’d gone to him in her moment of need without even once considering just maybe the team could have helped. Maybe it was the way Clyde knew her so intimately, almost as well as a lover would - a delicate balance of adoration and indignance, a fierce desire to protect the oaths they’d sworn years ago, loyalty and trust woven from years of brushes with peril only to do it all over again. But it was more than that; he knew from the moment Clyde sat before him in an interrogation room in Boston his loathing ran deep. Only later would Aaron realize they both paid a similar price for loving the same woman.

The idea to go to her comes to him once Dave has finally disappeared for the night and the bottle of scotch is empty once again. It’s a ritual they share now, unspoken yet expected, an attempt at burying the worst of their grief. It never quite hits the mark, because Dave doesn’t know the truth. His words are wise and well intended, but he speaks of loss in terms of death, and it’s one thing Aaron can’t think about for too long. But it’s some of the only company he has once the building quiets down, so whenever he shows up at the door, he doesn’t object. Most nights they leave together after a round. The echo of their shoes striking the marble floors is the only noise between them when they pass the framed photos of agents long gone on the walls, now with Emily among them. He wants to shake someone, tell them she doesn’t belong there. “Don’t look,” Dave tells him every time. “It won’t bring her back.”

He always looks.

Tonight Aaron lingers, the idea now an intrusive thought reverberating through his weary mind. It’s dangerous - violates every rule of her disappearance - and puts anyone who knows at risk. He shuffles the files on his desk only to do it once more, rearranges the pens in the cup and flips through a few reports that still require his signature. His phone rings; he doesn’t have to turn it over to know it’s Jessica asking where he is, that Jack is asking for him. He was supposed to have been home a few hours ago. Instead of answering that phone, he digs for a different one. This one has stayed hidden in his desk since the night they returned from Boston. Clyde had pushed it into his hand at the last possible moment before he boarded a flight, his face stony and solemn. “If you ever need to reach me, use this.” It might be the closest thing to a friendship they’ll ever have, a twisted kind of bond that comes along with a shared secret they very well might take to the grave.

“I was wondering when you would call,” comes the lilting British accent on the other end when the line connects. “I thought for sure it would be sooner.” Clyde’s voice is haunting; it takes Aaron right back to Boston when it was just the two of them in that interrogation room, piercing blue eyes up against his darker ones as the pieces fell into place. If you want to stop that man, you have to put a bullet between his eyes yourself. He barely recognizes his own voice; it strains when he explains exactly why he’s calling, once the doors of his office are firmly shut. Even then, it’s a near whisper.

“You do realize what you’re asking of me?” Clyde demands. He’s not exactly surprised by the request, though. After all, he and Aaron had a few things in common. “The risks of all of this?” He’s whispering, the hiss of his voice biting even from thousands of miles away, wherever the hell he might be. “I thought you did things by the book at the BAU.”

“Can you make it work or not?” Aaron’s terseness matches Clyde’s hostility, a thinly veiled shield for his grief that consumes him.

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a contemplative inhale as if he’s considering his answer, like he holds the power in his hands himself. “You should have more faith in me, Agent Hotchner.”

...

It’s all a little too easy to coordinate once the initial call is made, much to his surprise. For two weeks, things continue as normal, or as close to normal as possible, a period of limbo-like freefall. A case takes them to Portland, another to Providence. While the team is across the country, Clyde takes care of the multiple identities and aliases Aaron will use in Europe, along with a reservation at a nondescript hotel and God only knows what else. He’s barely back in Virginia for an hour when a text message on the burner phone reveals a series of coordinates, a meeting location.

“A direct flight to Charles de Gaulle might seem suspect,” Clyde whispers, nestled amongst the shadows along the Potomac River three nights before Aaron slated to leave. “There’s a flight from Regan to Heathrow, then to Paris. You’ll have a different identity for each, so best not to get confused.”

Aaron bristles at the snarkiness in his tone. “And my cover story?”

Clyde scoffs, as if disgusted by the question. “You’ll tell your team you’re being called to London to consult with Scotland Yard as a favor to a friend. I’ve already taken care of those details as well - a fake case report. Familiarize yourself with them so they don’t suspect anything.” He passes over the thick envelope, holding onto it for just a moment too long.

“How will I find her? Once I’m there?”

“Leave that up to me, Aaron. She’ll be waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” is all Aaron can say once he holds the weight of it in his hands. “I know you took a huge risk to do this.”

Clyde stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I love her too, you know.” It’s certainly the most honest he’s ever been, something that looks like hurt flooding his features. But he stiffens a few seconds later with an authoritative clearing of his throat. “Bloody hell, Aaron, for all of our sakes, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

...

Aaron drops Jack off at Jessica’s. He relays the same details he told the team a few hours before with the same feigned degree of calm assurance and mock annoyance - just a few days away, work related. No one suspects a thing. In fact, the rest of them seem almost happy for him to go. “A change of scenery might be nice,” Dave says as they walk out of the BAU.

It’s risky, inherently a bad idea and yet, it isn’t enough to deter him. There’s an element of betrayal he feels for lying to the team, for they’re still reeling from their collective loss. They miss her just as much as he does; none of this is fair. He drowns it out with a pair of headphones and a stiff drink as the plane roars to life and lifts into the sky as the sun sets.

He wakes up hours later in London with a headache and an all too familiar ache in his chest.

…

It’s another few hours of travel before he actually lands in Paris. He’s completely focused, determined as he collects his luggage and leaves the airport. He destroys the first passport moments after the plane touches solid ground and tucks the next one in his jacket pocket for easy access, the others will stay safely in his travel bag. Aaron calls Clyde on a new burner phone, one of several included in the envelope of documents that was passed over in a shadowy spot by the Potomac. He answers on the first ring, doesn’t even bother with a greeting. Instead he rattles off an address Aaron commits to memory and adds, “she’ll be waiting for you,” before the line goes dead. The address, he soon finds, is a small cafe in the fifth Arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. At first it seems risky, to meet in public, but it’s probably safer than somehow having a record of her address.

The woman at the small table in the back of the cafe is inconspicuous, but he spots her immediately upon opening the door. She could be anyone; she fits right in. One slender leg crossed over the other, a chic knee-length boot peeking out under the table. A simple raincoat, hair cut just below her chin. It’s lighter than it was the last time he saw her but still a rich shade of brown.The only giveaway is the state of the nails on her right hand - not manicured, bit down and ragged. It’s her, exactly where Clyde said she would be. He doesn’t make a big show, just simply sits in the empty seat across from her, his heart pounding in his chest when he sees her face for the first time in months. Emily’s hand is unsteady as her fingers wrap around the espresso on the table. “I’ve been waiting.” It sounds formal; she makes no move to shake his hand or hug him, or display any bit of emotion, but her lips tremble and her eyes well up a little.

“I got a little lost along the way,” Aaron shrugs a little, keeping his tone light for any ears privy to their conversation. She smiles, probably picturing him lost on the maze-like streets of Paris, the streets that still don’t feel like home to her either. “I’m here now.” It carries more weight than it ever would; all he wants to do is touch her to prove to himself this isn’t just part of the fucking nightmare he’s lived since March, one he’ll wake from wrapped in sheets damp with sweat and a pounding heart. She’s very much real, very much alive in front of him, but what the Emily he sees isn’t the Emily he remembers. Paris might be beautiful but it hasn’t been kind to her. She’s thinner and paler, shades of exhaustion on her face. Over the years Aaron has seen her sleep deprived more times than he could count - the toll of back to back cases added up - but this is something else entirely. It’s the culmination of fear from constantly looking over her shoulder, the toll of the unknown. Would Doyle ever stop looking for her, or would the rest of her days be spent on the run, alone, days that blend into weeks into months and years? Would she ever come home, to the only family she’s really ever had?

Emily studies him too, undoubtedly shocked at what she sees. Time hasn’t been kind to him, either. He’s a shell of what he used to be. A subtle shadow on his face that’s new, he’s weary eyed and tense. She knows it’s not because of the better part of a day he’s spent traveling - it’s much more than that. It’s a haunting look, with the memory of how quickly things spiraled out of control. He’d been helpless to stop any of it; Emily knows the blame he places on himself. If their hurried goodbye in the hospital was any indicator of the torment of what he’s been through the last six months, then she knows it’s been hell for him. Just like it’s been for her. She pushes another espresso, this one untouched, in his direction. “How much time do you have?” English feels foreign on her tongue. It’s been weeks, months maybe, since she’s had a real conversation not in French. It’s an act. This is all an act, but one her life depends on. Every minute she spends walking the arrondissements is a risk. The fear curls around her spine a little too tightly. She glances around the coffee shop, eyes scanning through without spending too long on any one thing. It can’t look obvious, only effortless.

“Not nearly enough.” Aaron wonders how much she knows about this, just what Clyde told her about the logistics of his visit. “We have about forty eight hours.”

He doesn’t miss the longing, wistful look in her eyes when she nods, the slightest tip of her head. It’s not enough time, it never will be. But it’s all they have, all they might ever have. They speak in short sentences, vague and cryptic, as they sip the espresso. It’s stronger than he expected, she seems immune to its effects. She doesn’t call him Aaron, and he’s careful not to call her Emily. He doesn’t know her new name, either. Not even Clyde could give him that information - it was probably better that way. They make superficial conversation - the rain here and the heat there, the bakery on the corner with chocolate croissants and the headlines on the newspaper that sits on the table. He plays along as she explains, as if he fits into this world she’s had no other choice but to assimilate into. To anyone in the cafe, they could be old friends, lovers even, with years of history between them, a casual intimacy spun like a web. The ease of lulls in conversation, a subtle glance every so often, the comfort of the proximity of someone else.

And hidden somewhere in their conversation, behind a facade of lies, is something else. What no one knows, what they haven’t quite managed to forget themselves, is something happened between them once before.

...

It was spring, after the dust had settled from Foyet and the world started to turn again, albeit slowly. Only when things settled into a new kind of normal - the humble experience of single parenting, relying on Jessica like he never had before - did Aaron realize something had changed between them. Perhaps it was the unwavering way Emily stood by him even when he wouldn’t admit to needing it, or how she picked up his loose ends without making him feel like his life was unraveling before his eyes. It was the way she mourned Haley’s death, a steadfast presence at her funeral, and her attentiveness to Jack in the months after.

He’d been divorced for more than a year, separated for at least two. Aaron no longer mourned his marriage, but the loss of his son’s mother, the woman he’d shared more than half of his life with. But someone else started to preoccupy his mind - dark hair, a blinding grin, a wicked sense of humor. It was becoming harder to ignore; she was everywhere. So a few months later in the spring, when he found Emily, nursing a drink at the hotel bar that had clearly seen better days, after a particularly brutal case in Scranton, he knew exactly how the night would end. It would cross a line - railroad through any professional boundary they still maintained. But an unsub had walked free earlier that night, a child was dead, and while it wasn’t her fault, he watched any trace of composure vanish from her face when they got back to the hotel as she retreated into herself.

It shouldn’t have happened that way - definitely not how he imagined it would. But Emily was desperate in her need to forget, he was desperate to help her do so. It was frantic, the clash of her teeth against his an ironic reminder that this was the first time he ever kissed her. Aaron pressed her back against the wall, sucked a bruise into her neck, and buried himself inside of her with one smooth push. He swallowed her moans with his mouth, the snap of his hips brutal and sharp. She reveled in it, her need for him and this, legs hitched over his hips as she clenched around him.

“Wanted you for so long,” he growled as she came around him. Her fingers were like vices around his shoulders, clinging to him as he fucked her through it, unrelenting. “Thought about you, about this.”

“Me too,” Emily gasped, the simple admission triggering his own release until he came apart and took her with him one more time.

Aaron had to carry her to the bed in the middle of his hotel room. It was the most gentle he’d been all evening, gingerly placing her in the center of it, following her down and pulling her into his arms. She was bruised and sore, he wore the scratches of her nails on his back and shoulders. Emily curled into him like she’d been doing it forever, snuggling into his chest. “I still can’t feel my legs.”

“We should have done that a long time ago,” he mused into the darkness, dragging his fingertips down her spine, listening to her slow, even breaths. It’s an admission more than an observation, and the low laugh that comes from her is all the confirmation he needs to know she thinks the same thing.

It happened again hours later, in the middle of the night, this time softer, slow and unhurried. He made her come twice with his mouth, coaxing her through each one. Aaron took his time, marveling at her and whispering praises into her skin. She beamed under his touch, besotted under his gaze. He studied the sharpness of her ribs, the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. And then he held her hands in his own above her head, rocking into her, metronomic and even. He kissed her like a lover should, his lips still wet with her slick, her legs pressed tightly wrapped around his waist as she crested against him. He collapsed against her shortly after, grappling for her hands, leaving kisses along her collarbones - anything to be as close to her as he possibly could.

But it was over after that.

Timing once again failed them. Not because they didn’t have the chance, but because they were both afraid something would change, whatever friendship they built over time, and they wouldn’t be able to take it back. They never talked about it, never even acknowledged anything had happened in that hotel room in Scranton once it was over. It lingered between them, the awareness of it sometimes all-consuming if she got too close or they somehow ended up sitting beside one another on the jet. But things happened - JJ’s untimely departure, coupled with Seaver’s arrival, the grueling toll of case after case. It was buried, hidden behind the burden of their jobs and the baggage they carried, both too stubborn to admit what was right in front of them.

And then she slipped away, shortly after a case in Montana. Emily’s typical professionalism, her unmatched level of skill was marred by uncharacteristic lateness and a short fuse, as if something had settled into her mind that she couldn’t shake. She was secretive and jumpy, slowly withdrawing from them all before his own eyes. And he’d been too caught up in what they weren’t saying, what they were hiding from, to even ask what was wrong.

Aaron never saw it coming. Until it was too late.

…

The cafe suddenly feels suffocating, the four walls trapping them in. What started as an alluring scent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries now feels cloying, overwhelming. It’s just a little too loud as their conversation fades into silence. After all, there’s only so much small talk that can be made when he only has one question. Why? Across from him Emily shifts in her chair yet still wears her pleasant smile, still playing the act she’s perfected over the last several months. But she’s tearing at her fingernails, a sure sign that she’s nervous. He knows her tells by now, all of them. “What do we do now?” She asks, her voice barely audible. Whether it’s intentional or not he isn’t sure,

He leans in, takes her hand in his own. “Let’s get out of here.”

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 8: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 5]

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 3: Strength Upright: Compassion, Courage, Self-Control Reversed: Weakness, Doubt, Discord

Once upon a time, a troll makes a mirror.

Is that not how we started this story, so long ago? How so many start: a vile creature forges an object. Who and what change in the telling; a troll makes a mirror, a god conjures a box, knowledge grows in a garden. In the end, it is all the same: what is once contained is opened, unwitting. Or lost, foolishly, in a heart so cold and cruel that it becomes bent to another purpose entirely.

But that is merely an allegory, a fiction composed to cover the raw edges we leave when we rub against each other. For that is the truth, is it not? There is no fell creature, no capricious and omnipotent beings to blame for our misery. There is only us, carving our place in our story by smoothing pieces off another. A snow queen is not made from frost and cold but by the blades of others, slicing slivers from her flesh until only ice remains.

That is the truth we cannot bear: the only monsters we face are the ones we have made. The only poisons we drink are those human hands have brewed.

And it starts like this, always: a girl in a garden, remembering the image of a rose, and wondering, how could I have I forgotten?

“You were quiet at dinner tonight.” Shirayuki hasn’t been at court long-- or rather, in court, privy to all its secret signals and capricious undercurrents-- but she knows that this is as close to an “are you all right?” as Haki can come. If confrontation is only allowed the glint of a knife, affection is stifled to a hint of warmth, a fire made in a room one is forbidden to venture. “I hope that the meal agreed with you.”

A flash of pharmacy white flutters at the corner of her vision, frustratingly out of reach. It’s been so long since she’s been there, since she’s thought of anything but silverware and schottische; when she tries it’s like a hundred voices shouting at once, each demanding to be heard. Just like being at Lilias, heads bent over a knotty problem--

“Shirayuki.” The consort does not crouch; it’s best, Lady Mihoko often remind her, to pretend one has no anatomy beneath the waist. But Haki does perch on a cushioned stool, her brows drawn tight over the elegant line of her nose. “You are not...indisposed, I hope?”

A solid shake dispels the fog mired around her. “What? Oh, no! I only...” It would be a mistake to speak of loam between her fingers, of the satisfaction of hearing a pod snap from its stalk. “I didn’t have much to say with my, erm, conversational partners.”

Royal brows raise to stunned arches. “Is that so? I would have thought you’d find much in common with Lord Kazunori and Lord Seiichii.”

They had both been older men, southern lords drawn to court for Seiran’s summit. Kind enough, but they spoke to her as they would their own daughters, which is to say: warmly, but brief. Not of any topics that one might sink their teeth into, lest it leaving lines around her mouth.

“I think they were more interested in talking to each other than to me,” she admits. In part because of her sex, and in part because-- well, her body may have been in that chair, obscuring the twining gods and goddess painted across it, but her mind had been a wing away, wondering if it was yet time to harvest the roku berries, or whether this year’s crop of apprentices knew akegi from yura shigure. “It seems there’s much to discuss before they all meet for, ah...discussion.”

Haki hands her a rueful smile. “There always is.” With a sigh, she sweeps to standing, as statuesque as any marble in Wistal’s halls. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to ask the majordomo to find you some more scintillating seatmates tomorrow.”

“Ah..!” Tomorrow. Never had a day seemed so far away, so much more than a handful of hours between dawn and dusk. At Lilias, the nights had wavered between seasons, some so short she hardly slept between sun set and rise; and others so long that she woke in darkness, only to leave the lab in the same. But still, none seemed so long as this, and for no reason at all.

“Is something wrong?” Haki turns to her again, concern rumpling the curved lines of her mouth. “Do you have plans...?”

“No!” Shirayuki rushes to assure her. “It’s only...you mentioned dinner, and suddenly I felt so...”

“Weary?” Haki offers, when she won’t. Her eyes soften with mouth to match, smile turning her from heavenly to beatific. “I’m not surprised. You have been hard at work these last few months.”

And hardly anything to show for it, in Lady Mihoko’s learned opinion. Shirayuki bites back a groan. She would be sixty before that woman found her approaching passable, and even then, she still wouldn’t be good enough for a prince’s wife. Not when his children might have some chance, no matter how slim, of seating their sullied bloodline on the throne of Clarines.

“Perhaps you have earned a break.” Shirayuki blinks, staring up into the consort’s glowing face. “A private dinner seems in order. A night of no pressure of expectation.”

It sounds too good to be true. “Oh, no! I couldn’t--”

“Give me but a moment.” Haki hesitates at the door to her boudoir, lips lifted in an impish grin. “Perhaps my good brother might find himself available as well?”

Her mouth snaps shut. It’s been ages since she saw Zen, just the two of them. He came to dinner rarely-- understandable, with the summit only weeks away, and entirely under his purview, despite Seiran’s tacit position as host-- and where he went, Mitsuhide and Kiki went too. Haki had been her closest companion these past few weeks, the only friendly face, but Shirayuki longed for someone who didn’t look at her and see a princess, but--

Nervous energy courses through her, jolting her to her feet. Her hands itch, wanting for something to do, and with no plants to hand, they land upon the package on the receiving table. It’s wrapped in humble brown paper, folds clean and crisp, twine tightly tied. Haki’s medication, she realizes, dropping it from her numb hands. Made in the pharmacy. There’s a note on top-- instructions. She’d recognize them anywhere; after all, she’d written more than a few of them herself.

It’s curiosity that makes her pluck it from where it sits. It’s been ages since she’s been in the lab, but her knowledge hasn’t faded; there’s no harm in seeing whether there are any mistakes. An apprentice could have made this, after all. The dose does, as Garack was so fond of saying, make the poison.

She flips open the card, already flushed with the thought of being useful, but--

It’s not some apprentice’s writing at all. Oh no, she knows this spidery scrawl all too well. It was on every jar at her bench, every treatise she read late into the night.

It’s Ryuu’s.

Ignorance is bliss, they say. Always with a laugh, but stewing beneath it is envy and longing in equal measure. A pining for times past, for a childhood never quite as innocent as we remember.

For that is what we miss: innocence. Not the not-knowing, but state of not needing to know. The trust we felt towards those who always knew in our stead, who kept us safe from the dangers that pressed in around us. The ones who protected us with little lies; the small pauses to omit what might scare us, the careful editing to make our worlds the giddy fantasy we dreamed.

But there comes a day where all children must grow up. There is a day we must know these things for ourselves, so that we may see the world with clear eyes. For even innocence can be a cage, should some other hand try to lock you within it.

Ignorance is bliss, they say, but oh, only if they can keep you from knowing what it is you do not know.

May I ask you a question? the little girl asks, her gaze no longer on the garden, but the horizon beyond. It is bent in her vision, the glass made in such a way that each diamond blows out the edges, warping the world around it. She had never noticed when she looked only at the garden so near to it, but now...

Now the imperfection is all she can see.

Anything, the sorceress replies, her fingers wrapping around the caps of her shoulders. They’re cold, as cold as the glass beneath her palms.

The girl looks at their reflection, at the way the wave of the glass make those fingers bleed into talons. Where have the roses gone?

Shirayuki’s hands tremble, her eyes tracing every last loop, every hurried curve. “I didn’t...”

Haki peers around the jamb, letter folded in her hand. “Did you say something, my dear?”

This is the closest she’s been to Ryuu in months; even from where she holds it, the scene of lavender and akegi shigure waft from its paper. Not scented, not on purpose, but just from being left in a desk’s cubbyhole with his hastily tidied samples. His parchment smelt the same in Lilias, fragrant as the hothouses themselves.

Her chest can hardly contain her breath. “I didn’t realize that Ryuu was overseeing your treatment.”

A shadow flickers over the sorceress’s face, her grip painful for but a moment before she is her usual smiling self. A moment that could have been imagined, if only the girl was so sure it was not.

Roses? the sorceress asks airily. I’ve never grown any roses.

“Excuse me?”

“It only makes sense,” Shirayuki hurries to add, placing the card back atop the package. “He’s taken over for Chief Garack, and she always oversaw the royal--”

“Shirayuki.” Her name is firm from Haki’s lips, just shy of a scold. “I’m quite sorry but...who are you talking about?”

So many tales speak of trust as a blade, one that may be used to cut, that breaks when forged from brittle iron. A weapon, wielded and forgotten on the battlefield once the story is done.

But you and I know better: trust is a spell, woven to protect. It is a shield, unseen but always felt; sense by faith and not by fingers. And when it wavers, it does not break, does not shatter like a blade upon a stone; no, nothing so dramatic as that. Instead, it frays, unwoven one thread at a time, unnoticed until--

Until the hole can no longer be ignored.

She doesn’t leave the consort’s chambers meaning to break her curfew; oh no, when the door closes behind her, Shirayuki has every intention to head straight to her own. Her feet drag beneath her, weary from contorting herself into a mold that barely fits. There’s nothing she’d like more than to divest herself of all these courtly trappings and pass effortlessly into oblivion.

But she turns a corner, her mental map of the palace resolving, and she realizes: in one direction is her room, and in the other, the pharmacy. It’s late, but Ryuu would still be there, committing his last-minute thoughts to page while the offices emptied around him. She misses him, a longing so intense it aches.

It would only be a short visit. If Izana brought her before him in the morning, trying to act as both judge and jury-- well, Ryuu would be her physician, once she and Zen finally managed to make it down the aisle hand-in-hand. It only made sense to keep a cordial relationship with the man who would bear the next branch of the Wisteria tree into the world.

And if she missed him, the boy who straddled the line of friend and brother and son both-- there was no need to explain that to the king. It wasn’t as if Izana made a habit of confessing his ulterior motives to her. Though strangely, she thought he might understand that better than anyone.

Or all but one. And he...

Well, if there was a single person who might know where he went besides her, her feet were carrying her to him now/.

Were you to ask the girl, she would say she had not chosen night on purpose. The sorceress had housed her, fed her, loved her in her way; even with the image of the rose burned behind her eyes, she trusted her still, in the desperate way one does when one knows they should not, but cannot bear to contemplate why.

Opportunity chooses for her; the late afternoon sun burns hot, and when they finish their dinner, the sorceress excuses herself to lay down in the dark, to merely rest her eyes-- and does not wake, not even when the door creaks as the girl slips around it. The moon guides her steps when she walks into the garden, bright as the day itself, but she does not need it: her feet carrying her better than memory could.

There is one there, just as there was this morning: a petal, pink and sweet, fragrance so familiar she knew it even without sight.

Come out, she murmurs, digging her hands into the earth. Come out my lovely, my dear. I have been searching just for you.

A tendril spirals up from the ground, tentative. It flips and flaps, and oh, she is too shocked, too awed to help it. Even still, it finds her, wrapping around her finger, and with a single drop of blood the bush emerges, whole and dirt-smeared, from the soil.

What, it murmurs, impatience tinging its words, took you so long?

In the day, the pharmacy is all rush and chaos: apprentices burning tinctures and ushering patients to their rooms; masters emptying drawers as soon as they are filled, only for other herbalists to hurry to replace them. Guards arrive with injuries and nobles with ailments, no moment ever dull while the doors are open.

But at this hour, when the lords and ladies are all tucked in their beds-- or are at least pretending to be-- and the work is done, the pharmacy sleeps. There is no herbalist at the front desk, only the push bell Ryuu despised when she was his apprentice, since it always meant she would be pulled away from him or he away from his project.

A necessary nuisance, he called it once, and Obi had laughed. Just like me, eh, Miss?

She no longer remembers what she said-- it was early enough when he was one still, though she’d like to think she was too kind to say it-- but now she wishes, even if just for a moment, that she could tell him how much of a gift he was to her. How much he had made tedium bearable, even when she hadn’t known it for what it was.

Instead she bites her lips, rubbing at the ache in her breast. It’s hardly the first time she’s forgotten to say what matters, but-- but this won’t be her last chance. Obi might be away now, but he will be found, and she will tell him...

Everything. Every last thought she had since the moment they last spoke; her apologies and her worries, her failures and her triumphs. Because Obi hearing them-- that’s what makes them real.

Her hand wraps around the third door’s knob by habit; even now she expects to open it and see her projects spilled across her desk, to see a curtain closed beneath the other, and a window open between them. To see it waiting for her the way her heart waits for them, empty and waiting to be filled.

But there’s nothing of them there anymore. Nothing besides memories that no longer fit over the space it has become.

Her feet carry her onward, down to the last room, a sliver of light slipping across the hall where it’s been left ajar. She still expects to see a curled mass of blonde hair bent over the desk, long tables sprawled with books and half-finished studies, a bottle of roka medicinally sitting in the corner. But instead--

Instead it is a dark one, a riotous shrubbery of walnut and teak in desperate need of pruning. That had been her job in Lilias, along with Yuzuri’s helpful hands, but is seems no one here has yet talked the Chief Herbalist to task.

Give it a few years, Garack would tell her, and he’ll have herbalists as eager to get into his hair as you three were with me.

She leans against the jamb, a sigh slipping past where her heart clogs her throat. Ryuu had once fit beneath a desk half this size, and now he towers over it even seated, looking more and more like Shidan with each passing day, a man overgrown by time and deadlines.

“Ryuu.” It’s a palpable hit when their eyes meet. Everything else about him might change, but that gaze, so wide and thoughtful-- that never does.

Until now. One moment they spark, a fire lit behind blue glass, and the next...

It gutters, his gaze slipping away.

“Shirayuki.” His voice is so much deeper than in her memory, so much older. And colder too. “Excuse me, Lady Shirayuki. Is there something you need?”

“No.” She clings to the doorway, too aware of how fine her dress is, of how little it belongs in this place, his sanctum sanctorum. How little she belong here, now. “I saw a card you wrote to the consort, and I...wanted to see you.”

“A card?” His eyebrows twitch; she can no longer tell if it’s in surprise or confusion, not on this stranger’s face. “Ah. The powder for her migraines. Did you want some as well?”

“No, I’m-- I’m well.” It feels like a lie, even as she says it. It wouldn’t have, only hours ago. “I just...I’m here for you.”

His knuckles blanch where he grips his pencil. “Well, you’ve seen me. I trust you know your way out.”

You’re too late, too late, the roses say, their sing-song jangling in her ears. I’ve been hidden away for so long, and even now I cannot find him. The betrayal in their voice is thick when they ask, How could you forget us, your flower and your boy, when we have always grown together?

“Ryuu.” It leaves her lips cracked, broken; her mouth no longer knows how to form the shape that calls to him. “I know it’s been...a while, but please don’t think that I didn’t want to-- that I wasn’t thinking about you. I just...”

His pencil pauses on the page, but he does not speak. He just looks at her, the way he would at a stranger, and this room is suddenly a desert and ocean both, too far and deep to go by foot alone.

Still, there is nothing she will not brave, not for him. “It was hard to come,” she admits. “I’m not allowed in the gardens, and I’m not allowed to take patients. Coming here, watching everyone working the way I always have...”

It would have been like watching someone eat a feast while she was starving. 

His eyes soften, even if they don’t precisely thaw. “I know that you’re marrying the prince, and that you don’t have time for m--” his lips press tight-- “this. I’m not upset because you’ve set your career aside.”

“But you are...” Her words limp as she says them, wounded fawns searching of an elusive mother. “You are upset.”

His hands flex as he places them on the wood, utterly silent. “I knew...” he breathes, so harsh it scrapes her own throat too. “I knew you’d have to give things up--important things. But...”

Ryuu had always spoken slowly, thoughtfully. But still, these moments when he meant what he said, when he composed rather than conversed-- it had never taken him to long to tell her what he meant. He trusted her, knew that even if his words came out garbled or his message was lost in a sea of ellipses, she would salvage it, gluing it back together with his intention.

So when he sits silent, it wounds her almost as much as his words.

At last his gaze lifts again from his work, but the glare he fixes on her-- “But I never thought you’d let one of them be Obi.”

Her mouth works, but the well from which she draws her reason is empty, leaving only pain in its wake.

“I didn’t...I didn’t let him leave,” she murmurs, more wind than whisper. “He never told me he was going. He just left without even...”

Saying goodbye. As if all these years had meant nothing at all.

“There’s a guardsman,” she says instead, her voice trembling toward something approaching even. “He said he saw Obi leave with--” a woman-- “someone.”

Ryuu grunts.

“He ran off with Torou, once.” She wants the words to come easy, but each one emerges from her trembling, the way her fingers are against her skirts. “On the way back from Tanbarun. That’s...that’s probably what this is. An old friend that needs help, and then he’ll come right back--.”

“He won’t.”

Each breath is a stab, deep in her chest. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stands; a production with how much of him there is now. Cautiously, his hand extends, a fist hovering over the knotted wood of his desk.

It takes all her courage to take the first step, and all of it again to take the next. On and on until she’s crossed the room, hand outstretched, quivering beneath his own.

His palm opens, and into hers falls...a seed. Tiny. Blue. As clear as glass.

“An orbia seed?” Shirayuki lifts it up to the light, the plumule a hazy bead nestled in its luminous cotyledon. It’s impossible to tell by sight, but still, she’s sure-- it would germinate, if she planted it. “I was collecting these before we left.”

“I know.”

“It’s funny,” she murmurs, a smile lifting her mouth. “I never did find a blue one.”

“I know.” His explanation comes in fits and starts, a path never worn in the telling. “I had one. I gave it to Obi.”

“You...?” The thought catches in the light, just like the seed between her fingers. “Oh. Oh. But...” Her mouth curls, a silent question: why?

“I don’t know. I thought he might...” Ryuu’s shoulders twitch, as narrow as Obi’s when he first blew in with the wind. Before he settled into the man he became. “When he was ready...”

Of course. Her hand closes tight around the seed. Obi had what she needed all along. And she’d never known, not until...

Not until he was gone. “Where--?”

“I found it on my desk.” Ryuu’s fingers flex, falling by his side. “The morning after he left.”

Where did he go? the little girl asks, desperation choking her as surely as her tears. Where can I find him?

How should I know? the roses reply, thorns in their words as well as their stems. You are the one who left me buried under the ground. How could I watch him when you let us be trapped together?

“Did you...” Her mouth works, cutting itself against her question. “Did you tell Zen’s men, when they came? Do they know that he...?”

Said goodbye, she cannot say, to someone at least.

“No.” Ryuu blinks, his eyes as round and innocent and blue as ever. “They never did. Come by I mean.”

This is not the first time we have spoken of betrayal, is it? Of the wound that never heals, the jagged cut that scabs over only to be ripped open anew. The injury that teaches one to be wary, lest one be inflicted again.

But that is only after the wound is made. When it is first done...

Well, it is strange how long a heart can bear a blade through it without ever feeling the killing stroke. 

“You are thinking,” Haruka remarks, with no small amount of disapproval. “I can tell.”

Shirayuki blinks down at her place setting, expecting to see broth dripped across the tablecloth, or perhaps the edge of her sleeve dipped in yolk, maybe even her tea dribbling over the edge of her cup--

But there is nothing. The white linen is pristine beneath her gold-rimmed plate, her sleeves and elbows tucked up and off the table, and if anything, her beverages of choice are picturesque in their vessels, juice beading with moisture and tea gently steaming. “What am I doing wrong?”

It, historically, has been the wrong question to ask the marquis, sure to send him into a silent huff that will stretch from first course to fifth, disapproval deepening with each sorbet. In his vaunted opinion, the fact her inexperience might cause her to trespass the unspoken rules of good manners is bad enough, but to not know precisely when and how it was done-- now that was truly unforgivable.

However, today he merely settles back in his seat, rubbing his fingers against the cloth tucked over his lap, and fixes her with his unerring gaze. She doesn’t shrink beneath it; oh no, instead something in her chest shifts, almost as if-- as if it grows.

His lips twitch, just the slightest upward tremor. “Nothing.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, stymied. “Then how did you know?”

A single, noble arch lifts. “Because you have never once stopped.”

It is to the tiger-lily the little girl turns, after the roses. They are a pompous flower, no doubt, as proud and self-important as any big cat, but despite their bluster, they are honest. The noblest flower in this garden, hearty and constant, and though they sniff when she kneels down upon their bed, dirtying her hem, they listen.

Have you seen him? she asks, heart lodged tight in her throat. Have you seen my precious boy?

“So what is it,” Haruka murmurs into his glass, “that has you so engrossed, young lady?”

Her lips press together, teeth plucking at the scar. “You told me once that I should know who is my ally, and who is my-- Zen’s.”

The rim has hardly touched his lips, but Haruka sets down the crystal, hands folding behind his plate. “I did.”

“But those are not the one two options, are they.” It’s not a question, not anymore. “Sometimes they may seem to be one or the other, or both at the same time, but really-- it’s their own, isn’t it? Everyone is just trying to do what they think best.”

“That is...” The marquis takes in a steady breath. “A very mature way to see a frustrating problem.”

“The consort has said that she is my friend,” she says slowly, each word shaken loose from her heart. “But she is also lying to me.”

“Is she?”

Haruka, she had said once, these long skirts tangled around her legs, binding fast as any chain, he’s hard to read.

Is he? Zen’s hand was cold against hers, like touching marble. Izana’s had been the same so many years ago; she wonders if it might be a problem with their circulation, perhaps passed down from a parent, but this doesn’t seem the time to ask about his mother’s medical history. He’s always seemed clear as crystal to me.

Though, he continues, mouth set in a rueful grin. After a childhood of lectures, maybe it’s easier. I can tell how stupid he thinks I am just from the degree of his eyebrows.

His brow is furrowed now, a tight knot over the bridge of his nose. There’s no angle, no lift, and Shirayuki isn’t quite sure what that might say about his perception of her intelligence. If it were anyone else, she might even call it concern.

“Is she lying to you,” he asks, posing it like Lata when he wants to ask something particularly perverse as a rhetorical. “Or are you not asking the right questions?”

Her fingers clench tight on her lap, linen rucking up between her fingers. She likes this far less than Lata’s. “Your Grace...”

Now his brows raise, shock stark on his face, “Yes, Miss Shirayuki?”

“Do you...?” The words stick in her mouth; to ask them is to admit defeat. No-- distrust. That the best interests everyone has been working towards are not her own. “Do you know where Obi is?”

I have seen no precious boy, the tiger lily trumpets, as proud as ever. Only a little girl loved by all who see her. How lucky she is to garner such attention!

I care not for me, the little girls mutters, impatient. Where do you think he has gone?

Away, away. The flower bobs beneath its own self-importance. He has been taken away. Down and gone and buried with the roses. Perhaps you are the better for it.

“No.” It’s the truth; he wouldn’t bother to lie to her. “As of now, his location is unknown, even to the king himself.”

She licks her lips, nails biting into her thigh. The orbia seed burns a hole in her hip. “Are they looking for him?”

A shadow ripples over his face, gone before she can follow it to its source. “Someone might be.”

“I mean Zen,” she clarifies. “Or Izana.”

“I know,” he replies, voice impossibly gentle from such a forbidding mouth. “I think we’re ready for the next course, don’t you?”

Innocence and ignorance, truth and illusion, trust and betrayal-- we have meditated upon each, as if they are but separate concepts that can be held to the light and have each facet revealed in turn. But surely you seen that they have all brought us here, to this part, to this singular place: a knife buried in a breast, a garden made into a cage. A girl in each, who has finally seen the truth beneath the illusion.

We should rejoice, should we not? For these girls who might free themselves, might heal themselves? But yet you do not, do you? For you know the trick of it:

A wound does not truly begin to bleed until the blade is removed. And a girl like this--

Ah, her hand is already at the hilt.

For once, Shirayuki is relieved that it is her round-faced guard that awaits her and not a more experienced one. Or worse yet, Kiki, who would anticipate her before she could get a word in edgewise.

But luck is on her side; this dear boy springs from his place on the wall, every muscle tense with anticipation, quivering to do his duty, and she-- she is ready to take advantage of it.

“Ready, my lady?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a hound eager to be given his leash. “It’s off to the ballroom next, isn’t it? With Master--?”

“Not today,” Shirayuki informs him swiftly. “I need you to take me to the king.”

The color leaches from his face. “The...the k-king?”

She nods, tight, officious. The sort Lady Mihoko gave her maids; the sort that belonged alongside a command obeyed.

“But, my lady...” He shuffles on his feet, loath to disappoint her. “Don’t you need an appointment to see His Majesty? I don’t think you can just go right in and--”

She’s already walked past him, chin held high. “He’ll see me.”

It may seem humble before the dawn, its petals as rumpled as bedsheets, drawn over its head like a child-- but when the sun casts its fiery crown over the garden, it is the convolvulus that is ascendant. It needs no dazzling pattern, no fanciful pinwheel of petal and sepal to make itself stand above its floral brethren, but only purity of color. For there is no other here that is so purely white, that has a color so simply blue. The tiger lily might roar among the plots, but it is to the convolvulus it bends, when it rises from its nightly slumber.

The little girl watches as the sleep falls from its petals, witness to its splendor. What, it asks, ruffling its delicate mane, could have made you seek me out, girl?

There is a not-insignificant portion of her life that has been spent waiting; not in the way of most of her colleagues-- for water to boil, or a titration to drip, or even for a letter of acceptance to arrive-- but for men with nothing else to recommend them but birth to decide they’re bored enough to receive the royal pharmacist. Shidan had called it fundraising and Kazaha glad-handing, but Shirayuki can admit now, as she flies past Izana’s steward, leaving him and her guard in her wake, what it really is:

Insulting.

The view always arrests her when she enters the royal solar, and this morning is no different; the sun setting, finishing its bright arc through the sky, but the angle of it, with the windows as they are-- it sets the king’s hair alight, a halo burning.

A target, she names grimly; and she the arrow. With his steward calling her name behind her, she takes a determined step toward him.

“Have you not heard then?” Izana asks, hardly bothering to look up from his papers. “I already approved your request to be excused from dinner.”

Shirayuki hauls up short, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” His brows raise, as does his gaze, already bored. “My brother already spoke about at length this morning. So if you seek to move me as well, please note that I have already stepped aside.”

“I...” She blinks. “I wasn’t here for that.”

Interest sparks in his eyes, quick as a struck match. “Then by all means, scold away. At least--” his mouth quirks, too amused-- “I assume that is your intention, marching into my office unannounced as you are.”

“Forgive me.” The steward presses a hand to his heaving breast. “Mistress Shirayuki--”

“It a force of nature,” his master replies, mouth curling like parchment corners. “So I have often had occasion to find out. You may leave us.”

“Your Majesty--” Izana merely lifts his brows, and the man stutters to a stop. “Of course. As you wish.”

“Now,” he hums as the doors close. “Just which wind sent this storm spinning into my office?”

Bound here you might be, but I know the trick of this place, the girl says, kneeing at the bed’s edge. What roots grow here touch the roots of all the morning’s glory. And you who wake with the sun-- you keep the closest watch on the horizon.

If there are any in the garden who know of my precious boy, she continues, the breeze rippling the convolvulus’s ruff. It would be you. So tell me, please...have you see him?

“It’s Obi,” she admits, heat stinging her cheeks. “I want to know the, er, status of the search.”

Izana blinks.

Oh, how kind it would be if this confusion was feigned, if it were all just a show to drag out her loyalties; to force her to admit that even if Zen was her heart, she could not turn her back on her home. That this was simply another moment where she would show him that friendship was strength, and the walls he erected himself were merely a folly.

But there is no smug satisfaction buoying his words when he asks, “The search? Didn’t Sir Obi leave my brother’s employ months ago? The beginning of the summer, I believe--”

“He didn’t quit,” Shirayuki insists, even as the seed weighs heavy between her skirts. “He disappeared, and Zen said he had put men out to search for him.”

A flower has no face, but the girl need no smile, no hooded eyes to discern the sorrowful bent of its stem.

I am but the morning’s glory, the convolvulus sighs, and when the night comes, I fold myself tight. Your boy does not pass me in my waking hours, so perhaps it is that he travels in the night.

But what does that mean? asks the girl. Why would he only travel at night? He is but a boy, a boy, and he walks in day.

The convolvulus is quiet, swaying in the garden’s eternal summer. I do not know, he admits. I do not know at all.

“Ah.” His eyes soften, no longer the unrelenting velvet of the night, but the waves of deep water, and Shirayuki finally has cause to find out: to experience Izana’s pity is a thousand times worse than his disdain. “I am not privy to the movement of my brother’s men, so long as I do not need them in attendance. He must not have put in his last report...”

“Please.” Her hand flies up between them, earning her an incredulous lift of a brow. “It only makes it worse that you are being decent about it.”

His laugh surprises her. “So you’d like me to gloat?”

“No.” Her breath saws out of her, great heaves that shake her shoulders. “I want you to grant me leave to find him.”

“You?” His brows raise, even his eyes widen, but to his credit, he does not ask, but what could you do? Instead his mask settles back over his face without a ripple, the king staring out from behind it. “It would be a waste. I have heard from your tutors that you are making good progress. Lady Mihoko even ventured to say you might make a passable princess, if you pushed out an heir fast enough.”

Her mouth twitches. Only yesterday, she would have nearly fainted with relief, but today-- “What praise.”

There’s a stern tilt to his mouth, a forbidding set to his eyebrows; if she didn’t know any better, Shirayuki would call it concern. “As I recall, our agreement did address this.”

“Then you mean...?”

“Yes.” He nods, splaying his palms across his desk, almost as if he were bracing himself. “If you leave the palace grounds, you forfeit your chance to be the one at my brother’s side. A princess leaves such things in the hands of her guardsmen--” his mouth twitches-- “and her husband.”

You want her to go, do you not? Even now you quiver at the edge of your seat, begging this little girl to open her eyes, to keep them open, to see through the illusion and run as fast as she can. You want her to leave the garden, to break through the last of this enchantment and leave safety behind.

But tell me, what would you do, with the knife quivering it in your chest? To forget it is to live with the pain. To remove it is to be free.

An easy choice, you might say. Who could live with a blade in their breast? Ah, but do not forget:

There is no way to know if the wound is fatal until the knife is removed.

“There is something I wonder, Mistress Shirayuki.”

His musings shatter the brittle silence between them; that fragile bulwark that has kept her in his skin. Now that it’s gone, she trembles, every muscle in her body fighting the urge to cross the king’s study and shake him until decency falls it.

A hopeless quest if there ever was one. “Is there something else you could possibly say to me?”

She says it sweetly; most would hear only that-- the tone rather than the content. But Izana has not sat so long on his father’s throne by being that sort of man; no, his mouth curls, amused.

“No. It’s only...” he hums, gaze lifting from his paper. “I wonder when you started to think Obi left.”

Then what do you know? the girl says, anger and bile rising in her tone. What good are you?

A flower cannot smile, but she feels teeth when it replies, I know that it will cost you, and cost you dear.

Izana might as well have struck her. Shirayuki rocks back on her heels, only just catching herself before she trips over her own hem. “I-I...what do you...?”

“When you came in here, you first talked as you had before.” Long fingers knit beneath his chin, though he does not deign to rest on them, not alert as he is. A cat before a kill, still toying with with the prey between his paws. “You insisted on his disappearance-- the implication being, of course, that you deny his own agency in his departure. Kidnapping or coercion, one might say.”

She cannot see its teeth, but Shirayuki isn’t so foolish to believe there is no trap. “Y-yes..”

“But now you come to me and ask after my men.” His mouth quirks. “You ask for my permission.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” she asks, fingers clenching in her skirts. “A princess wouldn’t depart without the approval of her liege.”

“Of course.” He waves a hand, as if all those rules she spent late nights learning mean nothing at all, as if they were worth less than the paper on which they had been printed. “A princess would. But you, Miss Shirayuki, you--” his eyes spark, the way she only saw that night in Lilias as he closed the gates-- “you jump from windows. You follow a flower into a cave. If you truly believed your companion in danger, I doubt there is a single promise that would keep you by my side.”

She cannot breathe, let alone hazard an answer. Not when even a flutter of an eyelash could give her away.

“Which begs the question, doesn’t it?” His gaze fixes her to where she stand, pins through a moth’s wings. “Just what reason would make him leave?”

Me? the girl cries, already thinking of her lovely red shoes, of the boat they bought her down the river. Why me?

Because my dear, the convolulus hums. It is your fault that he has left.

The doors swing open, and the steward steps inside, sparing her an infuriatingly smug glance. “Sir Lowen, Your Majesty.”

“A moment,” the king tells him, “Mistress Shirayuki and I are nearly done her.”

The man nods. “I will tell him to await your will.”

Shirayuki blinks. “What--?” It’s trial to catch her breath, to make her heart stop pounding in her breast. “What is Mitsuhide doing here?”

“You need an escort to your dinner, do you not? I thought he would be the most palatable option for you.” Izana fixes her with a meaningful look. “I do hope you find your answers, Mistress Shirayuki.”

You don’t know me. Obi’s gaze is raw in her memory, too gold. You don’t know anything about me.

You know how he is. Zen’s smile curls at the edges, brittle, like parchment pasted to vellum. Obi has always come back on his own before.

Zen will take care of it. Mitsuhide won’t meet her gaze. I’m sure Obi will be back any day now.

“Don’t worry.” It’s a miracle that the words don’t catch between her teeth, the way she’s clenching them. “I will.”

A hand wraps around a hilt. A breath shudders. And with one, swift tug--

The blade moves but an inch.

[highfaelucien]

I completely agree with how you feel towards azriel. Thinking about azriel’s character now vs how I used to view him during acomaf times is just... sad and so so so much more complex. Part of me still wants to love him for the character that was presented to us in acomaf and other small good moments, like his friendship with nesta. And then the other part of me is disgusted, disappointed, and honestly kind of terrified of who he may become if sjm allows him to continue acting predatorily/toxic. The whole mor/az situation really fucked me up. As someone who is also a lesbian and an abuse survivor, it broke my heart to watch the situation unfold in acowar. It still hurts seeing many readers (and sometimes even sjm) take az’s side and paint mor as some sort of liar/two faced character that is playing everyone. I kept thinking that things would be fixed in future books, but instead az has grown worse and mor was, once again, sidelined and written out as a character. And honestly... as much as I love the idea of gwyn x azriel ... I think his books would need a lot more focus on his own recovery/growth and not center on a romantic relationship. If anything, I hope it’s written as friends to lovers so az has a better way of interacting and forming relationships with women. Because right now... well, that shit is borderline predatory and isn’t coming across well. And I really really do not want that for him. Basically, azriel deserves a better arc than what has been written for him. I miss him :( he used to be a character that made me feel safe and now :/ idk anymore

I'm going to quote parts of this/chop it up and reply to them a chunk at a time. because there's a lot going on here and I want to try and reply to as much as I can because I resonate with.....all of it. Please forgive me for the length of this.

I completely agree with how you feel towards azriel. Thinking about azriel’s character now vs how I used to view him during acomaf times is just... sad and so so so much more complex.

He feels like a different character? There was always an anger simmering under the calm surface, we knew that. But it was an anger born of love, deep down, and the desire to protect his family, and his court, at the expense of himself. Az was always the first to volunteer himself for dangerous missions, to spare the others.

Now that anger is directed at his family, and at the world, for not giving him what he feels he 'deserves'. That has NEVER been Azriel. Azriel's deepest issues and insecurities have always stemmed from the feeling of being unworthy, and undeserving of anything.

She's just made him into......Every other dude in this series tbh. Snarling, and possessive, and wanting to fuck anything in a skirt that moves.

Azriel was actually somewhat of an original, complex character initially. It's unusual that we see trauma affect men in the way it did Az. Usually it makes them angry, and vengeful, and eager to prove they are the alpha etc. Seeing them withdraw, and think less of themselves/that they're unworthy is something not explored often enough. But bye bye nuance hello #Drama.

Part of me still wants to love him for the character that was presented to us in acomaf and other small good moments, like his friendship with nesta.

I feel this. I found a lot of comfort in Az's character. Particularly the way he reacted with Mor. I was a big fan of their relationship, and I wrote a few 'missing scenes' style fics in the gap between ACOMAF and ACOWAR. One of them was where Az went to her when she had pushed everyone else away, including Cassian, and comforted and calmed her.

I hate that Maas took that away from Mor. I hate that Az no longer does that for her. I hate that Az was the one to betray her along with Rhys and bring her abuser into her safe space behind her back. I hate that he is no longer a symbol of calm, stable, dependable comfort and support for Mor, but is instead a threat. I HATE it.

Every now and then Az has lovely, gentle moments - his friendship with Nesta is a good example, and something I hoped we'd see. But also quieter times with Rhys, and their similarities being explored. And I adored the flying lessons with Feyre in ACOWAR, and the training he did with Cassian and the others in ACOFS.

But then she goes and twists him and does something else that just makes me want to fucking scream. Like the High Lord scene where he 'frightened' Mor. And his entire POV chapter which is frankly fucking gross.

And then the other part of me is disgusted, disappointed, and honestly kind of terrified of who he may become if sjm allows him to continue acting predatorily/toxic.

I agree.

I don't know how she can write a series that explores the effects of emotional abuse so well with Feyre and Tamlin...And then write what she did with Az?

The possession to a traumatised, still impressionable and desperate young woman, who likely finds the same comfort and safety in him that Mor did. Before that got shot to fucking pieces.

He sounds like a whiny toddler 'Cassian has a mate, and Rhys has a mate, where is mine!?!?!?!?' I DESERVE Elain, because I'm your brother and you guys have her sisters and what the FUCK. Who let that shit get published holy mother of god.

It's just...It's so unhealthy? Like, not even talking ship wars here (which I'm aware are rampant, and which I'm trying my best to stay away from). But that just.

How can that ever be a healthy foundation for a relationship? A man who thinks that he deserves, not only to be in a relationship with her, but to be bonded to her. Not because of HER, not because of who she is, or how she makes him feel. No. Purely because her sisters are mated to his brothers?

The whole thing made me feel so uncomfortable. It's predatory and toxic, just as you said. It's not right, it's not fair. Forget alliances and Lucien, even if none of that was a factor, that sort of thinking is still not right. And it's completely unfair to Elain.

But it also just. It didn't read like Azriel. The first part, where he struggles to sleep, and pushes himself until he passes out, and the insight that his shadows are basically hovering beside him screaming SELF CARE YOU DUMB BITCH at all times was very pleasing.

And the part where he goes to Clotho and leaves an anonymous gift for Gwyn. No fanfair. No audience. No pressure on either of them to react/perform. That felt like Az, too.

But everything in the middle. Everything with Elain, was just...Gross and out of character. And this is not because I dislike E/riel as a ship. I could get on board with it, tbh, if it wasn't written the way it was.

But it's not about ships, for me. It's just. Everything felt out of character. The predatory way he was with her. The fact he lies awake and gets himself off to fantasies of her. How apparently quickly he was aroused by putting a necklace on her. Idk, maybe it's my ace ignorance, but that doesn't sound normal/healthy to me.

Nor does him having to leave a room because he can scent her mating bond with Lucien. Or not being able to control himself to sit and eat dinner with her?

This is the same dude who has, apparently, been in love with Mor for 500 solid years, and who never did a damned thing about it. Who always kept himself in check. Even while she's had other lovers. But he can't control himself through one dinner with Elain?

It just. It doesn't feel like him. It feels like...Honestly not even Cassian. It feels like Tamlin on horny, predatory steroids. And that's not something I ever wanted to see from Azriel's POVs.

She could have explored a darker side to him without making it sexual? And misogynistic. And having him treating Elain as little more than a fucking object that he feels entitled to because 'everyone else got one, where's mine?'. What the FUCK???

The more I write it the more angry I get.

Because SJM has consistently put Az in the position of saving women when they were in danger? He was the one who found Mor near death at Autumn. He was the one who rescued Gwyn from her attackers during the war. He was the one to retrieve Elain when she was taken.

She always puts him in this position and, for better or worse, presents him as a safety figure for these women. The first person who they saw come for them, and fight for them, and protect them.

And on the inside she makes him this vile, predatory monster who just thinks constantly about fucking them? Who isn't actually safe at all?? It's sad. And it's infuriating. Because this isn't about ships anymore. This is about female survivors who have an apparent safe person who's presented as almost as dangerous as the people who attacked them in the first place. And that makes me feel so sick and sad that we've gotten here.

It still hurts seeing many readers (and sometimes even sjm) take az’s side and paint mor as some sort of liar/two faced character that is playing everyone. I kept thinking that things would be fixed in future books, but instead az has grown worse and mor was, once again, sidelined and written out as a character.

This is yet another vile thing SJM has done to queer readers with this whole fiasco. Because it puts me in a position where I want to call out her shitty writing, and what she's done to Mor - sidelining her as soon as she became queer. Undermining her power and her strength. Undermining her role as the survivor to look up to. Saying her power is truth but then making her seem like a liar. Which is all shitty, shitty, shitting writing.

But I'm also a queer person. And I will always always ALWAYS want to defend a queer person's right to remain closeted. Regardless of their reasons for doing so. But in this case it's a concern for their safety/a fear of how those around them will react. And I will NEVER condemn that. I will never say Az is suffering more than Mor for her being closeted. I will never call Mor a liar/a manipulator/two-faced when all she's doing is trying to survive.

I WILL condemn SJM for making this a scenario. For putting homophobia in her world purely to cause pain for queer characters, and drama for her straight ones. And for sidelining Mor as soon as she can't write graphic scenes with her fucking men because now she's a lesbian so we best get her off the page so the guys can get their cocks out some more.

And honestly... as much as I love the idea of gwyn x azriel ... I think his books would need a lot more focus on his own recovery/growth and not center on a romantic relationship. If anything, I hope it’s written as friends to lovers so az has a better way of interacting and forming relationships with women. Because right now... well, that shit is borderline predatory and isn’t coming across well. And I really really do not want that for him.

This is going to sound sarcastic but I actually mean it fully and completely genuinely: 95% of the drama inducing problems in this series could be fixed with some fucking therapy.

But I agree with you. I think it's high time Azriel worked on his own issues. Even if they've apparently made a complete 180 from what they were in ACOMAF.

I...Like the concept of Gwyn/Azriel, but I'm not sold on the ship. Not with the way Maas has been writing Azriel lately. That kind of man shouldn't be with any woman right now. But especially not a rape survivor who sees him as one of the first men she's been able to trust in a long time.

Basically, azriel deserves a better arc than what has been written for him. I miss him :( he used to be a character that made me feel safe and now :/ idk anymore

"he used to be a character that made me feel safe" - This shit hit me like a tonne of bricks because this is EXACTLY how I feel about Az, too. You just managed to say it in a few words instead of 12 pages of rambling, like I do.

And I think this was intention. Azriel was presented as a very dependable character. He rescued Mor, and was respectful enough to keep his distance, despite his feelings, for 500 fucking years. Because he didn't think she was ready/interested.

He had a very calm, and calming air about him. Always in control of himself. Without the expected bursts of aggression and temper we'd seen from...Every other male character in this series. He was stable, and solid, and that was comforting. An anchor. And someone who would quietly, and without fuss, seek out Mor/others when they needed someone to talk to or comfort him.

That was a very soothing, reassuring presence in the book, I felt. And now she's made him seem...volatile, and unstable. With this dangerous anger that he can't control, that he uses not to protect, but to intimidate, and to fuel his entitlement and desires.

it's just sad. It's sad that she's taken this away from Mor, but also from other survivors who found comfort and safety in Az. Because I'm sure we weren't alone in that regard.

I miss him. And I mourn the character he was, and feel anger for the character he should have been. but instead he's become yet another possessive, entitled, snarling cardboard cutout dude like...everyone else.

And I ache for the Az/Mor dynamic that we had in ACOMAF. Even without it becoming romantic, there was no reason for that to be destroyed/ruined.

She could have written it that Az is the only one who knows about her sexuality, and that he pretends he's still in love with her as a shield/buffer, so no one looks too closely/to protect her and make her feel comfortable.

Instead she turned it into a soap opera style drama. And wrote it almost as though her sexuality was her cheating on him? Denying him what he deserved. And now she's just...just pussyfooting around it. And apparently he's just. Just moved on. Without them having any kind of conversation or closure at all. He just wanks off to the thought of Elain instead of Mor, now, problem solved /s

I miss what they were. I miss what he was to Mor. I miss when she had that support system, and that safety net. I miss when he protected her. And looked out for her. And understood her in a way that no one else, not even Rhys, did.

Mor deserved that. Azriel deserved that. WE deserved that. And she nuked it for some fucking twisted drama that punishes a lesbian because a man is thirsting after her. it's a fucking disgrace. I'm so fucking done with SJM, y'all. So fucking done.

[threemothsinsweaters]

A list of unusual quirk ideas!

Alright, so I have been collecting unusual quirk ideas for around half a year now - maybe a few months more Now, I’m ready to share the list with the world in case anyone ever needs any inspiration for their fanfics, be it for background characters of fics or maybe used for actual ocs 

All of those ideas are free to use without any credit or anything, but I would appreciate reblogs! ^-^

(If any of them repeat or are written wrongly then I’m sorry, I will try to fix that and edit the post every time I come up with new ideas)

1.Density control

2.Liquid multiplier

3.Heat-level vision

4.Creating objects out of light

5.Radiation

6.Super hearing

7.Entering/moving through electronics

8.Cursing objects

9.Transporting through mirrors

10.Speaking any language

11.Super strength, speed and healing but lost of self-control

12.Wild magic - giving random effects

13.Being able to determine worth of any object by touching it

14.Being able to irritate and annoy someone just by existing

15.Memory manipulation

16.Giving people a disease 

17.Being immune to any sickness

18.Compass - always knows where they are

19.Silence - make someone deaf momentarily

20.Medical intuition - knows what's wrong with the person hurt immediately

21.Never leaves a trail behind, untraceable

22.Reflection - can reflect powers of others at them

23.Survival instincts

24.Changing flesh into plants

25.Perfect imitation of animal noises

26.Killer instincts 

27.Ultimate stamina - can keep going for many hours without the need to take a break

28.Entering people’s dreams

29.Best liar - all lies sound like truth and the person is immune to lie detectors and truth serums

30.Crazy but smart - can come up with a solution to any problem, but the solution is always extremely dangerous and straight-up crazy

31. Making people itchy

32.Doesn’t need oxygen/doesn’t need to breathe to survive

33.Instant artist - able to draw anything with perfect photo-like accuracy extremely fast

34.Emotionless - can turn off feeling emotions 

35.Making all weapons they use stronger

36.Selective hearing - can hear things they want to and completely tune out anything else, even if it's louder than what they want to hear

37.Use senses of animals that are near (see through their eyes, hear what they hear)

38.Turn liquids solid by touch

39.Slow motion vision

40.Voice changer - can change their voice completely

41.Producing huge amounts of energy constantly

42.Draining energy from surrounding them people

43.Improved ability to track down anyone if there’s any scent/hints to follow

44.Perfect aim

45.Hyper-aware of their surroundings

46.Able to operate any vehicle 

47.Able to use any weapon

48.Can confuse people using words

49.Insomnia - they don’t need to sleep and suffer no bad effects from it

50.Ability to feel emotions of others

51.Can see true intentions of anyone they look at

52.Learning a history of an object by touching it

53.Emotion manipulation

54.Ability to eat anything without any bad effects

55.Astral projection - ability to leave the body as a “spirit”

56.Echolocation

57.Ability to overload someone’s mind causing pain, headaches, memory loss

58.Ability to locate any thing they touched in past 24 hours

59.Temporary merging two beings together

60. Pheromone manipulation

61. Skin expansion - creating more skin

62. Bubbles - turning all liquid touched into foam

63. Double jaw like an eel

64. Becoming someone’s shadow and following them around

65. Blood can work like drugs

66. No photos - being blurry on all photographs and in people’s memories

67. Fusion - can fuse with certain objects for short amounts of time

68. Crocodile tears - ability to cry many different choosen liquids and cry whenever they want to (could work well to make people believe their story and stuff)

69. Writing just by touching the paper and thinking about what they want to be written

70. Multi-eyes - let’s the person open “eyes” on any part of their body and see through them

71. Silence - can make everyone around them unable to talk or make any sounds at all

72. Detachable limbs

73. Control of the temperature of air around them

74. Elastic bones

75. Turning into a swarm of insects

76. Ability to sound really convincing

77. Ability to create huge amounts of glitter and sparkling lights out of their hands

78. Fast learner - very fast learner, being able to do a lot of things on the first or second try

79. Ability to shrink things

80. Ability to control all of their body functions fully consciously (hunger, heart-beat, blood flow etc)

81. Ability to change someone’s eyesight/eye structure 

82. Waking up with a completely different temporary ability every time after they go to sleep

83. Control of the growing of nails 84. Control over hair fibers

85. Boiling any liquid with touch

86. Copying any handwriting 

87. Superpower making them unable to die from falling off heights

88. Undestroyable bones

89. Changing the humidity of things/air

90. Skin has the properties of a nettle

91. Ability to lay eggs

92. Ability to make things expire instantly

93. Extended lungs

94. Changing the taste of things  

95. Changing the smell of things

96. Changing colors of things

97. Hibernation - the ability to sleep for really long amounts of time without the need to eat, drink, go to the bathroom or anything in between. 

98. Ability to know people’s worst fears/phobias

99. Ability to copy objects and multiply them

100. Spine extension - having more discs in the spine so the spine is more flexible

101. Ability to know when someone is thinking about them

102. Ability to know if a living being or a human is near them at the moment

103. Ability to know someone’s age instantly 

104. Ability to swap the probability of things happening if the probability is higher than 1% (if something has the 20% chance of happening, swapping it would make 80% - if something has 0.1% of happening the power cannot be used on it. The power, however, does not let the person using it know what the probability of certain things is

105. Ability to make your parents proud

106. Ability to make people sing instead of talking

107. Knowing the phone number of literally everyone they want

108. Real life filters - ability to make things look much nicer than they actually are

109. Ability to predict the exact probability of something happening

110. Immortal soul but mortal body - soul can enter the body even if it’s not actually functioning anymore, body can be “repaired” so it doesn’t fully fall apart

111. Ability to make images/holograms out of smoke (controlling its shape and turning it into images)

112. Ability to make people misspell words and stutter uncontrollably

113. Ability to make all insects around them drop dead instantly

114. Ability to change the direction in which things are moving

115. Eliminating or absorbing light

116.Turning off body functions without actually dying (or at least permanently - mind also still works)

117. Hearing every word someone said in past 24 hours

118. Shift person’s attention at will

119. Activate/deactivate adrenaline at will

120. Blur person’s logical thinking, making them less reasonable

121. Infinite patience

122. Loosen the tension in the air

123. Ability to bite through everything

124. Friction control 

125. Evolution mutation - body changes to adapt to certain situations

126. Ability to generate darkness/make shadows even if there’s strong light

127. Ability to make people see the mistakes they made

128. Ability to change into objects

129. Ability to create spiders that crawl out of the mouth of the person with the power

130. Ability to find the weak points of things

131. Extremely good sense of balance

132. Extra fast reading

133. Ability to make anything they touch glow

134. Becoming indestructible for a few minutes after receiving a fatal injury which could kill them

135. Ability to temporarily turn animals into monsters

136. Ability to sing any song no matter the language nor the difficulty as long as they heard it at least once

137. Fungus - 5 finger contact makes area around the hand grow with many different kinds of fungus, mostly mold but over extended contact bigger mushrooms grow as well

138. Marble statue - ability to turn into a statue without the need to eat/drink/sleep for long amounts of time, but the body structure is pretty weak

139. Ability to make someone allergic to certain things for short amount of time

140. Ability to make things poisonous with touch

141. Everything is cake - ability to make things they touch cake

142. Sharp air - ability to turn air into invisible knives that dissolve the moment they let go of them

143. Cockroach - ability to turn smaller by compressing the mass and turning it into strength, making the user indestructible while in small form

144. Ability to make people trip

145. Ability to make their hands have magnetic effect 

146. Ability to make things spin (even air or water)

147. Ability to know what material something is made out of

148. Ability to make most surfaces reflective

149. Ability to make things half-transparent 

150. Ability to stick things together

151. Ability to make things grow fur

[aion-rsa]

Shadow and Bone Review: Netflix Adaptation Brings the Magic

https://ift.tt/3n43xxx

This Shadow and Bone review contains no spoilers.

Millions of readers worldwide love young adult fantasy fiction, but even the most wildly popular titles—Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass series, Cassandra Clare’s Shadowhunters books, Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games trilogy, and many more—are generally written off as “guilty pleasure” escapism, shallow, meaningless stories for people who just aren’t ready to take real literature seriously. (Barf.)

Part of this reaction likely stems from the widespread public backlash to the few young adult fantasy series to gain mainstream popularity, like the Twilight saga or the aforementioned Hunger Games. But, in truth, the dismissive attitude toward these stories most often feels like straight-up misogyny. After all, this is a genre that not only tends to be most openly appreciated by women but also one that unabashedly centers complex female characters in its stories. Often several of them at the same time!

Therefore, the arrival of Netflix’s Shadow and Bone is exciting enough for its own sake: It’s a propulsive story with great characters set in a fascinating, fully realized fantasy world. But it’s also something of a statement: That this sort of fiction—and the women who both champion and most frequently star in it—have an important place in the world of genre storytelling. And, thankfully, this is a series that more than lives up to the pre-release hype.

Leigh Bardugo’s bestselling Grishaverse novels are full of the sorts of details that tend to make for great fantasy television at its most basic level. There’s a war-torn kingdom battling both foreign enemies and an ever-expanding literal darkness, a complex system of magic that both empowers and alienates those who possess it from the bulk of society, and a girl looking for a place to belong who must ultimately claim her own power. (Quite literally in this case.)

Read more

TV

Shadow and Bone: Why Netflix Cast Its Fantasy Adaptation With Relative Unknowns

By Kayti Burt

Books

Twilight: What Was The Deal With Jacob and Renesmee?

By Nicole Hill

In the kingdom of Ravka, elite magical soldiers known as Grisha can manipulate matter at its most fundamental levels, allowing their orders to control specific elements like fire (Inferni) and water (Tidemakers), solid objects like metal or textiles (Durasts), and even various aspects of the human body (Healers and Heartrenders). The primary story of Shadow and Bone follows Alina Starkov (Jessie Mei Li), an orphaned soldier and map maker whose mixed-race heritage has often left her feeling out of place in the only country she’s ever known. (The decision to complicate Alina’s racial background is one made specifically for the Netflix series, by the way, and it’s a great choice.) But when her childhood best friend Malyen Oretsev (Archie Renaux) is named as part of a military unit ordered to cross the deadly Shadow Fold —literally a giant wall of darkness full of monsters that’s hundreds of miles wide—she unleashes a power she never realized she herself possessed. Alina, you see, is not just a Grisha, but a legendary Sun Summoner, whose powerful light-based magic could destroy the Fold forever.

Whisked off by the mysterious General Kirigan (Ben Barnes), the commander of Ravka’s Second Army—a.k.a. the one with all the Grisha in it—to learn to use her newfound abilities, Alina finds herself separated from Mal and everything she’s ever known. Thrust into a world she doesn’t understand and with powers she can’t entirely control, Alina will have to decide whether to trust Kirigan, with his equally rare shadow-based abilities and promises that they can change the world together.

The Netflix drama actually combines two of Bardugo’s book series into one—the fantasy adventure trilogy also titled Shadow and Bone, from which this adaptation takes its name and the bulk of its plot, and the more heist-oriented duology called Six of Crows. Since the latter technically takes place several years after the former, chronologically speaking, the Netflix series invents a prequel plot for key Six of Crows characters Kaz Brekker (Freddy Carter), Inej Ghafa (Amita Suman), Jesper Fahey (Kit Young), and Nina Zenik (Danielle Galligan) that ties them all more firmly into the main Shadow and Bone story.

If you’ve read Bardugo’s books, your mileage is likely to vary on how you feel about this choice. For the most part, it works, even if it takes several episodes for the Crows crew to feel like they aren’t having a completely different adventure on a totally different show. Jesper and Inej particularly benefit from the additional backstory provided here, and Galligan’s Nina is every inch as delightful as anyone might have hoped. Viewers who have not read Six of Crows may struggle to understand precisely what motivates Kaz, but his complicated relationship with Inej is almost compelling enough to make up for it.

In fact, one of the most striking elements of Shadow and Bone is the care it takes with all its central relationships—potentially romantic or otherwise. One of the criticisms most frequently leveled at popular YA fiction is that their stories are often flimsy excuses to create love triangles for fans to fight over. (See also: Gale/Katniss/Peeta, Edward/Bella/Jacob, etc.) But this series actually goes above and beyond in this department, adding a depth and nuance to Alina’s relationship with Mal that isn’t always present in the novel—and has nothing to do with romance. (Though, reader, I ship it a lot.) That same care and thoughtfulness is applied to pairings throughout the show’s canvas, and it’s truly wonderful to see.

Netflix has also clearly spared no expense in its creation of Bardugo’s fictional world, from the dense, crowded streets of Ketterdam to the magic-filled training grounds of Os Alta’s Little Palace. This is a universe that not only feels carefully thought out but fully lived in. Sure, Shadow and Bone might have done a better job of explaining the specifics about how these locations all relate to one another (Kerch is actually a separate country! West Ravka is not!) but it’s hard to be but so angry at something that generally feels like the pages of a beloved story come to life.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

It’s true, Shadow and Bone is not a perfect adaptation of Bardugo’s novels. Several important secondary characters barely seem to merit a mention onscreen here (sorry, David Kostyk), and the rushed sequences at the Little Palace generally leave most of the secondary Grisha and their abilities feeling sadly interchangeable. And the series doesn’t always do the greatest job explaining the basics of Grisha life for casual viewers—I’m not sure it ever really spells out the differences between the various orders, nor does it go into tremendous depth about why things like Morozova’s stag exist. Yet, as a whole, the series feels often feels downright magical, a thrilling adventure that always remains firmly anchored in the story of the complex heroine at its center. Bring on Siege and Storm.

The post Shadow and Bone Review: Netflix Adaptation Brings the Magic appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3apIb8M

[dantesinfcrno]

                                 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

                                                (  @opalsmedia​​  )  

    ›   𝑰. ACE OF CUPS .

❝  divine love and compassion are pouring through you. you are a vessel for deep, spiritual love from the universe, and you can’t help but let that love flow through you and into the world. you are love  &  your heart overflows .  ❞

           𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋  ––––––  the days grow darker than you’ve expected, and that harms the sweet thing you call a heart. the numerous fights, the copious amounts of tension, and the stress that pools in your stomach –– you’re certain you can’t handle it any longer. perhaps, you are too soft for this world in which anger  &  chaos reign. you try and shield yourself, but it’s never enough : your heart still beats so strongly, and you can’t stop giving  &  giving, until you’re alone with the remains of your chest. you weren’t expecting a ruthless emerald to open his arms to you, and yet–– in him, you discover at least one safe spot, tucked away from the world  &  all things evil. he reminds you of a book you loved as a child, and he has a nice way with words –– it makes dreaming easier, in such harsh times, and you can smile when he is around. he does not ask anything from you. you are grateful. 

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  braver soldier, russian red  +  i like me better, lauv  +  boats  &  birds, gregory and the hawk.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  laughter that fills our lungs ; smiling until our cheeks ache  &  our bellies are warm ; yellow and orange shades peppered across your skin ; the summer bringing out your freckles. we find secret gardens  &  have picnics, us and the fairies. childhood is still very reminiscent in the way we lay down and embrace one another. we speak of running away, but instead just end up with more polaroids on our desks. i prefer your sweater much more than my own. cozy blankets ; soft intimacy ; rose-colored glasses.

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  on empathy : what it sounds like is a bird breaking small bones against glass .  ❞

   ›   𝑰𝑰. THE HIGH PRIESTESS .

❝  the guardian of the subconscious mind and the teacher of sacred knowledge and hidden mysteries. she ushers you through the thin veil of awareness, offering you a deep, intuitive understanding of the universe and a heightened awareness of secret or hidden information .  ❞

           𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋  ––––––  you are a very distant cousin, maybe not even that. you grew up hearing tales of dante’s mother, and you are keenly aware of the distaste your family has for her, her husband, and her son. you’ve seen each other once or twice, but you know dante desai –– all the rumors, scandals, absurdities  &  controversies. he might not have given you a word, but your image of the emerald with a dazzling smile has darkened under the influence of gossip and ill-intentioned people. you are not sure why he’s in the society at all and, if you’re being candid, he doesn’t seem deserving of any of your respect –– but alas, business means business, so you try and play nice ( it fails, more often than not, as he seems to know every word uttered about himself in his absence ). he teases you, and pushes you to try harder, reach farther. it annoys you deeply, and you hold back from simply telling him to shut up. maybe you want to prove you’re so much better, maybe you want to make him aware of how much he’s missing. maybe you just want the approval of someone, anyone.

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  black sheep, gin wigmore  +  hit me with your best shot, adona  +  make me your queen, declan mckenna.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  misplaced competitiveness  &  rivalry ; wanting to prove yourself ; defiant words and poignant stares ; discovering the truth isn’t always hand-fed ; accepting the lies you were told when growing up  &  moving on from them ; familial resentment ; finding things in common with someone you hate ; learning you share many scars with the object of your disdain. biting remarks  &  vicious tongue ; clashing of titans. finding an equal match to the monster that crawls under your skin. enemies to friends.

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  the monster. the dreamer, the eater. the eater monster. you the monster, i the monster. all of us the monster. the monster in us, the monster in you. the monster in all of us .  ❞ 

   ›   𝑽. THE HIEROPHANT, ꓤƎꓥƎꓤSƎꓷ .

❝  you are your own teacher. all the wisdom you seek comes from within – not from some external source or power. the hierophant reversed is also about challenging the status quo. you seek out opportunities to rebel and reclaim your personal power .  ❞

           𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋  ––––––  you’ve always had your eyes on dante, it seems –– it’s not at all too hard for it to happen, considering the bright glitter  &  colorful clothes, but you perhaps admire him more than your peers. individuality attracts you, and you may or may not have one silly crush on this man –– however, once you came closer, an infatuation turned into a solid bond. you seem to share similar principles, and the need for freedom  &  change is rooted deeply in both of your cores. you can speak for hours on end about everything at all, open-mindedness not shared with many others you’ve met. everyone might be worried once the two of you are seen together, as you’re always up for some trouble –– but, maybe, that’s just how love works in this friendship. fire burns brighter as you come together as an unit, and it almost makes you giddy.

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  void, the neighbourhood  +  come as you are, nirvana  +  sober ii (melodrama), lorde.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  forbidden crushes ; midnight escapades ; i know your favorite wine  &  you know how many drinks it takes for me to get tipsy ; we know each other at our worsts. the act of loving  &  supporting each other in all one sets their mind to. may be guilty of arson  &  invasion of properties. the lack of hesitation to defend one another. uniqueness  &  playfulness ; deep conversations under the moonlight ; sharing the same fears we never uttered aloud ; feeling trapped under the same pretense of freedom ; watching clouds  &  constellations ; staying awake until seven am to see the sun rise.

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  wings are freedom only if they are open in flight. on one’s back they are a heavy weight .  ❞ 

  ›   𝑽𝑰𝑰𝑰. JUSTICE .

❝  represents justice, fairness, truth and the law. you are being called to account for your actions and will be judged accordingly. as you explore your truth, you will discover that things are not as clear-cut as you had thought .  ❞ 

          𝐎𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘  ––––––  admitting to his past relationship with his own predecessor put a huge toll on dante’s shoulders, and you now observe him with more care, an attention you never truly bestowed upon the trickster of your circlet. his distress might tug at your heartstrings, it might make you wonder –– you might see him differently, now. your relationship might be strained. perhaps, you desire to reach out, offer the support he never asked for. perhaps, you do not know how. you are curious and worried, but the feelings of betrayal still linger on your bloodstream, whether you like it or not. should you ask for clarifications? step further into his personal space? should you step back, abstain from commenting anything? does he need your help? does he even care about what you think?

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  you don’t know me at all, son lux  +  stop crying your heart out, oasis  +  all for us, labrinth  &  zendaya.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  lingering stares across the room ; desiring to speak but now knowing how ; sending text messages but not wanting to read the replies ; sheepish smiles  &  shared silences ; holding back your tears, even while near loved ones ; solitary nights with clouds covering every star. i worry for you, dear one, but you make it so hard to take care of you. when it rains, we hold each other’s hands. you taste sour, i taste bittersweet, but we still love. i would do it all for you, why won’t you ask for it?

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine .  ❞

   ›   𝑿𝑽. THE DEVIL, ꓤƎꓥƎꓤSƎꓷ .

❝  calls on you to confront your inner fears to free yourself from the chains that bind you to your limiting beliefs and unhealthy attachments. it can also appear when you are going into your deepest, darkest places. you seek to understand your innermost shadows so you can either release them or integrate them into your life in a more constructive way .  ❞

           𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋  ––––––  you struggle, and you struggle hard. you would never admit you’re going through a heavy time, perhaps not even to yourself. you move lightly, with grace, and no one questions the tightness of your smile. it’s easy, like this –– except you’re tired, and your bones ache, and you can barely sleep at night. it surprises you, however, once you find the bright emerald drinking by himself in one of the shitty bars you go whenever life gets rough. you sit by his side, you both share a sigh  &  a shot. he finds out one of your many secrets, and you discover some of his scars, and the pills on his pocket. you hold his hand, and he takes you home safely, kisses your forehead while bidding you good night. you share many text messages, and you meet up often. you get better at recognizing the signs of sadness on each other’s faces. life is not any happier, but now, at least–– you have an emergency contact. you can sob on his shoulders until you fall into unconsciousness. he smiles at you in the morning and brings you coffee. no more words are needed.

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  shadows, warpaint  +  blinding, florence and the machine  +  haunt, banks.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  blue shades ; melancholy ; van gogh’s paintings ; scars that never fade away ; the dull ache of quiet piano strings echoing throughout an empty room at the darkest hour. inebriated confessions ; hushed conversations ; many bottles of whiskey, both cheap  &  incredibly expensive. not knowing much about each other, and yet discovering the hidden away pieces by yourself. becoming dependent on the emotion of being understood  &  seen. helping each other up and forward, even when there is no strength left. exhausted  &  broken smiles ; thunderstorms ; lending you my jacket and never getting it back, because you need as much comfort as you can get ; dancing in the rain  &  laughing about it hard and loud.

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  i have no more room for grief for it is everywhere now .  ❞

   ›   𝑿𝑽𝑰𝑰. THE STAR, ꓤƎꓥƎꓤSƎꓷ .

❝  can mean that you’ve lost faith and hope. you may be desperately calling out to the universe to give you some reprieve but struggling to see how the divine is on your side. take a moment to ask yourself what the deeper life lesson is, and how this is a blessing, not a punishment. the reversed star is a test of faith .  ❞

          𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘  ––––––  the opal society, more than ever, seems like bullshit to you. you are angry, upset, distraught–– you can think of many words that echo your insatisfaction, and this initiation process no longer looks like something you want to be a part of. life is a burden heavy enough without a secret society wrapped in the mayhem of horny young adults tying you to statues. you definitely didn’t expect for dante, of all people, to become a guiding light –– the one that took his own initiation as a joke, broke the rules, and is known for frequently getting in trouble? how the fuck could that guy give you answers? truth be told, he doesn’t –– nothing is ever easy with him, it seems, and no surface-level impression seems to make him justice. the both of you now speak frequently, and he helps you stabilize your thoughts –– the guy can manage to give out some decent advice, at least, and you might even trust him, now. he likes pros  &  cons lists, and also vaguely pointing at the light at the end of the tunnel, just enough so it will fill you with hope. it is enough, for now.

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  i need some sleep, eels  +  i’ll die anyway, girl in red  +  i found, amber run.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  an unexpected discovery ; knowledge where you thought least possible to find. the trade of fears  &  unsure confessions ; gentle parental guidance into the shoes meant for you to fit. tender reassurances over the phone ; a pat on the back ; a small gift that means “ i am proud of you ”. rediscovering the love for one’s circlet through the eyes of another. silent promises ; candles  &  wishes you never shared before ; feeling as if you’ve known someone from your past lives  &  forever carrying them in your heart.

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  you are in conflict with yourself. you are holding yourself in check. you are paralyzing yourself .  ❞ 

   ›   𝑿𝑰𝑿. THE SUN, ꓤƎꓥƎꓤSƎꓷ .

❝  is calling to your inner child to come out and play. see it as your permission slip to leave behind your responsibilities, even just for a moment, and play. you may have experienced setbacks that damaged your enthusiasm and optimism and perhaps led you to question whether you can achieve what you set out to do .  ❞

           𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋  ––––––  dante is a disappointment to you. he let you down or hurt your feelings, and you can’t forgive him for that ( and you won’t even try, because he doesn’t deserve it ). there are plenty of good memories attached to his name, but it all has turned sour, and you want to watch it crash  &  burn. he might try and make amends, but you know he doesn’t even care for you, deep down –– he is trying for your sake, perhaps, but not because he nourishes an affection for you, and that stings. if it has to be like this, you want at least to let him know how irresponsible actions are not easily forgiven. a broken heart for another seems fair trade to you, and you no longer care for entertaining an endless discussion, as long as you’re on the winning side.

          𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒  ╱  view here.

          𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  ╱  no one loves me  &  neither do i, them crooked vultures  +  motion sickness, phoebe bridgers  +  eyes, nose, lips, tablo.

          𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒  ╱  unanswered phone calls ; ghosting ; writing letters just to burn them. cold war  &  avoidance. knowing that you want what you can not have. marble statues ; an empty bed ; freezing fingers  &  no one to hold your hand. emptiness ; the feeling of being unworthy ; lighting a match once the power goes out  &  sitting alone at your couch, daydreaming. bittersweet intimacy. the fact that someone you now hate knows way too much about you. not letting go. 

          𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  ╱  ❝  he fatally wounded me; that is, he gave me the wound that only love could repair .  ❞

[pretty-thoughts-and-a-pen]

The Nature of Rumours

A young witch sets out on a journey in search of magic even more powerful than her own. There is nothing to go by, however, except for a trail of rumours.

All she had to go by in her search for the warlock was a collection of rumours.

 “Calls himself Edel, he does, don’t listen to what those silly girls tell ya,” said the old Ms Denhom, not knowing that she was the fifth person Claudia had asked since entering the bazaar, and this was the fifth name she had been told. Vittorio, Wallace, Edel…no one seemed to be in agreement on what the mysterious man called himself, though they all had wild tales about him to speak of, as if they had met him personally and witnessed his great deeds with dark magic. Under her woolen, brown cloak, Claudia’s fingers twitched and rubbed against her palm. The less concrete information she had, the more her agitation grew.

Nevertheless, she stepped forward and helped the old lady set up her display. The trinkets laid out on the table formed a brilliant splash of colour against the faded wood, and the two women arranged the various vases, delicately curved pots, patterned plates and matching cups so that they looked as appealing as possible to anyone passing by. Claudia had originally stopped only to ask about the warlock that resided at the edge of town, this seeming to be common enough knowledge that almost everyone had something to say about him. From the kid running in the street to the group of young ladies gathered for tea, to the old shopkeeper. Not wanting to waste her time while she was setting up shop though, she had taken to helping the woman as she talked. Ms Denhom, short and bent, moved gently and soundlessly, yet her hands had a grace and steadiness that belied her talent at the potter’s wheel.

 “Ah, thank you, dear.” Once they were done, Ms Denhom eased herself into a wicker chair behind the table, relaxing and adjusting her long maroon dress. “You’re a kind young girl, so tell me…” she fixed Claudia with an openly questioning stare, “what could you want with a practitioner of dark magic?”

 Claudia had to look away then. She swallowed against the growing dryness of her throat. “A personal matter,” she settled with saying. A hand swept out to fiddle with a pendant hanging on the wall. Oval-shaped, and painted with a swirling red and green pattern, it swayed back and forth on a black thread. Claudia could see herself buying it. Divya would’ve loved it.

 The old lady was silent, but Claudia could tell her stare hadn’t wavered. A wrinkled hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist, and Claudia turned to look at it, still refusing to look up. “Dear, I won’t pry in what you’re planning to do, but be warned.” Ms Denhom spoke with a grave urgency in her tone. “You may have heard this Edel is a philanthropist, using his powers for good, and maybe you seek his help.” She paused to take a breath, or to prepare herself to speak further. “You might also have heard he’s a businessman, offering his services for the right price.” Claudia finally looked up, and nodded. Ms Denhom continued. “There are so many rumours about him, the people of this town are themselves confused. No one can come up with a single story. It disgusts me,” her nostrils flared in a sudden spike of anger, “that people have made up so many fairy tales, leading innocent souls to danger, and for what? They want attention, or they want to play tricks, or maybe, that’s just what is young people’s idea of fun…” As Ms Denhom trailed off, staring into the distance, clearly lost in her thoughts, Claudia sneaked a glance at her watch. Time was wasting, and the old woman seemed to have given up all the information she had. Eager to be on her way at once, Claudia searched for an exit from the conversation.

 “Ms Denhom,” she interjected, grabbing the pendant she had previously seen off its hook. “I think I would like to buy thi-“

 “Oh, lovely!” Ms Denhom brightened up. And with that, the previous subject matter was forgotten.

 After handing over the money, and tying the piece of jewelry around her neck, Claudia was at the threshold of the stall’s entrance when Ms Denhom spoke again. The young traveler barely held back a groan. She was on a mission, she couldn’t be held back here a second longer. “Dear, forget the rumours everyone in this town has told you so far. It’s all false. I have the truth, and I would like to tell you.” The old lady lowered her voice, as potential customers started nearing the stall. “Edel is no benevolent man, he is a cruel creature. Do not seek his help, if you will heed my advice, do not even visit him. He has powers beyond your comprehension, and he will use them against you. He…”

 Claudia somehow managed to politely step away, as the woman’s attention was redirected to her customers. As she started back on her course due east, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Because the “only” true information the lady had tried to give her, as if she would hear it nowhere else, was something half the people before her had said too.

 ***

 Claudia pulled up the hood of her cloak to shield against the afternoon sun, blazing down hot and heavy, making sweat line her forehead and her blonde strands cling to it. In her head, she ran through everything she had heard in the town. She still wasn’t any closer to a name. Only some details had been consistent in the various narratives. The warlock was a solitary creature, he took in guests indiscriminately, and he practiced dark magic. Such broad statements, however, conveyed no true information to Claudia. The taking in of guests didn’t matter, if some people said that these guests were never seen again, while others said they were sent merrily on their way. The bounds of dark magic did not seem clear in anyone’s mind, either. Children in the street swore up and down that he could bend the laws of nature, conjure anything and destroy everything. Their parents sighed and sent them back along with their friends to play, then gave an apologetic smile while clarifying. No, he was not God. He could fix broken objects, heal broken people, he could destroy certain things within limitations, and as for conjuring, one could never be sure what all he could do. The young men in the village always seemed to downplay the warlock’s skill – he was nothing special, just your run-of-the-mill magician. The young women praised his kindness and generosity, his skill and talent and prodigiousness, and denounced any rumours that he used his powers to hurt people. Such lies, they scoffed, only came from the old, jaded grandmothers, who distrusted the youth and didn’t want young girls potentially running off with the first charming magician they saw.

 Claudia was now near the very edge of town, and the paved roads had given way to dirt tracks. Large oaks rose to either side. The canopy above her blocked the harsh sunlight, and the cool shade that fell on her now, helped ease her breathing. In the dark, the landmark she had been seeking out suddenly came clearly into view. A gasp escaped her when she saw it. In the bark of one of the trees, a circle, carved with the shape of a staff inside, glowed with a faint red light. Blood-coloured wisps seemed to dance in the shadows, emanating from that spot. Marching forward with renewed vigor, Claudia was struck with the realization of how close she had come, and yet she did not know what this man even looked like. Some people described him as a monster, others as a brute, and others still as a delightfully handsome gentleman. After sifting through the endless rumours, which was all Claudia had to do in her long journey, she could only come to two solid conclusions.

 One, the warlock was a kind, handsome gentleman. He would help her, maybe even for free.

 Or two, he was a monster, an animal, or if he was human, a cruel and sadistic one. He would use his magic against her, and, though practiced in some defensive spells herself, the possibility of this option sent a chill of fear through her.

 Claudia shook her head. Only time would tell what the truth was. Until then, she clutched her new pendant and thought of Divya. Alone, cold, and dying back home, she was relying on Claudia to bring help. And she could not disappoint.

 For you, Divya. Claudia stepped through the trees and faced the cottage, neatly hidden away, with a red mark glowing on its front door.

 ***

 “A visitor? Come in, come in!”

 Claudia would’ve thought it was too easy. A single moment had confirmed which side of the rumours was true. The man ushering her towards the living room had his dark hair neatly slicked back, his honey-coloured skin was smooth, and his chest and shoulders broad and very much human. He hadn’t asked two questions before accepting her into his home, and his manner was kind and jovial. Claudia felt like laughing, for, as happy as most of the people in town were to sing his praises, the ones who weren’t, like Ms Denhom, were so irrationally animated in their horror. They said the worst things, trembled in exaggerated fear, and gave the direst warnings. But, such was the nature of rumours. Claudia mused as she sat in the chair he offered, pulled up beside the coffee table. Rumours weren’t powerful until they were exaggerated, it was always all or nothing when spreading a tale. You couldn’t make one truly stick in society unless you had people believe in it to the extreme.

 You couldn’t count on people to spread the rumour, unless they feared it, and considered it important for others to know. It was so much easier to make people believe in a terrifying message, and so wholeheartedly, they called it a fact.

 Such wholehearted belief had been all there was in town, for nothing else would’ve been affective in tarnishing this warlock’s reputation. For what, though? Out of fear of his powers? Or maybe the elderly distrusted powerful youth so much, that they went to such extents. After all, young girls might run away with such a charming magician.

 Claudia accepted a glass of water, but immediately put it down. Wanting to get right down to business, she prepared to speak.

And she found herself opening her mouth, but having to rifle through the list of names she had been given.

 “Call me Aro,” he said, as if he knew exactly where her mind was. Momentarily, Claudia was taken aback. She had heard plenty of names for him, and that was not one of them.

 “Aro.” She pushed back the sliver of doubt. Rumours, by nature, were meant to mislead, to plant fear. There were more important things at hand. “I’m here to request your help. Do you,” Claudia needed this one rumour, especially, to turn out to be true, “have the cure for Vilerose poison?”

 His easy smile never left his face. “Someone you know, fallen sick?”

 “My lover, Divya.”

 “And you don’t have the means to cure her yourself?” Aro raised his eyebrows at her, sipping at his own glass. “I can see you’re an experienced witch.”

 Claudia had to assume his powers let him sense hers. Otherwise, she would have to confront the uncomfortable chills running up her back. “My healing ability is still new. I can’t cure this.”

 “Still,” he said, “coming here is a bit desperate. No other witch or wizard willing to help?”

 Claudia felt the strain on her patience. Her fingers curled back into her palms. “There’s…fear, of demons. Because they’re known as a symbol of evil, of hatred, no one would even try to listen to us.” Most witches had taken one look at the curled horns on Divya’s head and slammed the door in their face. But it didn’t matter, none of this did. Claudia just needed his help, which he seemed to be dodging from giving.

 He looked thoughtful, for a moment. “What about-“

 Claudia slammed the glass of water down and leaped to her feet. “Do you want to help me or not?” She breathed heavily, glaring down at him. But the worst part was, he wasn’t even slightly fazed.

 He seemed to have expected it.

 “Well, I certainly wanted you to think I do.” He stood up as well, towering slightly over her. “Why else would I spread such lovely stories about myself?”

 Claudia blinked, a familiar dryness settling back in her throat. Nothing about his expression changed, always the easy composure stayed on his face. But now it was combined by a glint in his eye, harsh in the light pouring through the window. It send Claudia’s mind racing, trying to put together the pieces.

“So I was wrong to trust all the praise, is that it?” She stumbled back, biding for time as she patted down her coat in search of her wand. “Everyone who denounced you, they were right?”

 “You could say that.” He made a face, as if genuinely pondering over the correct answer. “But I’m not sure if they are the ones who should get the credit, since I planted those stories in their mouths, too.”

 “W-What?” The response was automatic, but Claudia didn’t wait for an answer. She pointed her wand at him as soon her hand closed around it. Aro snapped his fingers. In the same second, a wave of dizziness came over Claudia, goosebumps broke out over her skin and her vision doubled. Her unsteady fingers dropped the wand, and she barely managed to grip the edge of the table before falling over too. Through her blurry sight, she could just make out the glass of water resting in front of her. The clear liquid had turned a murky shade of green. A potion. There must’ve been a potion mixed in.

 Aro walked slowly beside her. He crouched, taking her face in one hand. “Tell me, how many names for me did you hear on the way?” Claudia stared up at him through lidded eyes, not able to speak even if she had wanted to. He didn’t need the answer, anyway. “All those names, all those stories, they built the perfect image of me, right? All you truly knew was that I had power, I could wield dark magic, and that much, at least, was true. Everyone was saying it. You were so willing to believe it. And the ones that adored me, praised me, they were much less suspicious because there were people that denounced me to balance them out. I made sure to spread my stories among rivals. They were more concerned with proving each other wrong, the young and the old, I’m sure you could tell.”

 Aro moved away, strolling up to a cabinet and pulling out a coil of rope. Dread filled Claudia’s stomach like ice, now she was all too willing to see a monster instead of a human. He never stopped talking the whole time.

 “You never got information about me. Anything anyone told you was cancelled out by the next person. There was no way to know what would happen here, until you came. And here you are.”

 He knelt and gathered her up off the floor. Her back was pushed up against the leg of the chair, and he made quick work of binding her wrists together. A single tear trailed down her cheek. Gazing blankly ahead, she fixated on the multiple doors in the corridor leading deeper into the cottage. Were there more prisoners there? What had become of them? What was going to become of her?

 He moved to her ankles once he was done with her hands. He still spoke, but in that moment, the heaviest sensation of all was the pendant resting innocently against her throat. 

And the only thought it brought to mind was of Divya.

 “The real nature of rumours is this – they’re tools. Powerful ones, too; the right rumour in the right ear has sparked revolutions. And I’m just a mechanic, building the exact machine I want this town to be, bringing people right to my doorstep, one rumour at a time.”

[txtdiaries]

Three Thirty-Three | Prelude

SUMMARY | Soobin doesn’t like being lied to, especially not by you.

PAIRING | Soobin X Reader

CATEGORY | dysfunctional au, angst

WORD COUNT | 890

WARNINGS | swearing, smoking

SONG REC | Ferrari - Bebe Rexha

PLAYLIST | three thirty-three playlist

Preview / Prelude / Chapter One

3:33 A.M.

The dark car rolls to a stop, halting under a street lamp planted at the end of an empty stretch of road, and the boy next to you pushes the gearshift into park. You find your pulse hammering underneath your skin.

Anxiety fills the farthest corners of your body, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Either way - he doesn’t say anything. Not for a few minutes anyway.

Sleek puffs of smoke leave his lips before floating up through the air in white curls which reek of tobacco, and his ring clad fingers drum against the steering wheel firmly. The song - ironically named Ferrari - plays through the speakers at a low volume, engulfing the two of you.

He still doesn’t look at you.

His lips, far from the smirk they are usually curved up in, is far from just that. They’re pressed together in a harsh, thin line now, holding his cigarette tightly. Soobin’s dimples show under the shadows that fall over him, and they are deep in the crevice of his cheeks. The sight makes you squirm.

After a few more moments of this, of taking a drag, inhaling and then exhaling, he finally speaks.

“So,” He says lowly, voice rough after finally releasing the cigarette from in-between his lips. His eyes flash over yours suddenly, head tilting. The sight would be enough to bring you to your knees if you weren’t sitting in his car. You swallow thickly and listen to him go on, shaking your head slightly to regain focus as he does so.

“You wanna tell me what you were doing out at the fights at three in the morning, princess?”

And there it is. The question you’ve been fearing for the entire duration of the car ride.

You always appreciated this about Soobin - his inability to not cut to the chase. It could be overwhelming, neck-breaking at times, but you were always glad he never talked shit just to spare your feelings. He was always honest. Always.

“Mark invited me,” You try, knowing of the boys' dislike for eachother, struggling to think of another excuse as this one rolls off your toungue. You can’t tell him the real reason you were there.

You don’t miss your boyfriend’s bitter laugh before he says, “I’d kick his ass if he did, we both know that.”

You bite your lip before retrying, “I thought you were there.”

Soobin shakes his head, “Wrong again. We share our locations with eachother, remember sweetheart?”

You mentally curse yourself for that. It’s not like he was overprotective or anything, you two just liked knowing that the other was safe. However, because of the solid proof of knowing where he had been, Soobin wasn’t buying any of it right now. You knew he wouldn’t from the start.

“I-”

“No lies this time, baby.” Soobin says smoothly, rolling down his window a bit before tossing his burnt cigarette butt out onto the gravel below. Cold air creeps into the car as he keeps the window open, and you welcome the feeling of fresh air in your lungs for the first time since you’ve been seated in his car.

“I want the truth.” He adds, voice far too calm than it should be. You know he’s angry, you just don’t know why he’s hiding it like this.

“I...”

Soobin’s hand finds your thigh easily, holding it firmly as your eyes snap to his again. He’s already looking at you, a glint of playfullness in his eyes showing through suddenly.

He licks his lips and waits for you to continue.

“I wanted to understand.” You finally admit, averting your gaze for the time being. You’re too scared to even look at Soobin now, let alone see his reaction. A few beats pass before he retracts his hand.

You think he’s going to move away from you, but then you feel his hand on the skin of your jaw, cradling it softly.

You meet his eyes again.

Soobin’s face is cold, emotionless, but his eyes aren’t. They never are.

“What have I told you about-”

“I know,” You cut him off, “I know.”

Soobin lets out a sigh, pressing your hair back easily before holding your face again, “You don’t need to see what I do to understand me. You already understand me. All of me - I am yours.”

“I just wish-”

“I know,” He finishes, following your own words. You both know what is off limits in your relationship, and yet.

Soobin finally sits back in his seat. Another beat passes. 

He nods.

“Let’s go home.”

He’s pulling the gearshift into drive before you have a chance to object, and he flicks his lights on before lifting his foot off the break, fingers slipping the cigarette he keeps tucked behind the top of his ear out from where it always sits.

“Light?” He asks, softly. You comply.

Soobin’s dimples indent his skin as he holds his cigarette between chapped lips again, and a small flame shoots up from the black lighter you switch open as he turns his face towards you. It lights and he turns back towards the road, taking a drag.

“I love you.” He speaks around puffs of smoke, keeping the window cracked for your sake.

“I love you.” You say, pocketing the lighter. He nods again.

“Forever.”

[trashyslashers]

Part two for soulmate AU ??? ❤️❤️❤️

Here it is!! Sorry it took so long, I wanted to go more indepth with the AU instead of just doing general headcanons. This came out a bit longer than I intended it to lmao. Part I here 

Freddy’s is a little…. open to interpretation at the end. Do what you will with that information. 

Michael Myers:

The months subsequent to the meeting on Halloween were full of nothing but trepidation and unease. You’d called in sick to work more times than you cared to count (with it being the time of year that colds and viruses were running rampant, no one really could complain about your absence), and your friends and family had questioned your sudden social withdrawal more times than you had fingers on your hands. 

Regardless of how many times they asked you what happened or what was wrong, you dismissed their concerns with lies about you just being sick, seasonal depression, fatigue, and the like - all further from the truth than you’d care for them to know. 

Hiding the fact that you’d met your supposed soulmate was an entirely different story, though; the absolute last thing that you wanted to be public knowledge was the fact that Michael Myers was, apparently, the one you were destined to be with. You had to lie your way through that; pretend that you weren’t aware of what color an object was, or how the sky looked that day. A few friends and relatives of yours had already met their soulmates, so you had no choice but to play stupid and keep up your act of “I have no idea what that’s even remotely like” constantly.

Alone, though, you were a complete wreck. Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be a fucking serial killer, of all possible options? And why did it have to be you? You kept yourself up at night, your stomach churning, your body tense with anxiety as you mulled over the shitty fact that you were inevitably going to have to come to terms with the truth. Were you ever going to see him again? Was he going to stalk - and, probably inevitably - kill you now? Surely he had to realize what was up - unless he’d never even learned that that was a thing that happened. Is it why he was following you in the first place, or were you just randomly chosen to be his next victim who so happened to be his soulmate? Regardless of what the truth was, you tore yourself apart mentally while trying to figure out what to do.

Months passed, and you’d managed to bury the event in the back of your mind as best as you could. You’d since gotten used to the color change of your surroundings and playing dumb, and your life was made leagues easier by pretending you’d seen a completely random person that sparked the change as opposed to Michael Myers. It was late, late autumn, and the news was filled with reports about the fact that Myers still had yet to be caught after he managed to escape Smith’s Grove last Halloween. 

You, of course, remained on edge as the holiday grew closer. You refused to walk to or from anything; your funds running low from you constantly filling your car up with gas and dishing out gas money to those who offered to drive you places. Your plan was working as you’d had yet to see any sign of Myers again, and you began to believe that you were in the clear.

At least, until you were met with some mighty unfortunate circumstances on the actual night of Halloween.

It was near 7pm, and you were left shit out of luck for transpiration. You’d forgotten to fill your gas tank up enough to get you both to and from work, and a coworker was generous enough to offer you a two-way ride - until they informed you that there was a family emergency and they had to dip early. Of course, you were more concerned about their situation than you were for your own, but you couldn’t help but dread your walk home. Dread it or not, life was unfair and you had no choice but to take it. 

Much to your relief, though, you’d made it home with absolutely no issue - in fact, the walk wasn’t bad at all. The atmosphere was the exact opposite of how it was last year (which made sense considering it was Halloween and not the night before) - the town full of laughter and shouts from the children and teens running around in costumes, the streets illuminated by the soft orange and yellow lights that were emitted from the countless jack o’lanterns and decorative lights that the houses were adorned with. You’d been setting your keys and belongings down on the counter while you debated on dressing up and calling up a few friends to go out with when you glanced out the window and about had a heart attack. 

Your back yard wasn’t exactly large or anything, but it melded into the yard of your neighbors and as a result was quite full of trees and coverage. Towards the back of your yard, near the shabby fence that existed to block your house off from some creepy alleyway, you saw him. You almost laughed; for a brief second you thought you’d spotted some teen or adult just trying to play a prank, but the fact that it would’ve been quite a fucking coincidence that they ended up in your yard of all else’s threw that thought right out of your head. 

There was no hesitation from you as you sprinted from the kitchen, down the hallway of your house, straight into your bedroom - just like the idiots in horror movies that you always made fun of. You made a reach for your back pocket to pull your phone out so you could phone the police - only to realize that in your daze of fear you’d forgotten to grab it off the counter. Upon remembering that, the realization that you’d forgotten to lock the door you’d come in hit you like a truck as well, and you couldn’t stop yourself from groaning out of both fear and annoyance.

Turn the lights off! Hide! Quickly!

You didn’t bother with flipping the switch on your lamp, and instead opted to just yank the cord straight from the wall, resulting in sparks. Hastily, you clambered over your bed and down into the small space between it and the wall so you could hide under the less-obvious side of the bed. 

You’d made that move just in time, seeing as the second you settled into your spot, the door of your room creaked open. 

Your mouth clamped shut, your hand flying up to cover it in attempt to muffle any noise you may inadvertently make out of fear. Your breath remained caught in your throat as you laid there silently, listening to the floor creak under the weight of Michael as he crept through your room. Your eyes were burning from a combination tears and the fact that you refused to shut them, instead staring out towards the dark wall that was directly across from you. 

It felt like hours had passed once the sound of his heavy footfalls faded into another part of your house, and you took that as the opportunity to wiggle yourself out from your spot so you could - hopefully - manage to stealthily pry open your bedroom window and get out through it. Your movements were awkward as you tried to be as fast as as humanly possible while simultaneously staying quiet, and you were lucky as you’d managed to get the window open wide enough that you could probably shove yourself through it you did it the right away. 

Before you had the opportunity to even stoop down and plan how you’d climb through it, you were yanked back from your spot and straight into a tall, solid mass while a hand clamped itself over your mouth to muffle your scream. Before you could think of anything better to do, you opened your mouth and bit down on his hand hard enough that he pulled it back, and you took advantage of the lapse in his grip to give his stomach a solid elbowing and broke free from his arms, turning around and sprinting out of your room, down the hallway. 

But alas, you were far from from being graceful while in a state of distress and your foot caught on the edge of your living room carpet, causing you to trip forward and tumble to a stop awkwardly on your stomach. You scrambled to your feet, taking about a hundred glances over your shoulder as you watched Michael leave your room, his stance tense as he slowly closed the gap between the two of you. While the hallway was dark, the lighting in your kitchen and living room were enough to illuminate it just enough to cast shadows on him and the eerie lighting did absolutely nothing to improve the situation. 

Michael was right in front of you by the time you fully regained your balance, and you were trapped between him and the small wall that sectioned the kitchen off from the living room. Your voice was caught in your throat, not even as much of a whimper could be heard as you stood before him, staring up at him with eyes wide with fear and tears. Any attempt to speak was met with choked sobs and stutters from you, and when he made a slight movement towards you you recoiled so hard you’d almost tripped backwards into the wall. 

When he made a reach for you with his hand, you’d finally been able to force yourself to speak. 

“W-wait!” It came out much more aggressively than you’d intended for it to, but it would have to do. When he didn’t make another motion towards you, you took that as the opportunity to swallow your fear and actually confront him. 

“What do you want?” The obligatory question that anyone being stalked by a serial killer is legally required to ask, despite there being no use for it. It’s not like he’d answer you anyway. “We can figure this out - you don’t have to kill me or anything like that, please..” 

Now really wasn’t the time to try and reason with him, seeing as he was probably about to make you his next victim, but what other choice did you have? Running wouldn’t get you very far, and you had no doubt that he’d find you soon enough. 

You noticed the ever so slight droop of his shoulders, his posture relaxing marginally - a good sign, you hoped, and continued to speak.

“Did you see it too?” It came out more like a whisper than anything, but it was loud enough that he heard it as indicated by the tilt of his head. Whether that was a yes or a no you weren’t sure, but the fact that he hadn’t attempted to kill you yet was relieving. You were still absolutely petrified, though, and when he took a step closer to you, you instinctively threw your hand up to try and put some sort of futile shield between the two of you. 

“Please don’t -” your plea for mercy was cut short by a sudden grip around your wrist, accompanied by a sharp tug which pulled you almost right up against him. Your efforts at pushing against him were fruitless, but before you could start screaming for help, his other hand quickly returned to press against your mouth, effectively silencing you. Fear induced tears welled in your eyes as you realized that with how pressing his hand was you wouldn’t be able to rely on your bite to free you this time, and as you were about to give up and just let him end your life, you noticed the ever so slight shake of his head- “no”. 

Of course it wasn’t actually spoken by him, but it was as if he was able to read your mind and was answering. No, he wasn’t going to harm you. No, he wasn’t going to kill you. No, there was no reason for you to scream and cry for help. 

While every nerve in your body screamed no, no, no!, you slowly brought your free hand to his that was covering your mouth, and much to your surprise, he put up no resistance when you moved it away. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

———————————————————————————————————–

Freddy Krueger:

You’d about mastered the art of waking yourself up every time you felt yourself dozing off. After countless nights spent awake, drinking copious amounts of coffee and soda and busying yourself with literally anything you could get your hands on, the urge to sleep was becoming far too much to resist and once you began experiencing minor hallucinations you’d decided that enough was enough and you needed to do something about it. 

First you started setting alarms for every 90 minutes so you wouldn’t get into a REM cycle and dream - but eventually you worried that Freddy would be able to actually pull you into dreams at will, and so the alarms were then set for 20 minute intervals instead. While that worked for a bit, eventually you began to find the call of sleep entirely too alluring and accepted the fact that sooner or later, you’d succumb. 

In the nights spent awake, part of your time was dedicated to figuring out just what the hell you were supposed to do when the inevitable happened. You had no doubt that once you fell asleep and began dreaming that Freddy would be waiting for you, and not knowing what exactly was going to happen only worked to make your apprehension worse. Would he kill you immediately? Would he toy with you, then kill you? Did he even give half a shit about the whole soulmate ordeal? The last words he’d spoken to you - “Gotcha” - indicated that he was aware of what was going on - but didn’t he already have a soulmate? Didn’t he used to have a wife? That’s what everyone said about him. Unless, her death had turned his world back to black and white again, or she wasn’t actually his soulmate.

Christ, none of it made sense.

A friend of yours, Nancy, caught on to what was going on after you’d showed up to class late one day, the dark circles and sullen look on your face giving everything away. While you didn’t tell her the extent of what was going on, you just clued her in that you were struggling with some serious nightmares that were making it hard for you to sleep, and it was really beginning to take a toll on you both mentally and physically.

Nancy, though, like the angel she was, let you in on a small not-so-secret; a new drug that’s come to the market that her own somnologist and psychiatrist prescribed her, an experimental sedative called Hypnocil that could suppress your dreams. You swore you could hear the chorus of angels singing when she told you about it, and you wasted absolutely no time in asking her how you could get your hands on some. 

Life wasn’t fair, though, and turns out it was incredibly rare for a doctor to even mention it to a patient. Upon seeing the look of distress plaster itself onto your face, Nancy leaned in a bit closer to you and whispered a little something to you:

“As long as you don’t tell anyone… I don’t mind giving you a few.” 

It’s not like they’re a controlled substance, right? And it was only a few - a week at most, no one needed to know.

And so it was done, and you were back to sleeping almost-normally in no time. One pill, by mouth, once a day 20 minutes before bedtime, and you were set - and it was working! You had no nightmares, no dreams even, and you no longer dread nighttime and sleep. Despite the relief of finally being able to get a good night’s rest, worry was gnawing at the back of your mind about how eventually you’d run out of Hypnocil, and how it would be unfair of you to assume Nancy would fork over her own personal medication for your use. 

That was a worry for another time, though, and you wasted no time in pushing it to the back of your mind. You’d cross that bridge when you got to that.

———————————————————————————————————–

You’d always complained about how it felt like time was flying by entirely too fast, and now was certainly no exception. Almost a week later, you’d been completely out of Hypnocil and left on your own, left to defend yourself. You’d about had a panic attack that last night once you realized the baggy of small blue pills was empty, and just like that you found yourself dreading sleep again.

You knew Freddy would be waiting for you - you had absolutely no doubt about it, and you weren’t ready to return to your old ways - you were just starting to feel rested again! You were debating on calling around to any offices you could - doctors, psychiatrists, somnologists, anyone - to try and get some sort of help - but how would you even explain what was going on? They’d probably think you were delusional if you called, begging for a medication that was new on the market while claiming that you were being stalked in your dreams. 

Night came quickly, and you’d tried to prepare yourself. Alarms set to be as loud as possible at 20 minute intervals were lined up, and every time you’d wake up you’d stand up and do jumping jacks to get the blood flowing and wake yourself back up enough so that you wouldn’t immediately fall back asleep. As you laid there in bed gazing at the dimmed lamp on your desk, you found yourself hoping, praying, that in the unfortunate circumstance that you met Freddy again, your, most likely inevitable, death would be swift. A small part of you wondered if you’d even see him again, and as you dozed off you wished for that to be the reality.

It wasn’t.

As soon as your eyes closed, it became evident that your body had had absolutely enough of you depriving it of sleep, and you slept through three of your alarms, slipping into dreams with ease. The first handful were pleasant; warm memories, weird happenings, nothing out of the ordinary. As the night went on, though, your dreams began to change. Things were out of place, things weren’t right. The new colors weren’t right - people sounded different, looked different. You found yourself wandering down the hallway to your small bathroom, probably planning to get water or something, but once you entered it, the smell of rust and blood hit you like a truck.

You were back in the boiler room, and the raucous cackle echoing throughout the corridor scared you enough that you whimpered. 

You turned around, reaching for the doorknob of the bathroom only to realize that the door was gone, and the once off-white wall of your bathroom was now a chipped, brick wall that was hot to the touch. 

You also noticed the lack of any pipes around  - your go-to method of escape by burning yourself wouldn’t work this time, it seemed.

His laugh was closer this time, and you knew deep down that he liked to see you scared. That was part of his whole shtick, right? Nightmares, scaring people - it was what he liked, and he enjoyed seeing you terrified.

“Nowhere to run now.” 

His voice was deep, gravelly, and as unpleasant as you’d imagined it would be. Your eyes were locked onto his bladed hand, and you couldn’t stop imagining how cold and sharp they’d undoubtedly feel piercing your stomach or slitting your throat. He seemed to take notice of this, and raised his gloved hand up so you could get a better look at it, waggling his fingers in a way that caused the blades to scrape against each other. 

Before you could stop yourself, you found yourself blurting out the only thing you could think of.

“Those knives are pretty big - are they supposed to be compensating for something?” It was your turn to taunt him, and much to your surprise it seemed to… entertain him? 

Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut and couldn’t bring yourself to look away from his gloved hands. You were waiting for him to shove them into your abdomen, and you felt your eyes water as you couldn’t pull yourself from your spot to run. 

The way he cackled in response sent chills down your spine, and you found yourself equally as uncomfortable with the situation as you were afraid. He took a few more steps towards you, leering up at you from under his worn out fedora as he closed what little space there was in between the two of you. You, in response, pressed yourself back up against the wall as much as you could to try and gain more space, but that proved to be absolutely fruitless as he practically stood up against you. Though he was on the shorter side for most men, he stood taller than you, and as a result you were forced to stare at the tattered material of his sweater - something he didn’t seem all too pleased with as soon you felt the cold metal of his blades push lightly under your chin hard enough to force you to look up at him without actually drawing blood. 

“You aren’t stupid, so quit acting like it.” His voice trailed off as he spoke, one of the blades brushing against your cheek as his eyes bore into your own. You could feel his breath on your face as you stood there, frozen with fear. Why wasn’t he killing you? 

“It… It’s all color now.” You all but whispered, your brain completely failing in the department that served to produce complete, intelligent sentences, thus leaving you with such a vague statement. You really had no clue what else to say other than stating what was blatantly obvious, hoping that he’d have at least some idea of what was going on.

A sneer crossed his face as you gathered the courage to reach up and push his hand away from your face. “That’s more like it.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

He spoke up again, his voice cutting yours off before you could even open your mouth to speak. 

“I’ve got no desire to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna.. let you go again. I’ve got you right where I want you,” He said as his gloved hand found it’s way to your neck, his palm pressing lightly against your throat as the blades brushed along your jawline. “- and I’m not about to just let you leave easily.” He punctuated his words with a short flick of a blade, just enough to scratch your skin ever so slightly. 

“We’ve got something to talk about, and now that I’ve got you, I want to have some fun.” 

You had a feeling you wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. 

[believerindaydreams]

If you're still doing requests, something reckless, for Tucoeyes? Alternatively, more Confeitor 💖 or both at once heehe

This snowfall, it’s almost a joke. 

What Easterner would expect such wanton weather, the blistering distress wailing its way through wind-torn pines, so far west of the Mississippi? A far cry from the notions of desert plains, this elevation; it doesn’t require your silent watcher’s woe to feel the incongruity of stiff leathers and silk-lined vest, little enough protection from the storm.

“This was eight days. You said seven, Blondie.” 

“Maybe I misremembered.” Gun laid across his lap, fingers twitching. “Maybe something changed- hell, don’t ask me. Just needs time.” 

Time that neither of you- none of you have. Its passage can be measured now in solid lengths, sticks of wood of which there are pitifully few remaining. 

(Death may be prepared for, but there are ways and ways. This one is lingering, slow and not to be considered. Too much like the first one, entirely too much-)

“…maybe I’m not built for this any more.” 

Those are not an old man’s eyes gazing at yours, taunting you across a stage floor with enmity constantly coaxed. They’re young, young enough for this age, and you might nearly yield to the clamorous entreaty matching the one in your own bones…if it wasn’t for knowing it to be equally false. 

(Does Blondie speak to his own shadow? Is there a silent witness there, watching and waiting as Tuco does with you? Perhaps that’s what’s salved your troubled days here, if your murderer stands preoccupied by the same fierce dilemma.)

My partner, he wouldn’t go down so easily.

…but they’re the same man, Tuco

You think so? I’m sorry for you, but I don’t give a shit about that man rotting down at Sad Hill- he wouldn’t have minded my dying one little bit. 

The body tenses, the blood runs more quickly. You think I wouldn’t snap my fingers if I could, to have my mind to myself again?

A long silence. You would. I’d do the same. But we’re both too cautious for that, I think- we won’t go into the night, not easily. 

Does it occur to you, that Blondie can’t be the same as us to even risk this at all with himself-

“Give it up.” Very gently. Blondie’s voice always is. “You can’t manage it, can you? Not hold on to life the way I’ve done.” 

“Pray clarify.” Give nothing away, that instinct is unassuageable. 

“No Latin tags? No sneer?” He breaks off in a cough, a wary consumptive sound. “I did my best for you, Angel Eyes, but if you can’t manage to keep Tuco’s body then never mind. Get out. Quit haunting me- quit haunting us.” 

He grasps at the rosary’s beads as he talks, beads clenched in his fist, and all the weary, soul-deprived hunger of thirty years rises in soundless fear- not again, not again, for the love of nothing and everything not that hollowness again-

(somewhere that does not exist, there is darkness and a fire and a man staring you down in judgement.

“El perdón, Angel.”)

And somehow you stand there still, even after Blondie’s torn away the accursed thing. 

Not without price. Ten, twenty, who knows how many tiny gold-cut wounds, and the blood starts drooling out of him with ready eagerness.  

What the hell-

I told you, my partner wouldn’t go easily. There’s something like pride in Tuco’s voice, hiding beneath the terror. 

It takes a moment to realise how he’s said it aloud, quite unmistakably; and so the truth lies open. 

“Give him back,” Blondie growls. “The partner I remember.” 

“You’ve had your chance. Too late-” 

a sentence not to be completed, when he springs at you with the reckless wild grace of a mountain lion (how many injuries inflicted on each other, in this handful of days? The blurred count fails to resolve into a sure and certain number, throbbing at your memory even while you struggle, nonplussed by blows and kicks when the Remington was so readily to hand- 

of course not, he’ll take us next!

In a calmer moment, you would call that pure hysteria. 

In that theoretical calmer moment, it would be possible to discuss this sensibly with your blood-soaked opponent. To compromise, to stall, at the very least to take up arms and settle this after the faint but certain gunslinger’s code that bids a clean death by bullet and not by teeth and battering- 

but the very ineptitude of it, can that spring from anything from the shrinking desire to avoid undue injury, before the flesh can be held, roped, lynched in the golden chain-

and Tuco’s body is strong enough but too unfamiliar still, too unknowable, at too much of a remove to survive this absurd quarrel unaided- 

the calculation that makes you drop all your defences, leave yourself open at last to your host’s mercy, is in the end the same strong bid for life as all the rest has been; and the trust, if trust it can be called, is predicated on nothing stronger than wind. 

Wind which howls loud enough to drown out each shot, as Tuco empties a six-shooter into his erstwhile partner’s flesh. 

He collapses onto the corpse afterwards, sobbing and spent. Makes no objection when you cautiously venture a movement, to avoid suffocation in the tidal wave of blood. 

Makes no objection a half hour later, when you force the tired body into movement and feed the fire the last few sticks. There’s something lonely about this, in the absence of unbearable tension. Having gauged existence by others for so long, to simply be is as novel as it is unnerving. 

Tuco?

He doesn’t answer, not a word. 

Tuco. I wouldn’t have wished this on anyone else. I won’t wish it on you. 

No reply. Maybe the rosary’s destruction has purged all spirits, left things as they are clean and new. 

Maybe this is all a cunning way to trap you, the semblance of a cabin and close to death. There’s no let-up to that wind. 

Which means death regardless, then; and so much for all this squabbling. No wonder Tuco’s gone. 

But thirty years of loss won’t yield to rationality. Hands trembling and moving slowly, you scoop snow from a crack into a tin pan, set it on the fire to warm. Salt. Pepper. What’s left of the venison, hardly worth eating. 

Do I do this for you, or for myself?

Hunger keeps you awake until the broth’s done, keen and biting; and the slop’s not worthy of the name but it exists, it is immeasurably good, and both the sensation of need and that of satiety are what you needed now, to stay convinced that at the end of all this there is something worth being alive for. 

Tomorrow, perhaps he’ll be back. 

Or perhaps that unburied, thrice-damned Blondie will be. 

Or the wind dropped, and your horse prancing at the door, and the world lying free and open to you once more. 

You sip the soup with pleasure, and steal the poncho to warm your sleep. 

[skylanders-after-the-end]

Royal Showdown

The sun was burning down onto the bright yellow sand of the desert. A seemingly endless landscape with no sign of life. In the middle of it was a shimmering golden tank, rolling across the countless layers of sand, boarded by Sprocket. The Skylander has been travelling on the large island for hours looking for the Golden Queen. According to her tracking device, the villain was supposed to be nearby, yet there was nothing other than sand far and wide. After she passed another sandy hill, Sprocket looked through the periscope of her tank and spotted a blurry object in the distance. She thought that it was a mirage at first, but upon closer inspection, the engineer’s mouth formed a wide grin. It was a palace made of pure gold, similar to Golden Queen’s original home in the Golden Desert.

The Skylander drove up to the stairs leading to the glorious entrance. In the cool safety of the building’s large shadow, Sprocket jumped out of her tank and made it disappear. She observed the giant gate decorated with all kinds of ancient symbols and statues that Sprocket has never seen before. “This is it.” The goldling said to herself before putting her goggles on top of her striking red hair and entering the abandoned residence.

The Golden Queen has taken her rightful place on the throne inside the ancient palace. With a greedy smile, she slid her nails across a technological device which, even though it was highly advanced, was eons old. Almost manically she was tapping onto the screen, making a bright sound with each contact. The queen was certain that this would be her key to success, this would finally make her the sole ruler of the Skylands.

Suddenly the goldling heard something in the distance. An echoing explosion, and then another one. The tall woman arose from her chair and summoned two Arkeyan guards. “Go see what’s going on there!” The queen yelled and the robots followed her order.

When the guards reached the hall outside of the throne room, Golden Queen could see one of them being destroyed by bullets. Shockingly, the other one had a mine tossed towards him before exploding into pieces. Surprised and enraged, the queen grabbed her staff and prepared to face her enemy. What she didn’t expect is to see Sprocket walk through the entrance leading to the throne room. The queen gave the intruder a bewildered look before pointing her staff at her. “It’s you! That foolish Skylander that resisted my powers!”

“Still Sprocket to you.” The engineer replied sassily as she gripped her wrench tightly. “You may have tricked us last time, but you can’t hide from me!”

“I was never trying to hide.” Golden Queen laughed. “I was just biding my time until I found another way to destroy you Skylanders and claim all the gold for myself, and now I finally have!”

As much as Sprocket just wanted to beat the greedy woman down with her wrench, that was not the reason she journeyed here all on her own. “Listen Golden Queen, I didn’t come here to fight.”

The queen snickered. “For once a smart decision.”

Sprocket ignored her comment and went on. “Back on the abandoned island, you weren’t able to turn me into a golden statue. From what I’ve heard, that’s never occurred before.”

The Golden Queen’s confident smile melted into a frown. “Why are you asking me this? I know just as much as you do, it’s impossible!” She proceeded to aim a golden ray at Sprocket which once again showed no effect, much to the queen’s dismay.

The Skylander observed her hands and sighed with relief when she saw that she wasn’t frozen. “I tried to find an explanation, but nothing made sense! Perhaps because of that clone you created I somehow became immune, or maybe even my tech. I just-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Golden Queen shouted as her body emitted a bright light, indicating her rage. “I don’t need my powers to defeat some dirty engineer!” After a few moments of tension which the two enemies spent staring at each other with spite, the queen put another sinister smile on. “In fact, I will defeat you with your own weapons!”

Upon those words, the ruler grabbed the device which she was holding earlier and pressed a button. Behind her throne, the large stone wall parted in the middle and revealed an entire army of ancient Arkeyan Conquertrons standing tidily in rows, waiting patiently for their moment to conquer, as their name suggests. Sprocket tumbled into a state of shock. “My family just so happened to have made a deal with the Arkeyans eons ago, granting us hundreds of their Conquertrons. Now that I have finally discovered them, I will use them to obliterate you Skylanders once and for all!”

Sprocket was expecting to find an answer to her question when she came here, not that Golden Queen had the power to destroy every island in the Skylands if she desired. “No, this can’t be…”

“It certainly can.” The goldling kept her shimmering jewel eyes on Sprocket before deciding to unveil another shocking revelation. Only this time it was personal. “I’m sure you’re dying to know how I was able to fix and reactivate those machines. That’s because I received help from someone you might be familiar with.”

Before Sprocket could even begin to wonder who she was talking about, the queen pressed another button which created a hole in the ground near her out of which a figure emerged. The Tech Skylander had to take a close look. She didn’t want to believe her eyes at first, but her goggles never lied. “Uncle?”

The long lost goldling’s head turned into every direction before he finally laid eyes on his beloved niece. “Sprocket? What are you doing here!?”

The engineer moved her goggles onto her head as her eyes began to tear up, while her uncle Oscar was rather shocked to see her there. “What a heartwarming reunion.” Golden Queen interrupted the moment with another wicked laugh before grabbing the goldling next to her. “Kaos thought that he could get away with kidnapping one of the Skylands’ brightest minds, but I taught him better. Your uncle has been my prisoner ever since! My undead minions have always kept watch over him and eventually brought him here. He’s working for me, which includes the reanimation of the Arkeyans.”

“I had no choice Sprocket! She knew who I was, if I refused her orders, she would have hunted you down!” Oscar desperately explained the twisted situation, hoping that his niece could forgive him for aiding the queen.

“None of this is your fault, uncle.” Sprocket didn’t care about what he was forced to do, her anger was only directed at Golden Queen. “I’m just glad I finally found you.” Through the single tear escaping her eye, Sprocket was able to give her family member a smile.

“Enough of this!” Golden Queen’s patience was wearing thin. “Now that my army is set up and ready to attack, I have no use for either of you.” She grinned as her eyes slowly went from Sprocket to Oscar. “At least this time you’ll get to say goodbye.”

Golden Queen raised her hand and charged up another golden blast before she shot it at the engineer, creating a cloud of sparkling dust around him. “No!” Sprocket shouted and stepped forward as she watched the scene in horror. In the moment of the queen’s apparent triumph, something that no one expected occurred. The sparkling cloud vanished, and Oscar was perfectly fine!

“What!?” Golden Queen was glowing again as she stared at yet another failed attempt to freeze her victim. She couldn’t explain it to herself.

Sprocket’s horrified frown soon shifted into a bright smile when she realized that her uncle managed to resist the queen’s powers as well.

“It can’t be! This is impossible!” Golden Queen’s eyes shot between Sprocket and her uncle. What made them immune to her godly powers? Then she remembered something, and the answer struck her like a lightning bolt. “Unless…”

Sprocket stopped her flash of happiness when she spotted the look on the bewildered goldling’s face. Did she finally have the answer she was looking for? “Unless what?”

Golden Queen inhaled and stared at Sprocket. She threw her a look of blank shock and disgust. “There were some who were also able to resist my powers, a long time ago.” Golden Queen had to take another breath before finally revealing the truth. “While my parents turned into solid gold with a single touch, my siblings were immune to those powers. That’s why I had to banish them instead.”

Sprocket’s eyes went from Golden Queen to her uncle, and it didn’t take them long to figure out what that meant. “Wait, does that mean we’re your siblings’-”

“Descendants.” Golden Queen finished the sentence. “We share the same bloodline.” With utter disgust, the queen turned her sight back to Oscar. “And that means you will steal the throne from me, and my precious gold!” She grabbed her relative by the collar of his shirt and tossed him into the pit in front of the platform she was standing on, letting him fall down into the dark depths of the palace.

“Uncle!” Sprocket hurried to the edge of the pit as her uncle’s scream still echoed through the room, but Oscar was gone.

“I won’t let my family take away what’s rightfully mine.” Sprocket lifted her head to give the enraged queen a death glare. “You will not defeat me. Ever!”

And with that, Golden Queen slammed her staff onto the rocks beneath her feet which caused the floor underneath Sprocket to split apart and send her falling down the pit as well. The Skylander screamed as she fell deeper and deeper, until there was nothing left but darkness.

It was all black. Nothing to hear and nothing to see. Slowly a voice grew increasingly louder until the words became clear enough to understand. “Sprocket! Sprocket, wake up!” The Tech Skylander came back to her senses and opened her eyes. Her uncle Oscar’s worried face above her turned into a relieved smile. “Oh, thank the Ancients you’re alright.”

Sprocket pushed her upper body up and observed her surroundings. They were sitting in a pit flooded with sand and tall stone walls wherever she turned. Then she looked back at her uncle and lit up with joy. “Uncle!” She threw her arms around him before the man returned a warm embrace. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Me too kid, me too.” The engineers held onto each other for what felt like an eternity before separating with a smile. “Just look at you! You’re a grown woman!” Oscar had to comment on his niece’s new look. “And I see that you were able to escape the prison you called home.” The last time he saw her she still had long hair and wore tight dresses in favor of her mother.

“Heh, I sure did.” Sprocket completely forgot that her uncle doesn’t even know of her role as a Skylander yet. It made her feel some kind of sadness. She would’ve loved to share every little detail with him throughout her journey. “After the grand raid years ago it all went downhill. They couldn’t afford the luxurious lifestyle anymore and the town was ruined. Many people left, they practically fled. Even mother saw no reason for me to stay there, so she let me go. Of course, she would have preferred for me to get married to a wealthy lord and become a loyal housewife, but she finally accepts me the way I am and supports my dreams.”

Oscar only smiled lightly, but it was a proud smile. “I never thought I’d see the day where she changes for the better.”

There were hundreds of things Sprocket wanted to talk about, but she had to focus on what was going on right now. She turned her head around looking for an exit, but they were trapped. “We have to find a way out of here.” The Tech Skylander got on her feet and started to move all the golden junk out of the way in hopes of finding something that could help them.

“Sprocket, why did you come here?” Oscar lifted himself up as well and questioned his niece while she inspected a bunch of mechanical pieces. “You know how dangerous the Golden Queen is.”

“Well, she’s certainly less dangerous to us than anyone else.” Sprocket reminded her uncle of the fact that they were related to the queen which made them immune to her powers. “Can you believe that we’re members of the royal goldling family?” She stopped her search to give her companion a jarring look. “And I thought being a high-class goldling was bad!”

Oscar giggled. “I’m sure at least your mother will be thrilled to find out.”

The two goldlings laughed before they both continued to look for a way out. Besides some objects turned golden like pots, shackles and even some chompies, there wasn’t much for the inventors to work with. Suddenly, Sprocket noticed a shimmering light in the corner of her eye and turned her head to see a sparkling red jewel buried in the sand. “Hey, what’s that over there?”

The goldlings approached the mysterious object and removed some of the sand around it, just to see that the jewel was attached to some red and golden metal. “Wait, could it be?” Oscar recognized the shape and colors. However, the look on his face indicated that it wasn’t a good thing.

“Stand back.” Sprocket advised her uncle before she placed a mine into the sand nearby and moved away as it exploded, setting the object underneath partially free. After seeing what it was, the Skylander was in awe. “No way!”

The engineers were looking at the head of an Arkeyan Conquertron. It must have fallen down here eons ago and be forgotten. While her uncle had a bad feeling about this, Sprocket was certain that this was their way out.

“I can fix it! Then we can use it to get out of here!” The Tech Skylander didn’t hesitate and used her mechanical skills on the giant robot.

Oscar watched as his eager niece removed some metal plates to get a look at the machinery inside and do everything in her power to reactivate it. As happy as he was to see her living her dreams, he couldn’t let her engage with such a deadly weapon. “Sprocket, we should think about this.”

“Don’t worry uncle, I’ll have this rusty robot working in no time!” The engineer proceeded to remove a few bolts with her wrench and fiddle with some cables and gears.

“No Sprocket, listen. I’ve spent years fixing such machines for the queen, even those Arkeyans recently. If there’s anything I found out about them, is that they’re programmed to destroy, nothing else.” Sprocket slowed her work down while her uncle was explaining his worries, but nevertheless kept going. “We’ll find another way out, but please don’t activate that thing. Who knows what it will do once it awakes?”

Sprocket stopped typing in codes and reconnecting cables from another open part of the Conquertron. She turned her head to her uncle with a doubtful look. “But I can do this! I’ll just reprogram it so it does what we want it to. You have to trust me!”

“I trust you Sprocket but you’re meddling with things you don’t understand!” Oscar watched in fear as his niece returned to her work on the Arkeyan. “I can’t let you do this!”

Sprocket stopped again, only this time she didn’t look at her uncle. “You sound just like her.” Oscar had a worried look on his face before the goldling turned around with rage. “I’m sick of being told what I can’t do!”

Oscar carefully reached out to the angered Skylander. “Sprocket-”

“No, I’m going to fox this!” Filled with new determination, the Skylander got back to work. “Just because every other Arkeyan behaved like that doesn’t mean that this one has to be the same!” With an even quicker pace than before, she went on by dismantling the Conquertron and using her wrench and the energy stored in her left glove to get it working again. “I am going to show you that it can break free and it can be different, no matter what anyone says!” Oscar looked up in surprise when his niece suddenly began glowing in an orange hue. “I will prove that I’m not worthless! I can be whoever I want to be, and I can achieve whatever I set my mind to!”

Oscar had to take some steps back and cover his eyes while Sprocket was fully engulfed in a bright light and began to transform. The light ceased, and Sprocket reappeared with a new look. Her armor has changed from the royal blues to golden orange colors with gears around her wrists and an improved gas bottle on her back. Her wrench gained a striped pattern and golden bolts at the end, making it even more efficient than before. Her golden skin was now a shimmering platinum and she sported goggles with a dashed pattern on them.

While Oscar still had to process his niece’s unexpected transformation, she didn’t even bother to look at herself and instead went on with fixing the Arkeyan. Suddenly, as she was using her new wrench and powered up glove, the robot finally moved. Sprocket took that as a sign and directed the energy source on her glove at the machine. It unleashed a white beam of energy that surged through the bolts and gears of the Conquertron. The entire ground was trembling. The goldlings observed as the Arkeyan rose from the sand and stood in front of them in all its glory, breaking some pieces of the pit in the process. Sprocket wasn’t done however. Changing the beam from a white to an orange color, the Arkeyan began to transform as well. The red metal parts changed their shapes and turned into blue colors instead, only keeping the head red. The entire body was shifting and turning, resulting in an entirely new kind of Arkeyan, one that Sprocket created.

When she was done, the Tech Skylander turned around to face her uncle with a smile until she realized that she has changed as well. Before she could take a proper look at herself, the goldling glowed once more and returned to her regular appearance. “What was that?”

“I’m not sure.” Oscar approached his niece while keeping his eyes on the brand new Arkeyan in front of them and putting his arm around its owner. “But whatever it was, it’s gonna get us out of here.”

Golden Queen was reveling in her triumph. With pride and newfound greed, she looked over her army of Arkeyan Conquertrons. “Today, the Skylands will fall under my power at last!” She let out a manic laugh that echoed throughout the entire palace as the lifeless machines stood there, obediently waiting for an order.

That moment was interrupted by an earthquake which grew stronger with each second. Golden Queen turned around with fury as Sprocket’s Arkeyan burst through the ground in front of her throne. Using the jet engines it possessed on its feet, the Skylander was able to reach new heights and cause more destruction than ever before. “It’s over Golden Queen, give up or we will make you!”

The goldling queen was glowing in a radiant light. “Never! I will not be defeated by some peasants! I will have all the gold in the Skylands!”

Golden Queen ran towards her army of Arkeyans, when suddenly an energy blast was shot from behind her and blew up dozens of the robots. The queen watched in horror as Sprocket destroyed one row after the other, causing the palace to crumble down as well. All until there was nothing left that the Golden Queen could use.

“I tried to warn you, maybe now you’ll finally know when you’ve lost.” Even though the villainess has done terrible things and was too far gone to be redeemed, Sprocket and Oscar decided to spare her and instead leave the palace.

As the goldlings were about to exit, Golden Queen used the arm of one of the destroyed Conquertrons and turned it into liquid gold. She coated her right arm with it, making it grow drastically. After the modified Arkeyan blasted a hole through the ceiling and was about to fly off, Golden Queen used her enlarged arm to grab its leg. She dug her razor-sharp nails into the metal and attempted to drag the Skylander and her uncle down, but they wouldn’t let her win that easily. Sprocket pointed the robot’s arm at the queen and used a laser to cut her enormous arm off. As the goldling shrieked in pain and grabbed what was left of her limb, she gave the Skylander one last spiteful glare before they left through the ceiling and made the entire palace collapse.

Once outside, the Arkeyan turned around so that the engineers could take a look at the ruins. No sign of the Golden Queen nor her Conquertrons, she was finally defeated.

“She had it coming.” Oscar commented and gave his niece a smile, reassuring her that she did what had to be done.

“We can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.” Sprocket added and sighed.

As they were observing the ruins, both goldlings noticed a strange light in the distance. Sprocket decided to get closer and what they saw left them speechless. It was a brown orb in the midst of the ruins, yet it wasn’t buried underneath the debris. Instead the rocks nearby were orbiting it. Neither of them knew what that was, but they knew that they couldn’t just leave it there. Sprocket extended the Arkeyan’s arm and grabbed the mystical object. She enclosed it inside a containment capsule and stored it safely. After taking another look at the destroyed building, the goldlings finally left.

Moments after their departure, another bright light shined through the debris. Suddenly Golden Queen’s shortened arm emerged out of the rocks. Using her ancient powers, she was able to regrow the rest of her arm and smash her hand onto a broken stone. She then pulled her upper body out. Her crown has fallen off her head and strands of her straight golden hair covered part of her face. Never before has she been this furious. “This is not over, Sprocket!”

[ambutasmallhuman]

New Battles

The old gods are not dead.

Their peak of glory is a fragment of the past, but like all legends, they do not belong to the time they were born into.

They belong to the world that remembers,

And no matter how sparse their believers,

They live on.

Perhaps they have been ushered into the corners of humanity,

Rather than the pedestals they once occupied,

But they are there.

And they are watching;

Listening;

Doing.

Hermes; once a messenger, always a messenger.

Except now,

Not for the immortals who sat on top of the world, but for the world they all reside in.

It’s an ugly place;

A land of despair and cruelty and heartbreak

And hate and sin and darkness,

But Hermes, his golden sandals now rusted,

His cheeks now sunken from centuries on the road

Spreads the message to all who need it-

For those who need it is everyone.

Hope is not gone,

He repeats.

Hope is never gone.

Often, the words fall on deaf ears- despair is skilled at blocking out the world

But sometimes-

Sometimes,

They hear.

They lift their heads for a second,

They peer out at the world from underneath heavy lashes,

Searching for the soul with a voice like hope,

And they nod.

That is all Hermes knows he is good for anymore.

That is the only message he needs to deliver.

Artemis, of the moon, of the wild, of the hunt.

Her first love stays constant;

For what change can a speck of green bring to a jewel in the sky?

But she is not someone who can love one thing-

And oh, how her two other great passions have warped with the time.

The wild is no longer what it once was:

The grass is no longer green,

And the forests no longer lush.

The beasts she once hunted and hunted alongside are but memories and imprints in hardened mud.

For them, Artemis wages a daily war.

She is a one woman army, and her defense is of the nature she so loves.

Now, her arrows are rarely aimed at the animals that still inhabit the woods-

And so rarely are they arrows anymore.

The modern era has churned out weapons of steel and ash,

And it is these that Artemis uses to hunt those who wish to hunt her and hers.

Ares, the warrior and the blood shedder,

Now fights a different war from the ones he once delighted in.

Because the wars of the modern day

Are not what they once were

Swords and armor and horses

Traded for guns and bombs and tanks

Battles of purpose and patriotism

Now meaningless, endless,

The means for destruction of this scale

Was never meant for human hands

Or cruel human minds.

This is the war that Ares wages:

He fights everyday,

Steel slashing, blood arcing,

Cutting down the allies he once fought alongside

But now they are robots,

Zombies for a cause they don’t know about,

A government they do not trust.

Ares, no longer bloodthirsty, no longer triumphant,

Urges an end to the war.

But war is no longer his domain.

Poseidon, ruler of the seas, lover of the oceans

Now presides over a polluted kingdom

His subjects are dead or dying

His castles of coral and seaweed

Are being drowned alive by the filth that the world above churns out

Endless is his sadness, his rage, his helplessness

For he should have seen this coming

Industry was never meant to be a gift to the god of the sea

Just a discreet poison

No one thought would kill until it did.

Waves still bob and bicker,

But their life is not so cheery;

With it bobs islands of plastic and waste

Slick with rainbows of black

Strung with clear plastic nets

That entrap and ensnare and murder the innocent

There is so little he can do-

For he is but one against the uncaring of many

But each and every day is spent working

In the protection of the home that he is slowly losing.

Hera, the eternal mother, the constant wife, the queen of a time long gone

Her people,

Those who look up to her and those who she watches over,

Have seen the change of a century.

Earned, through blood and tears and fists and passion,

Their rights,

Their lives,

Their freedom.

She, worn and tired,

Smiles,

For her people have never been so much.

Never have they had what they do now.

But where there are victors,

There are losers, and there are the spiteful,

And no matter how little these losers have truly lost,

They feel cheated

Out of something that was never theirs.

They will never be satisfied with less,

The way her people once had to be.

But they have never had to fight the battles

That her people did,

And so although she has lost her prime, her beauty, her queendom,

She holds on to her place,

If not for herself,

For those who look to her,

For the true capacity of a woman.

Apollo, ever bright, ever center, ever joyous,

Still lives and dies each day for his spot in the sun

For a shadow of the admiration,

The adoration,

The praise

He was once showered with.

But his audiences now don’t care for his tricks,

His songs, his eyes, his hair, his hands.

They don’t care for intangible beauty,

For fleeting glimmers,

They hand in crumpled bills for soiled needles,

Exchange smoking pipes in back allies,

Hide away in stalls of bathrooms to fill their veins

With false ecstasy.

They paste smiles on their face, they let loose their mind,

They close their eyes and they pretend

At happiness.

But he knows that they are not truly happy,

They haven’t known how to do so in a long time.

He wants them to look at him again,

Want them to beam at him again with sunshine in their hair and mist in their eyes,

But more than anything, he wants them to feel the truth of joy.

To free their minds from chemicals of pretense,

To leave behind their smokes and their powders and their juices.

To join him in the sun,

Where it is warm and real.

Aphrodite, worshipped for beauty, for passion,

Knows what love is.

She was born with it curling through her blood like sea foam,

With the taste of it on her tongue,

With the knowledge of its truth secure in her palms.

She knows love better than she will ever know herself,

And she knows that love comes in so many forms.

The love between a little girl and a little boy,

Destined for greater things, but not yet.

The love between a woman and her wife of twenty-nine years,

A happy ending come to fruition.

The love between a man who doesn’t know it yet, and the man he is to meet later that day,

Unexpected, but beautiful; always beautiful.

The love between the uncertain teen and their breezy, blossoming best friend,

A love not without consequences,

Not without hate,

Not with the judgement of those who think they deserve such an opinion,

But love,

Nonetheless.

Love has been distorted into a commodity to be controlled by the same people who control markets,

Who control the government,

And she seeks to right their misunderstandings.

She no longer has the leisure to play her twisted games of love,

For there are far more twisted forces at work against her.

She has young lovers to reassure,

And obstinate critics to critique.

Love is love is love, she says.

No one would know better than she does.

Athena, the wise, the knowing,

sees the world for what it is.

In shades of gray and platinum and gunmetal and steel,

Everchanging and subtle,

A far cry from the bars of black and white that media advertises it as.

She knows that there is no good and no bad,

No true wrong and no true right.

There is only objectivity and subjectivity,

Each beholder for themselves.

Truth is different for each person,

And no one platform, no one channel, no one being, no one organization

Reserves the right to say otherwise.

She holds this simple message close to her heart,

Spreads it as far as she can reach.

But the media, the government,

Has technology that enables their spindly fingers to reach further.

And although her knowledge is more absolute than theirs can fathom,

Their webs of lies and false truths

Are too far integrated into the current world.

It is all she can do now,

To open the eyes of the few people still willing

To see beyond the film of mass society,

To bring change with one voice at a time.

Hephaestus; a craftsman once worshipped for creativity

Finds no hint of his old domain in the world of industry.

The artists, the writers, the dreamers,

Have fallen to the fringe of society,

Their crafts lost to the gears and machines

Of a modern age,

Where assembly lines reign true

And creations are spared no second glances and no loving care.

It is these careers of steel and paper and ball-point pens,

That shape the status quo,

That grinds edges out through a cookie cutter

Into the shape of a worker.

There is conformity,

Or there is poverty.

Within these solid black lines, there is no room

For the creativity that Hephaestus so treasured.

There is no room for flowing lines or vivid colors or segments of dreams

There is only the reality of the workplace,

And for some, the few that Hephaestus can get to,

The quiet peace of home and creation,

And the tidbits of inspiration that flare through the smog.

The world, he argues,

May now run on machinery and evenness and guidelines,

But no efficiency will ever replace the capacities of a human mind.

Hades, robed in darkness and throned on death,

Is sick, and he is tired.

Tired of the mass destruction that opens his gates,

Tired of the empty gazes and protruding ribs,

Tired of the constant stream of the dead that envelop his kingdom

In grief and hate and sorrow

On a scale he has never seen before.

But most of all,

He is tired,

Not of the dead,

But of the living.

Of the letters,

The prayers,

The pleas,

Of the living who wish they were not living at all.

Never has he seen his rivers so full of blood,

Never has he seen his dreams so full of begging youth and the disillusioned.

Never has he been asked,

So frequently,

To bestow the kiss of death,

To those who can no longer bear the gift-

The penance-

Of living.

It is a shame, a monstrosity, a tragedy-

That the world above has become a place far worse

Than the one below,

And that was never his intention.

His domain was meant to be the realm of after,

Not the final destination.

With shaken, white, crumpled hands,

He rejects as many of the pleas as he can

Begs, as he never has before,

For them to reconsider.

But sometimes,

They are too stubborn and the world of the living too cruel

And they find their way down

To him instead.

In all his years,

He has never seen so many smiles when they see his face

And every one

Breaks his heart.

Dionysus, still never seen without a wineglass in hands,

Now sits on the sidelines,

Swishes the liquid within his glass,

And does not take a sip.

Instead, he watches as young and old alike

Stumble into his bars,

Fill their livers with the red and silver bubbles

Of forget,

And lean away from their every day selves.

Away from their true selves.

He does not join in,

Even when they begin to dance

And laugh

And sing and shriek and rejoice,

Because he sees through their pretenses,

Sees through their attempt at happiness.

He was once one of them,

You see,

Before he realized that the greatest demons

Are the ones within.

He knows that no matter how much

They drink or laugh or try,

There is no escaping their reality

And no escaping the truths.

And so he tips his wineglass in their direction,

Toats their joy

And grieves for the tears they cannot shed.

Zeus, strong-willed and brave-hearted,

Has come to realize

Over the course of thousands up thousands of years,

His mistakes.

He knows what he has done wrong,

Has reflected on the personal ambitions

He once put above the greater good

The selfish desires

He once put above his otherworldly duties.

His days are long past gone,

And his mistakes,

Forever etched in the unforgiving hands of time,

Are past fixing.

But he looks around at the millions of heartbeats that surround him,

And wish that they too,

Could have the time he’d needed

To rectify their wrongs.

He has learned that nothing is permanent

Not his glory,

Not his crown,

Not even his faults.

But they do not have his time nor his immortality

To ponder this.

They only have their tomorrows,

And he can only hope that they will use

Those precious days.

And perhaps most forgotten of all,

Forgotten even when those who shared her blood

Had their spotlights.

Is Hestia.

She sits at home,

Content with her fire,

Her clotheslines,

Her picture frames.

She is alone again,

As she so often is,

Left behind to protect the home that so many have forgone

In search of gold and glory.

Everyone wants something,

Everyone wants to be more than what they are and who they were,

And she encourages these desires,

With tokens of luck and soft smiles.

But for all that they dream and hope and pursue,

She wants them to remember that there is always a place for them to return to,

A home where they belong.

There is cruelty in the world,

Unjustice,

Inequality,

And although ambition is a hearty, wonderful thing,

So too,

Is home.

The world is not what it once was,

Pockmarked as it has become.

And the old gods,

Though not what they were before,

Have adapted to fight new battles,

Losing as they may be.

Hope is frightened and small,

Nature is being cut down with ruthless efficiency,

War has spiraled out of everyone’s control,

Oceans fill with murky waste and the scent of death,

Womens’ rights are being wrestled with in an endless game of tug-of-war,

Chemicals create false happiness and temporary relief,

Love is fastened beneath lock and key,

Truth is distorted through layers of looking glass,

Creativity is stifled beneath stainless steel and cookie-cutters,

Life is harder to bear than the loss of it,

Self-expression hides itself away,

And mistakes go unrectified as the days drag on.

Even the old gods are trying to save the new world,

But they are twelve,

And that is not enough.

[creativerogues]

Making Your Long Death Monk Even Scarier...

Note: This Post may just be a fluke, but if enough people are interested I may go into other Monastic Traditions for the D&D Monk...

Long Death Monks don't actually have any definite Fighting Style that I can find in real life. But we can definitely assume that Long Death monks, being obsessed with death, have fighting styles and martial arts based on intimidation, and most of all, defeating or even killing your opponent as quickly, or as slowly and painfully, as possible.

So based purely off of this, I can suggest a few fighting styles to take a look at in your own time, because I'm going to be discussing some of my favorites later on in this post:

Krav Maga: There is no spiritual journey, no harmony to be achieved in Krav Maga. This fighting form was designed with one thing in mind: disarming, disabling and destroying your enemies.

Kenjutsu: A Japanese fighting style of swordsmanship that is all about how to kill an opponent as fast as possible. For you to research in your own time if your Long Death Monk wields a sword or really any Monk Weapon...

Now assuming your Monk is fighting Unarmed, because 99% of D&D Monks usually do, I’m focusing on a few martial arts that I think sounds really cool, but most of all seem like they would make sense for a Long Death Monk specifically, so sorry to anyone out there that didn’t see a specific piece pop up in this post, but if you have your own ideas and tidbits of lore to share, do so!

'Tiger Style' from Shaolin Kung Fu

The Tiger is a ferocious meat eater with strong bones and muscles, the tiger is physically gifted for combat.

The tiger’s speed comes from relaxed muscles; the more relaxed they are, the more quickly and silently it can move.

Filled with pure power, its thunderous roar induces shock and fear in its enemies. 

The Chinese regard it as the king of all beasts.

Since the tiger is representative of the external, training in tiger kung fu involves lots of push-ups, sit-ups, calisthenics and sparring.

The tiger claw is the primary weapon. Forming your hands into claws involves spreading your digits and bending them slightly.

“Strong stances that create stable, grounded positioning contribute to the effectiveness of tiger strikes.

Circular arm motions with the tiger claws executed while changing from one stance to another result in maximum torque and power for deflecting an incoming blow — or for taking someone to the ground. It’s effective at tearing up muscles in the arms, legs and body of your opponent, or it can be used to press, push and drive them away.”

When you attack, you may want to adopt the roar of the tiger. Your opponent will react with fear, and their hesitation might give you the opening you need to deliver a decisive strike to a sensitive spot.

“The roar is also used to develop your internal energy, when the tiger roars, it breathes out a huge amount of carbon dioxide, then replaces it with fresh energy, giving it more stamina and spirit.”

'Crane Style' from Shaolin Kung Fu

The crane epitomizes yin and yang, life and death, as it passively stands on one leg for hours yet maintains its ability to kill in a heartbeat.

When it springs into action, it’s the embodiment of subtlety and grace. The movements of its wings allow it to move with seeming effortlessness.

It can adapt to harsh weather and fly through the severest of storms.

In a battle on the ground, it uses its wings to deflect attacks and propel its body along a circular path. That, augmented by the animal’s long legs, enables it to use evasion techniques to create distance between itself and its adversary.

When an enemy is within range, the crane will slap with its wings and stomp with its feet, thereby creating openings for impeccably timed beak strikes. Its long, flexible neck enhances its attacks.

Crane training boosts your concentration and balance:

“The crane style teaches you to lift one leg and use it for blocking or deflection. Then you can execute a fast snap kick out and back with the same leg.”

You form the crane beak by extending your thumb, index finger and middle finger and hitting with their tips.

It’s perfect for short to medium-range strikes to pressure points and other vital areas, which let's you explain your Touch of Death and your Stunning Strike features pretty well...

A variation of the fighting method uses dual crane beaks. After striking with one, it becomes a hook that pulls your opponent close. Then you attack with your other hand.

"One beak lies while the other tells the truth. Your enemy never knows which hand you’ll use for offense and which for defense."

The crane style also teaches an esoteric vibrating technique. It’s effected by first attacking with a crane beak, then turning the beak like a corkscrew with a sudden release of inward energy before backing it out with a reversed twist, releasing the energy again as you withdraw.

A lot of Chinese stylists joke about the technique, but done right, it can be extremely effective.

This esoteric vibrating technique could also be flavored for your Touch of Death feature, making it feel unique and dramatic, while also allowing you to roleplay your own style of fighting...

Hung Gar (or Hung Gar Kuen, AKA 'Southern Kung Fu')

Now after reading all that, you probably already have enough information, but to summarize, the Long Death Monk probably uses a system of fighting known as Hung Gar.

(Which if you like to butcher cool sounding fighting styles, could be roleplayed like saying 'Hunger' because Long Death Monks...)

The Hung Gar system is a mix of the Tiger and Crane animal styles. Hung Gar uses deep, low stances and strong hand techniques.

Hung Gar is one of the more external styles, but also practices some internal movement. Emphasis is put on having firm, solid stances. The more connected to the Earth one is, the more power they will have.

Also, cool fact, the Chinese character "Hung" is a family name which means "to stand firm and tall with integrity."

Adding Even More Flavor to your Long Death Monk...

Now for roleplay, my group has a 'Thing' that some of our Monk Players do that we call 'Mugon de tatakau', which means 'To fight speechless' or 'To fight silently'.

This is where our Long Death Monks, and sometimes even Way of the Shadow Monks in our group, fight completely silently, not speaking, while also removing any headgear or face coverings before the battle so their opponent can look them straight in the eye...

It's mostly a roleplay thing that's played up for intimidation, because you know that Monk is about to get real when they go all silent and remove their mask...

Maybe even add some ghostly imagery into their fighting. Such as their body having a strange translucent and ethereal glow to it when they use large amounts of Ki, or perhaps have specific hand gestures or movements that relate to ghosts: Crying Shadow and Weeping Spirit are just two examples I came up with on the spot...

Long Death Monks in the Forgotten Realms...

Monks of the long death belonged to the Order of the Long Death monastic order.

The monks of the Long Death intensely study the effect of the process of death on living tissue. 

The ultimate objective of a Long Death Monk is to discover the 'perfect death' - an objective that no member of the group really seems to understand, let alone be able to achieve. 

In one of their monasteries, they would spend the majority of their time sparring with one another and the rest in quiet contemplation. 

Outside of the monasteries, they wander relatively aimlessly, often disguised as beggars, attacking humanoids that they came across in an effort to inflict as painful a death as they could using only their bare hands.

Symbol: A skull with a black diamond on the forehead.

Membership and What it means to be a Long Death Monk: Becoming a member of the order requires first finding a monastery. But very few applicants are actually accepted - perhaps a dozen a year - and each one has to pass several tests of strength, agility and endurance before being inducted into the order fully.

Becoming the ‘Master of the House’ for a Monastery: Each monastery is independent of the others and led by a single individual. This individual often had to prove themselves the best warrior of the monks in the monastery through trials by combat every year on the Feast of the Moon.

A Long Death Monk in the Forgotten Realms: The Monks of the Long Death were easily recognized by their pale skin and gaunt features. They ate little, and they spent most of their time inside their monasteries, in crypts and graveyards, and other dark places where there was little natural light. 

They affected the trappings of death in their garb, wearing long, dark robes and shroud-like hooded cloaks to hide their features. 

TL;DR: Long Death Monks probably use Hung Gar and parts of Shaolin Kung Fu as their Fighting Style, and in appearance most likely gaunt and pale, but have long and thick leg muscles, large hands, and have long arms. 

They don't talk (apart from the occasional fear-inducing roar during combat) and they don't wear any kind of face protection when they fight as a way to intimidate their opponent.