#love's sacrifice might be his second best after tis pity

[britneyshakespeare]

Let slaves in mind be servile to their fears;

Our heart is high instarred in brighter spheres.

Fernando, IV.ii of Love's Sacrifice (1633) by John Ford

[kainissoable]

Homecoming but Okayer

I started thinking about how to make Silent Hill: Homecoming more coherent and emotionally satisfying without having to discard too many of the major story beats. What I ended up with was about 2000 words of a half-baked idea, which in fairness is still slightly more baked than the idea the team who were paid to make the game came up with.

We start with a shorter version of the opening nightmare with more of an emphasis on the nurses. It’s hard to tell, but the two or three patients they’ve mutilated all bear a resemblance to Alex without actually using the same model. The dream ends when a nurse stabs him in the chest. Just behind her, he sees Josh, and wakes up shouting for him.

Alex wakes up and winces, putting a hand to his chest. As he takes some nondescript medication and looks around the shabby motel room, we get a voiceover of his mother, reading out the letter she sent to him inviting him back home before his next deployment. She never mentions his name.

When he reaches Shepherd’s Glen, the fog is so thick he can barely see. There are dozens of abandoned vehicles on the road in, and eventually he has to get out of his car and walk.

The town is pretty much deserted, but there are signs of violence on almost every street. Then he recognises someone in the fog – Detective Wheeler. He runs over, but Wheeler doesn’t recognise him, or know of any Alex Shepherd. Wheeler coldly tells him that whoever he is it’s best if he leaves town. There’s nothing good here now.

He leaves, confused and unsettled, but carries on down the empty streets. On his way, he finds one other living person – Judge Holloway. He calls out again. Surely his Aunt Maggie will remember him. There were no ties of blood between them, but he’d been friends with her daughter Elle since they were small, and she’d almost been a second mother to him.

Judge Holloway looks at him blankly until he says his name, and then she’s all smiles. Oh, hasn’t he changed, no wonder she didn’t recognise him in all this fog. Go see your mother, dear, she’s waiting for you. Such a pity Elle isn’t here to greet you but she’s busy.

Alex continues, feeling more optimistic, until he sees the third figure in the fog. From a distance, it looks like someone crawling along the street, but as he gets closer, he sees it’s no human. Armed with only a utility knife, Alex either fights it or flees, and eventually reaches his childhood home.

When he gets there, he can look around a little and pick up a couple of things. There are several pictures of his parents and brother, Josh, and in his mother’s sewing room is a picture of Josh and an older girl. Alex says he remembers that being taken, must be eight or nine years ago by now.

When he finds his mother, she looks like she’s been crying. She looks at him for a long time before hugging him and starts crying again. “I missed you too, Mom.” Alex tears up a bit too. It’s been a long time since he was last home. She glances out the window and hands him his dad’s old pistol. “See if you can find Elle. It’s not safe out there.”

Alex takes the pistol and goes out in search of her. He finds Elle hanging up a missing person poster. Her little sister Nora vanished a few days ago. Alex says he’ll help her look.

There’s no sign of Nora, but once or twice Alex sees Jake in the fog. If he runs towards him, the vision fades and all he finds is a dead end. He finds a hairband at the playground near the cemetery, but then sees Mayor Bartlett in the graveyard. Concerned for him, Alex follows him to a run down hotel.

He doesn’t find the mayor inside, but he does find several more monsters and a room he can’t get into with a woman inside. He sounds like such a nice young man, she says. Would he help her remember? Alex agrees and finds some letters and postcards of hers. As her memories start returning, she becomes distressed and guilty for her infidelity to her dying husband. Alex can choose to comfort her, help her come to terms with her actions, or speak to her harshly. Her ghost may then move on, leaving him a key to find the mayor.

Mayor Bartlett is in a garden that actually looks like a garden. He’s talking to himself, or possibly to the tree in the centre. Either way, he laughs when Alex asks about Nora, then panics. “He” has woken up.

The world changes and the tree twists into something closer to a corpse. It picks up Bartlett in one hand and crushes him. Then it turns its attention on Alex.

Alex fights and kills it, then faints as the world tuns back to normal.

He wakes up in a jail cell with Deputy Wheeler staring at him through the bars. He’s clearly suspicious, and things might have gone very badly for Alex if Elle hadn’t vouched for him. Wheeler releases him because law isn’t starting to mean much in this town now, and Alex and Elle find themselves fighting through dozens of monsters on the streets.

Jake appears again in the distance, but Alex holds Elle back when she tries to help him. He says he’ll explain later, because the monsters are closing in.

They take refuge in Dr Fitch’s surgery after being surrounded and find his daughter Scarlett’s playroom. Elle picks up one of her dolls which has fallen on the floor and asks if now is a good time for Alex’s explanation. He tells her that it can’t be Josh. He died last year in a boating accident. Alex says it was his fault, he should have been watching him more closely, but he was so distracted doing his reading for the army aptitude test, Josh wasn’t a priority. He wanted so badly to make his dad proud, but all he did was fail his family again. Elle starts to say something, but she doesn’t get beyond Alex before the world changes and she vanishes.

Alex explores the Otherworld surgery looking for her. He doesn’t find Elle, but at the bottom of a perilous descent littered with monster nurses, he finds Dr Fitch crying and cutting himself over and over with a scalpel. Alex tries to talk him out of it, but Fitch keeps babbling about his sins and how sorry he is to his little girl. The “little girl” is a disproportionate porcelain doll over twice his height, which kills the doctor and makes a spirited attempt to do the same to Alex.

Once Scarlett is killed for the second time, Alex wakes up in the playroom where he was. Elle wakes up beside him, but instead of a doll, she’s holding a key. She recognises the seal as matching the one in the town hall where her mother works. Elle gives the key to Alex and returns home to check on her mother and let her know what’s happened.

Alex goes to the town hall alone and discovers a ceremonial dagger hidden there. He recognises the pattern on its hilt as matching his mother’s jewellery box. He goes back home in search of answers and walks in on an argument between his parents and Judge Holloway. He doesn’t catch much more than his dad shouting that he failed.

They all turn as Alex bursts in and his mother’s face goes pale. Judge Holloway asks him to come with her. Elle’s tracked down Nora in Silent Hill, she says, what reason does he have to stay here?

Alex wavers, but before he can make a decision, a group of monsters burst through the window. His parents and Judge Holloway are dragged away, the former by more inventive redesigns of Pyramid Head, the latter by a monster taking some design inspiration from the Missionaries in SH3. Another of the same type attacks Alex.

The Otherworld returns once it’s defeated and Alex has to navigate a twisted version of his childhood home. While there, he finds his mother’s jewellery box and inside finds some photos of him and Josh growing up. This is where anyone who hasn’t already twigged finds out that Alex is a trans man, and always felt that he was letting his family down because of his identity. Looking at these photographs with his mother’s neat hand crossing out an illegible name and replacing it with Alex is the first time he feels accepted by her.

Alex escapes the hell house and finds Wheeler, who he convinces to help him rescue his family and loved ones from Silent Hill. Once there, they split up to cover more area. In the undercroft of a church, Alex discovers the shared history of Shepherd’s Glen and Silent Hill, of how his town’s four founding families kept the Otherworld’s influence at bay with a blood sacrifice every 50 years – a child for every family.

He heads deeper into the crypt and finds his parents at the centre of a shrinking ring of fire, two of the pyramid headed monsters looking on impassively. It transpires that his mother had invited Alex back to be sacrificed, but they couldn’t go through with it, not after losing Josh the same way. They hoped that the town would accept the accidental drowning, but realised too late that it hadn’t. Alex has the option to try to save them, but either way he fails. The monsters don’t stop him from leaving the church.

Outside, he finds Judge Holloway. Apart form a couple of bruises, she looks unharmed, and she comforts him as he weeps. Eventually, Alex asks after her daughters. He says he knows what the powers that be want her to do, but they can’t save the town now, but they can still save the people. She agrees, says she knows where Nora was being held and if they hurry, they might be able to rescue her. She leads him to a large open room and runs though a door which locks behind her. Nora was already dead, and this human centipede of hands reaching out to choke him is all that’s left of her.

Alex defeats the monster that was once as close to him as a sister, and when the noise ends, Judge Holloway returns, expecting to see him unconscious on the floor. She flies into a rage, telling him to abandon this selfishness or everything will be for naught. As she speaks, her voice becomes more and more difficult to understand as her body changes and she abandons the last of her humanity.

The monster that she changes into tries to drown Alex and fulfil the final sacrifice. She loved him as  much of either of her daughters and she’s willing to sacrifice him just the same. Alex fights for his life and takes hers with a heavy heart. It wouldn’t have worked, he knows. It has to be someone of the Shepherd’s blood to consign him willingly to the water, and now there’s no one else left. He looks into the deep, dark pool he was so recently fighting to get away from, and jumps.

Depending on his actions, there are three fates for Alex. If he lets his self hatred and guilt rule him, his death saves the town in a bittersweet ending. If he chose wrath and vengeance, his body is dragged out of the water by the two pyramid headed monsters to become another judge of the guilty. If he chose to accept himself and come to terms with his actions, Elle and Wheeler pull him out of the water and he survives as well as the town of Shepherd’s Glen.

[sabineelectricheart]

The Last Page of a Forlorn Love's Chronicle

Summary: It is the night after the Archbishop’s wedding, and Dimitri is summoned into the Star Terrace.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2700

Notes: I was on a bit of a dramatic mood today. I hope you like it.

He follows the length of the quiet corridor as the sound of the wedding reception fades behind him with every step. From the well-lit halls of the monastery, through the humid and dark stairwell leading to the third floor, to the quiet bedrooms reserved for him and the Archbishop, it all seem very momentous, as if he is navigating the dungeons beneath Enbarr once more.

Dimitri is unsure of what he will find when he turns the corner, but he replays Dedue’s words. A nervous chill works its way up his spine.

“Your Majesty, Her Grace wishes to have a private word with you, before the festivities tonight.” His vassal informed him. His cold monotone seemed even harsher when it comes to that woman.

The young king is plagued with merciless nerves and his heart hammers in his ears. Suddenly, all he can see, hear, and feel is the memory of her warmth, of her very presence against him. The enchanted fairy lights set throughout the monastery’s gardens twinkle in front of him, shining through the slitted windows, left open to refresh and dry the air inside the buildings in preparation for the Summer season to come.

He tries to catch his breath. Dimitri tells himself at that moment he needs to capture the memory forever. When the sun shines over this place again, he will never have the opportunity to repeat this trek.

A nervous sweat begins to form on the palms of his hands and he clenches them in a poor effort to steady his breathing.

Dimitri swallows shakily. He suddenly feels exposed and an anxious breath ripples through him when Sylvain’s aggressive words ring through his mind.

“You might fool everyone else here, you may even fool her… But you will never fool me.” His sneer is clear in his mind. “You have my loyalty, Your Majesty, you shall have it forever, but there are things I will never sacrifice. My marriage included.”

The margrave is right, of course. He would not, either. Yet, the monarch could not help but hold out to hope that the former skirt chaser has not abandoned completely his old ways, that he would make a mistake, that Byleth would reassess the situation and come to the realization that he is not worth the hassle.

Those are traitorous thoughts, no doubt, and Dimitri scolds himself for letting his emotions get the best of him. The times he has given in to the long-suffering looks makes him feel pathetic when he is alone at night. It frustrates him further when he gives into the feeling and plays the pitiful game of “What If?”.

He wonders if Byleth knows, he wonders if she is not fooled by him, as Sylvain puts it, but there is no time to entertain the thought because the blond man peers into the terrace garden, where he was summoned by the Archbishop. He spots the bride sitting on a bench staring out into the night.

Byleth hears Dimitri’s presence, her eyes, soft and wise eyes as they were, and lovely yet hardly expressive face light up at sight of him.

The pit of anguish in his chest yields for a fleeting second. The dreams of insatiable kisses under heavy wolf pelts engulfs him. Dimitri’s hands pressing her into the cool stained glass of the cathedral’s windows. His name on her lips once more.

A harsh jolt of reality that feels much like regret returns and Dimitri clears his throat.

“Oh good, you are here.” Byleth gets up and quickly moves to stand in front of the king.

The Archbishop takes both his hands in hers and calmly leads him back to where she was seated. Thankfully, she was spared the fashionable crinoline and silver corset by Seteth, as it would be deemed profane for the religious authority. As such, they were able to sit side by side, and he could enjoy her presence in such proximity one last time.

“I was worried Dedue would not pass on the message. I have always felt he did not care too deeply about me ever since we encountered him on Myrddin.” She muses, mostly to herself.

He, in all his unwarranted loyalty, resents you for not loving me as much as I love you. As much as you love Sylvain.

It was, however, all his own fault. He looks over to the Goddess Tower, standing tall above the complex, and is reminded of that Ethereal Moon night, when they talked on the stairs that led to the top, when he confessed his truthful feelings but took it all back in cowardice.

Had he stayed true to himself, he is certain that he would be able to have her with him. She was receptive to his attention before. Damn, if only he had managed to cling to his sanity those years that she spent asleep, she would not have a reason to bond with Sylvain for support, and he would still have a chance.

He even considers the right for prima noctis. While it would be a much-appreciated blessing for him, it was an outdated custom, and he is certain that neither the nobility, nor the Church would stand for it. Alas, he considered. He spent many, many shameful nights considering it. Considering how he would demand it of them, what he would do as the sun sets, and whether he would manage to convince her into an annulment.

The words die in his throat because he is too busy taking her in again in that white silk dress. Women in Faerghus wed wearing dyed furs or velvet skirts, never white silk, but then again, never has one of their noblemen marry an Archbishop, and the House of Gautier was more than willing to make any concessions necessary to placate the Cardinals.

Her hands are cold from the night air and he stops himself from warming them in his own.

A chilly breeze sweeps past the two and Byleth finds a seat. Dimitri shivers at the loss of contact and quietly finds his place next to her.

“What is it that I can do for the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros?” A kind smile blooms on his face and Byleth smiles back at him.

A pang of jealously rumbles deep inside. She is so full of light she practically illuminates the dark corner of the palace they occupy, but he is not sure what else he was expecting. It is the same Byleth he has always known.

The same Byleth, Dimitri admits to himself every night, he is still foolishly in love with.

“I am glad you have asked.” She says.

Byleth fumbles with a box at the foot of the bench and presents it to Dimitri. Confused, his eyebrows knit as he slowly accepts it from her. Silver-coloured wrapping paper lines the box and a navy-blue ribbon ties into an elaborate bow at the top.

“I am not sure I understand.” Dimitri holds the box delicately as if it at any moment it might crumble under his touch. His eyes flicker from the beautifully presented gift to Byleth.

“It is a gift…” She chews on her lower lip nervously, the smile on her face slowly faltering. “This is a gift for you, Dimitri.”

“A gift?” He stares at the box and places it gingerly on his lap. “It is usually the bride and groom who receive gifts on their wedding.”

The green-haired woman fidgets in her seat before clearing her throat.

“Yes.” The confidence in her voice wavers. “I wanted to get you something to say thank you for, well, everything. Ever since we met, in Remire, you have been a constant in my life, and I wish for you to know how much I appreciate it.”

A ‘thank you’ present.

The stab of jealousy inside him morphs into an uneasy sorrow that reminds him of mourning. It’s as if the gift on his lap solidifies the role the former teacher and student, commander and soldier, should take.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them. Dimitri’s fingers play with sides of his present. He cannot find the courage in him to look at her.

Byleth shifts closer to him and he tenses. The blond can feel the heat radiating off her body and he prays she cannot hear the hammering of his heart in his chest.

In one fluid motion, the monarch unravels the intricate bow and makes quick work of the wrapping paper. The woman watches anxiously from where she sits, lower lip still tucked between her teeth, observing carefully for his reaction.

Alas, in all its glory, standing in front of Dimitri is the very proof of his nightly worries. The doubts and anxieties that haunt him when he asks himself if he will ever love someone the way he came to love Byleth.

Would he ever have the chance to let someone know him as he did with Byleth.

Dimitri’s eyes widen at the sight of the historical tome lying on the bed of tissue paper. Delicately, he picks it up and runs a finger down the spine.

“This is … Byleth, I am sincerely at a loss for words.” He begins to gingerly flip through the pages.

“It is a manuscript of modern Faerghusi history. Your father and grandfather’s reigns.” She offers excitedly. Her eyes search his face hungrily for a reaction. “I am not sure you remember, but when your father was still alive, he hired a chronist to write about his life and reign. When he passed, Cordelia fired the man without pay, and he ended up selling his book to the Church. I came upon it by happenstance in the library, and I thought you would like to have it.”

Dimitri smiles up at her. “This is truly remarkable. Thank you.”

Byleth beams and shifts to close the distance between them, she turns her attention to the book and flips to the last section of the book.

“Look here at the final chapter.” Byleth says and flicks through the last few pages, but he is finding it hard to focus.

The monarch is transfixed on how close they are. She stops on the page she was looking for.

“It is…” He looks at the empty pages. “…Blank?”

Byleth moves away slightly and her eyes lock with his for the first time that evening.

“The chronist never finish his book, but I think it says something deeper about you, about us.” She smiles softly. “You should see it that the future of Fódlan is in your hands now, Dimitri. Its next chapter is yours to write.”

The Archbishop’s words sink in and the familiar dread of Duty and Desire resurface. 

“Thank you, Byleth. Truly.” He said, earnest. “I shall cherish this thoughtful present and I can only hope that I may fulfil its purpose.”

Another span silence falls between the two, this time they welcome it as they settle into the bench. Another chilling breeze blows past them, ruffling the wrapping paper and tussling his hair.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the reality of his future without Byleth settles in his mind once more. Dimitri wants to focus on her happiness. Today is meant to be her day, but somewhere in the back of his mind as he watched her walk up that aisle, he wonders if there could have been a chance that it could have been their day.

The words are on the tip of his tongue. A rush of adrenaline courses through him when he entertains the idea of saying it to her, but he knows nothing good could come from it. What use would it do to hear the affirmation of his unrequited love?

“Is there something on your mind?” Byleth’s voice is soft and cuts through his reverie.

Her brow is knitted and a small, brief surge of happiness fills him at her concern.

Dimitri offers her a weak smile. “I am just tired. It has been a long day for all of us.”

“You are lying.” She interjects confidently.

Dimitri’s chest swells. Byleth sees him and he would be a fool to think he could convince her differently.

He chuckles half-heartedly and shrugs his shoulders. “I should know by now it is pointless feigning anything around you.”

Dimitri leans back into the metal bench and stares down at the delicate antique in his hands. The weight of the book unnerves him and it reminds him of the weight of his own responsibilities.

“It is really not something worth worrying yourself over.” He dismissed her concerns. “Tonight, it is all about you and your future. Your happiness. You should not spend time on the troubles of some dejected king.”

The heat works its way up his neck, past the suffocating collar of his formal military uniform, and warming candidly his face.  

“You once told me, far back when we first met, that I helped you to think about the man you want to be, not the terrible circumstances that led you to the disastrous path you trailed for so long.” Byleth’s voice drops nearly to a confessional whisper. “I still often think about that conversation.”

He shrugged, dejected. “Perhaps it is easier to not think of myself at times like these.”

“What do you mean?” Her brow creases and his heart plunges.

“You might fool everyone else here, you may even fool her… But you will never fool me.”

Stupid.

Foolish.

Dimitri knows he should watch his tongue and he knows better than to pull this stunt on her wedding day. He tries to say something, anything, that would relieve the tension that is slowly climbing.

However, the words he wants to say are threatening to burst free from his lips, wanting to take a life on their own. He meets her worried gaze.

“Byleth, I…”

He is interrupted by a boom of thunder rolling over the Oghma Mountains and both holders of the highest ruling authority in Fódlan snap their attention to the sky. Angry dark clouds have taken over and another clap of thunder follows.

At first, the monarch feels a cold drop land on his cheek and soon, faster than either one could expect, the night sky opens above them.

Quickly, Dimitri and Byleth rush indoors, the blond ushering the Archbishop in before closing the terrace door behind him. They stand in the corridor, shivering from the icy downpour of rain as a giggle escapes her.

Her teeth are chattering, her skin is marred with goosebumps and her hair is slightly matted to her face. He would not want to imagine what he looks like, what he resembles on that moment.

Dimitri chuckles, shaking his head and his prized gift safely clasped in his hands.

“You shall catch a cold this way, Byleth.” He points out, concern seeping through his voice. “Best not stand around in a soaking gown.”

The holy woman laughs, shaking her own head. “I really should. I remember that Annette has mentioned once or twice that rain on a wedding dress is bad luck. Here is to hoping that is all superstition.”

Here is to hoping.

Dimitri clears his throat and shakes the ruthless thought away. Ashamed and disappointed in himself.

“Will you let them know I have gone to get changed?” She asks, softly.

Dimitri nods and, before he can tell what is happening, Byleth leans over and captures him in a warming hug that makes him forget the chill of the rain. She plants a chaste kiss on his cheek and smiles up at him. He relaxes under her embrace and regretfully feels her pull away.

“Save me a dance, Your Majesty?” The Archbishop requests, her expression earnest, and he is reminded of that fateful ball once again that evening.

He stands, watching her disappear around the corner of the corridor, with the book tightly clenched in his hands.

He exhales loudly. “For you? Anything, Your Grace.”

Had it not been for the rain…

Dimitri shakes his head.

Maybe he had the rain to thank. Maybe he had the rain to blame.

If one thing was certain, it is that his list of late-night ‘What If?’ musings just got longer.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

[hellacluttered]

Orange and Bergamot

For @highschoolhasbeenwaitingtohappen​ - thank you for waiting!!

“I’m home.”

Your voice sounded even wearier than it felt, and the small house stayed still, quiet. Was he home? Or perhaps he hadn’t heard you. You opened your mouth to call again, hesitated, and then closed it. You didn’t feel like either yelling or searching, so instead you reached down to unlace your boots, kicked them off by the door, and walked to the small kitchen to pour yourself a drink. You could hardly feel your toes, and your fingers were slow as you opened the cupboards. The only liquor you found was half a bottle of whiskey, and you poured yourself a generous dram, leaning against the kitchen counter to take a sip. The room was cold, and you pulled your coat tighter around you. You dearly missed the warm winters of the southwest, and neither of you had been prepared for the snow or wind here, or how the chill seemed to settle so deep inside you that it would barely budge until you tucked yourself under all the blankets in the house and entwined your body with Vasquez’s.

Still, you were so grateful that he had agreed to move to New York City with you. You knew you might not have gone if he hadn’t, and that you probably would have regretted that decision for a long, long time - perhaps for the rest of your life. But he had encouraged you, bolstered you, been willing to sacrifice his need for the wild to indulge your need to learn, and together you worked out a compromise: you would go to school to become a teacher, and then the pair of you would go back out west to find a small town where you could work and he could farm.

But the study was tiring and the workload seemingly endless, and after a very long day of focusing, your brain felt as if it had been replaced with cotton and your guts with sludge. Your feet had been heavy as you walked home, and the stink of the city seemed to linger now in your nostrils, even in the muted form it took in the winter. You took another sip of the whiskey, and its peaty bitterness seemed to clear the smell from your system a little.

You looked up at the sound of footsteps coming down the staircase and then into the kitchen. It was Vasquez, a warm smile on his face and a flush on his cheeks, his dark hair a little curlier and more rumpled than usual. “I thought I might have heard you come in,” he said.

“I said I was here,” you said.

“I’m sorry, I must have missed it. Long day?”

You nodded, taking another slow draw from your glass. You knew it wasn’t a particularly smart idea to drink because you were stressed, but you never let yourself do so, and if you were going to any time, now seemed fair. With three major tests coming up, your workload had never felt heavier. “Very. You?”

“Not so much,” he said. He was working at a stable on the edge of town. You knew he liked the work, and you often envied him, until you thought about the fact that you would likely grow bored quickly in his role. “Did you eat yet?” he asked.

“Yeah, on the way home,” you answered.

“Good. Can you come upstairs?” “I’m really not in the mood, Vas-“

“No, not for that, pervert,” he teased, but you couldn’t find the energy to smile. “Just come with me.”

“Okay.” You refilled your glass and followed him. Your steps up the stairs were slow, and you paused halfway, perplexed, when the gentle scent of lavender reached your nostrils. “What’s that?”

“Just come here,” Vasquez said, holding out a hand to you. You took it, and he led you into the bedroom as the smell intensified, the air growing humid as you neared the door. Inside, a copper tub was filled nearly to the brim with bubbles, hot steam curling into the air, and a selection of soaps sat on a fruit crate standing on its end next to the tub with a pair of candles next to them. A fire crackled in the fireplace, a kettle hanging over it, and your old teapot sat on a tray on the hearth with several scones, a set of mugs next to them. Your mouth hung open for a moment, incredulous, and then tears came to your eyes. He was looking at you, and his smile turned suddenly to concern and pity. “No, no, don’t cry!” He wrapped you in an embrace, his long fingers rubbing the base of your skull, and it felt so wonderful you let your neck go limp, resting your head against his chest as he worked on the tired muscles. “This is perfect,” you murmured. Somehow it felt your worries had melted away, and the stressors of your day retreated, locked outside the gate of this sanctuary Vasquez had made. You felt his fingers unfastening your clothing, and stood there as he did so. The restricting garments fell away piece by piece until you stood naked and unashamed before him. He clasped your upper arms and looked deep into your eyes, and even though he had done so so many times, you still felt your breath catch a little at the intensity of the love in his dark eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Now get in before it gets cold.”

You nodded and disentangled your feet from the pile of clothes, and crossed the few steps to the tub. You dipped your toes in, and they burned for a moment, the heat chasing out the numbness shockingly quickly. Then you stepped in, beginning to lower yourself into the water, and it felt that the more of your body the water surrounded, the more weariness and stress disappeared. You settled your back against the curve of the end of the tub, the water up to your chin, the lavender scent calming, and your muscles relaxing in the heat.

“I wasn’t sure which soap you’d like best so I got a bunch of them,” Vasquez said, and you couldn’t find the words to answer. You did small things for each other all the time, and the strength of your love was shown in the sacrifices you both had made. But for him to do something this special, at one of your most challenging times - it meant more than you knew how to say.

“Thank you,” you said, hoping you could convey your sincerity in the simple words.

“You’re welcome, mi amor.” He poured you a cup of tea and you watched as he prepared it just the way you liked - Lord, did he know you well - and you took a slow sip when he handed it to you. It warmed where the whiskey had scorched, soothed where it had enflamed, and you closed your eyes, letting your other senses take over. You heard chair legs shift behind you and then gasped as Vasquez’s fingers dug into your shoulders, his hands strong and nimble, digging into the aches that had accumulated through the hours of leaning over a desk.

“You’re incredible,” you muttered, and heard him chuckle.

He continued massaging the muscles of your arms and shoulders until it felt that they had all turned to mush, and he kept adding more hot water to the tub, from time to time emptying some out so that it didn’t overflow. You experimented with the soaps he had picked, each scent unique and alluring - orange, cardamom, mint, and bergamot - and let him lead your body as he washed your hair with something that smelled of coconut.

As you drank your second cup of tea, he began to read to you from a book of poetry, and you focused on the images he made, his voice rising and falling with the flow of the words. Still he kept the water warm, and the sun outside was long gone, the glow of the candles friendly and intimate. You gradually lost all sense of time, settling into near-sleep with your head resting on the back of the tub. “I’d better get you to bed before you fall asleep in there,” he said at last, and the spell broke. You blinked, and suddenly guilt crept into your chest.

“Don’t you want to get in?” you asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask.”

“No, this was for you,” he said. “Don’t think about it. Besides, do you realize how badly I would get teased if I showed up to work smelling like flowers and fruits?”

You laughed, and reluctantly stood, taking the towel Vasquez handed you to dry your hair. “You could probably use it.”

“Are you saying I smell?” he asked, an expression of mock-offense on his face.

“No!” you exclaimed. “You smell wonderful, most of the time.” You got to work drying off your body, and your skin felt soft and sensitive, your whole body flushed from the heat.

He laughed. “I can live with that.” He handed you your robe, and you slipped into it and tied off the waist.

“I want to thank you for this,” you said. “It means so much to me. It- it was perfect. I don’t know how to express my gratitude.”

“I do,” he said. “Go to bed, get some sleep. I’ll join you in just a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, but at his words you remembered how tired you were, and you were so warm, the lingering heat from the bath wrapping around you more tightly than your robe.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Go get comfortable.”

You obeyed, and as soon as you laid your head on the pillow, you let the tiredness you had been weakly attempting to stave off all night take you over. You began to drift off to the quiet sounds of Vasquez emptying the bath and cleaning up the room, and just before you fell asleep, you felt him climb into bed next to you. He gently turned your body, pulling you closer to him, and you rested your head on his shoulder, eyes closed, breathing in his familiar scent. “I love you,” you murmured sleepily, and he kissed your forehead.

“I love you too.

[phoenixrisesoncemore]

The Feast of the Annunciation at 35,000 ft

March 25th, Tolkien, and the X-Men

[Content Warning for discussion of Panic Attack Disorder and Anxiety Disorders as well as Dissociation]

Panic attack disorder really messes with you.

It stops you from doing the things you really want to do. It prevents you from enjoying life. And because—intellectually—you know the fear it generates is irrational, it not only steals life from you, but leaves you feeling guilty for letting it.

“If only I could have been brave,” you think. If only you could have stared down the beast.

You never feel so much like an animal as when you are having a panic attack; the urge to escape is all-encompassing. Your heart is pumping blood faster than it ever has before. Every second is elongated. Whatever you didn’t smell before is suddenly suffocating you. Whatever you didn’t see before is suddenly ballooning across your visual field and, oh, was that color always so bright? Noises are all so loud, touch is all so much. You must get away, your body tells you, your cells tell you, your bile tells you—get away or you’ll die! But where do you go? You start to disassociate. You sink into feelings of surreality. Is this you? Whose are these eyes you’re seeing out of? There’s an extra step between the thought and the movement of the hands. The part of your mind that is not ruled by the clump of cells that kept your distant ancestors safe from Things With Jaws is perfectly aware there is nothing to be afraid of. There are no jaws. There is no predator. There is no cause for fear. But there is still fear.

Gripping, penetrating, chemical, animal fear.

Against the wash of hormones, the cerebral cortex holds no power, it can only watch you, watch itself, detached and analytical. It realizes—quite quickly, really, and in parallel—two things. One: that the thing you need to escape from is yourself, and Two: that, therefore, there is no escape. Be reasonable, it asks you. But who can escape their own mind?

No matter. The urge is still there, and it’s so hard to suppress.

Now extrapolate the fear of having a panic attack to the enclosed cabin of an airplane at 35,000 ft.

You see the problem, I’m sure. And yet...

A year ago today, after a lifetime in fear of flying, I got on a plane for the very first time. How? The Maker of Middle-earth exhibit came to New York.

I’d been drawn back into my Tolkien Obsession about 4 years before, digging deeper than I had in over a decade into notes and reference books. I was remembering what Middle-earth had meant to me—what it had given me—when I was a teen. In light of all that, could I miss what might be the only chance in my entire life to see some of these things in person?

But it was a long drive, I didn’t want to go alone, and we only had so many free days during my husband’s spring break. And it was New York! I’d never been to New York. Think of all the other things we could see while we were there! Did we want to spend that time driving instead? I tied myself in knots for days while ticket prices rose, until a scant week remained before we’d have to leave. 

Watching the turmoil practically radiate from me, my husband turned to me and said, “If you go, and you see it, will you cry?”

I didn’t even have to think: “Yes.”

He smiled, though he had already known the answer. “Then you should go. Do you want me to order the tickets now?”

I swallowed, then froze. 

This was a trip about Tolkien, about my greatest love, the primary lease-holder of my brain. 

So why am I peppering this with comic panels?(1)

In 1976 Chris Claremont and Dave Cockrum decided to shake things up in a comic called The Uncanny X-Men. They wanted to add a cosmically powerful character, and they wanted this character to be a woman—a first for parent company, Marvel.

Marvel hadn’t had the most progressive run with their female leads. X-Men in particular had started out with only a single woman on the team: the kind telekinetic Jean Grey, whose primary characterization seemed to be her gender. She had experienced some changes in the 13 years since the first issue of X-Men was published, the revelation that she was also a telepath among them. We’d later learn that her powers developed too early when she telepathically linked, in desperation, with her best friend, Annie, as Annie lay dying, allowing Jean to feel what it was to die without dying herself, causing her to grow into the fundamentally compassionate human being we knew so well. But back in the mid 70s, compared to the more diverse and exciting cast that Claremont had devised just a scant year prior, Jean seemed rather dull, and not long after Claremont took over, her character decided to leave superhero life behind.

Or so it seemed. 

Pulled out of retirement on a space mission gone wrong, Jean finds herself trapped with her former teammates on a space shuttle. The shuttle is on a re-entry course, but must pass through a massive solar flare. Sealing her teammates, many against their will, in the shuttle’s only shielded chamber, Jean does the most quintessentially Jean thing: she decides to sacrifice herself for her friends. She telepathically absorbs the flight training of the only pilot on board, locks herself in the cockpit, and prays she can use her telekinetic shield to keep herself alive long enough to land the shuttle.

We do not get to see what happens to her, and nor do her friends, as the shuttle crashes into Jamaica Bay. 

But we know. This time Jean did die: either her flesh was burned to ash by the sun’s fury, or her body was crushed in the crash, or was she drowned in the depths of the bay.

She is truly gone.

But Phoenix Rises in her place.

Claremont took the woman perceived as both the kindest and the weakest of the X-Men and made her Marvel’s first cosmic female hero, a being that has “the power to cut and re-grow any part of the universe, as well as destroy it entirely, which is part of the Phoenix's purpose: ‘The Judgment of the Phoenix’, to burn away what doesn’t work.” The Phoenix Force is described as being “the embodiment of the very passion of Creation—the spark that gave life to the Universe, the flame that will ultimately consume it.” And the first thing she destroys and remakes is herself.

Not many issues hence, she’ll do the same for the whole of Creation. Claremont even goes so far with his purple prose to dip into Kabbalah. Phoenix becomes Tiphareth(2), the Sephiroth at the center of the Tree of Life, “the force that integrates the Sefira of Chesed ("compassion") and Gevurah ("Strength, or Judgment (din)"). These two forces are, respectively, expansive (giving) and restrictive (receiving).”

If you search for info on Phoenix you’ll inevitably be inundated with articles about the span of Uncanny X-Men issues known as The Dark Phoenix Saga, and with good reason: The Dark Phoenix Saga—the events that follow Jean’s transformation and quest to save Creation—is still considered one of the greatest of all comics stories. In it Jean-Phoenix—under the influence of a powerful, manipulative telepath who wants to use her limitless power—is twisted into something fundamentally without compassion, a threat to the whole of the universe. Understanding this, she chooses to die again, to save the world and the people she loves from what she has become.

The intricacies(3) and implications of this transformation and the devolution that followed it are a post for another time. Suffice it to say that any human, even a supremely compassionate one, struggles to adjust to godhood; the ability to care, empathetically, and so deeply, about all of life made the Jean-Phoenix capable of rebuilding a dying universe, but it also made everything in that universe lose all meaning.

But Tolkien. This was about Tolkien. And airplanes. And New York. And the Feast of the Annunciation.

Before I knew Frodo, even before I knew Taran and Eilonwy, I knew Jean; I knew the gentle, compassionate woman who died twice for those she loved--once to save them from the burning heat of re-entry and once to save them from herself--and in between looked the universe in the eye, and understood it was good, and gave it another chance.

Before Tolkien codified in me a kind of personal mythology, gave me a vocabulary for my spiritual relationship to the world, I had Phoenix and her birth from the ashes of what had been Jean Grey.

Now, sitting there with my husband waiting for an answer, I opened up my iPad and pulled up flight dates and our potential flight path on Google (because I deal with fear through research). And I laughed. 

We’d be there on March 25th, and we’d have to pass over Jamaica Bay as we came in to land.

“Buy it,” I said. And I, a 38 year old woman, dyed my hair red, threaded my film reproduction One Ring onto a silver chain around my neck(4), and boarded a plane for the first time.

Fortified by love, Xanax, and a personalized mythology, I saw clouds from the top side. Imagine how many tens of thousands of years humans existed when not one of them could have said that(5).

I saw dinosaurs, I saw Madame X(6), I saw an amazing view for three nights from our hotel room.

And I saw Maker of Middle-earth.

Today is March 25th, The Feast of the Annunciation and, not coincidentally, the day the One Ring falls into the fires of Orodruin.

It’s the day I flew over Jamaica Bay and burned away the part of me that didn’t work. It’s a day of promise. Of expectation. Of new life. The promise of redemption, and the power of compassion—and pity—to change the world.

And that is what stories can do. That is why we tell them. That is why we read them. That is how we live in times that are good and in times that are bad. That is why, when there were only stars in the night to give light, those stars became things with stories—people, animals, gods—and like lanterns they illuminated the dark of both the sky and the soul, mapping out meaning, obliterating the shadows where the Things With Jaws dwelt.

Notes

Comic panels are taken from The Uncanny X-Men issues #100, #101, and #108.

“A new pattern forms—shaped like the mystic Tree of Life—with Xavier its lofty crown and Colossus its base. Each X-man has a place, each a purpose greater than himself or herself. And the heart of the Tree, the catalyst that binds these wayward souls together, is Phoenix, Tiphareth, Child of the Sun, Child of Life, the vision of the harmony of things.”

There is very little in the Marvel universe as intricate as Jean and Phoenix.

The Ring is treacherous. As we were sitting down to dinner just before we left the Ring somehow caught on the underside of the table, broke the chain, and forced me to wear it on my finger for the rest of the trip.

I realize it is entirely possible to climb high enough to be above certain types of clouds without the need for aircraft, and that clouds can form quite low to the ground, but I’m speaking both more abstractly about the nature of fantastic experiences and in the specific about cirrus clouds.

I also saw the Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer, but I talked about that here.

[bellamygateoldblog]

on a similar but more positive note what do you say are the highest/best moments for each character?

I’m ngl I struggled a bit. I could use some help on a couple if anyone feels like adding on! Go crazy. Get the positivity juices flowing.

a couple of disclaimers: 1) i took a bunch of medicine, 2) so I’m kinda off my tits rn, 3) might ramble incoherently for an hour before i get to the point

— Clarke

her sacrifice episode(s): injecting herself, giving her helmet to Emori, then fixing the satellite. I’ve said before I don’t necessarily commend her for those first two, I mean it was the least she could do after being 2 seconds away from inhumanely shoving a non-consenting girl into a radiation chamber and I still think that don’t get me wrong. She did those things in apology. Because she needed to walk it all back. BUT it was still very brave of her to do those things and they were still good things no matter how pure/impure/skewed/whatever the motivation. They were nice moments for her, was selfless I think for her to remove the helmet unknowing if the treatment actually worked.

While none of these sacrifices were ‘sacrifices’ technically because they ended up actually adding to her character rather than taking anything away, and because she didn’t die when she meant to, the intention is what matters and the action still counts. It was a good place to leave her character. Throwing herself into harm’s way for the same people that were never in the position to benefit from her mantra of sacrificing the few to save the many, the undesirables, the scapegoats, the lower ‘class’ or out group, the people who weren’t on her survivor’s list, or were locked out of the bunker when she stole it, or where victims of her God complex at some point or another, was quite nice to see her prepared to die so those people could live on in her place.

Feel free to add. At any point.

— Bellamy

? help. brain not working. This is the last one I’m trying to write, i’ve ran out of juice………………

— Octavia

her heroics in TonDC

her stopping Lincoln’s torture and then taking care of him and helping him escape the delinquent’s camp

splitting the bunker equally once winning the conclave, ignoring the unsustainability of the choice in the grand scheme of things it was a warm and kind-hearted well-intentioned gesture and a nice twist put on the grounder coalition becoming just one people rather than a united peoples

? some Octavia stans please help me out

— Raven

19 year old re-building an escape pod all by herself and coming to earth in it all by herself. The big dick energy of that

then somehow managing to get 90+ delinquent teenagers to listen to her, follow her orders and work together. Anyone who says she isn’t leader material is simply wrong.

any time she tells it like it is. I especially loved her reaction to pity parties as a coping mechanism to causing harm to someone else- “boo hoo.”

staying behind on the ship in season five, being prepared to die if it means she gets her family back to the ground like she promised

the elborate chain of events she created that lead to her reviving herself in season four

overcoming and being instrumental in defeating A.L.I.E whilst simultaneously mourning the loss of her only family and use of her leg, and learning to live with those developments

taking the bomb to the bridge herself despite being sick!!!

— Murphy

saving Clarke’s (and everyone else in the City of Light) life by physically pumping Ontari’s heart.

his whole speech to Clarke in season four while he’s tied up. SUCH a good moment everyone

that moment in season four and it isn’t particularly significant, but when he extends a hand to Emori and brings her over the ‘freikdrena’ line and !!!! it’s just such a meaningful and sweet little moment between them

his reactions to Finn after the whole village debacle. Ik you’re probably thinking this is a weird choice, but it was the first real time we got that softness in Murphy that is later reserved for Emori. You got the sense he actually cared about someone, and considered himself having a friend for once and Finn’s masscre & death was quite a pivitol moment for Murphy (and a lot of other characters) because it’s what prompted him to join the quest for the City of Light. There was nothing left for him there. Just quite liked that he was the one that went with him to protect him before the massacre, tried to stop him during it, and then kept trying to comfort him after and was apart of the group trying save him. It was a good time for his character.

running around trying to help everyone during their psychosis’ in season six, including saving Clarke’s life all over again

[seasaltmemories]

Suffering

Rating: T

Summary: You’re mistaken to believe hate swallows every other emotion.” Slowly he closed the distance between them. “Love and hate are a masochistic pair of dancers, yet they continue twirling around one another all the same." [Arranged Marriage AU] [Trigger Warnings]

~

Rigel Castle was quiet. After an exciting night of song and dance, it seemed no one had the energy to return back to the land of the living just yet. Few guards remained at their posts, and the ones that did were often, sleeping, drunk, or both. It was a blessing Celica was thankful for, but it did nothing to alleviate her anxiety.

The only things left fueling her plans were desperation and determination. Neither logic nor well-constructed strategies meant anything, anymore. Tonight might be her last chance at freedom, and if she wasted it and got caught then returning to the dungeon might be the least of her worries.

 Earth Mother, guide me please. Don’t let my escape me in vain.

Just then, Celica heard the sound of clear, hurried footsteps. Frantically, she scanned her surroundings for a place to hide. Like the rest of the Rigel Castle, there was a restrained formality that offered little decoration. The only break in its strict design was a large door that laid at the end of the hallway. It made the hair on her body stand on end, but there was no time for second thoughts. As quickly and carefully as she could, she cracked open the door and slide herself inside.

Just as she rested her back against the door, she heard the sound of voices, and like that ever muscle in her body froze.

“Disgraceful!” A low voice scoffed. “Absolutely disgraceful to see Rigelian soldiers like this. Doubt we’ll be able to find enough to form a half-sober platoon.”

“Aren’t you being a little harsh, sir? After the last few days, they’ve earned their relaxation.”

“They’re not done yet though.”

“Excuse me? I thought the Deliverance had already ridden out.”

“Exactly. We’re not done dealing with them yet.” At the news, Celica’s eyes widened in fear. “Like I said, get me the least drunk men you can. We ride out at dawn.”

Something like a scream curled in the back of her throat. Not just because of the footsteps growing louder and louder, almost upon her, nor the bitter taste of betrayal on her tongue, but because of all that had happened since the Rigelians first step foot into Zofia--since this terrible marriage bound her to them in the first place.

I will never go back to that dungeon.  Magic crackled at her fingertips. We all will die before that happens.

But soon the footsteps grew soft again, then completely silent. She was completely alone with nothing but her burning hatred as company.

Before she could dwell on it much longer, she notice that the prickling sensation had not gone away. In fact as Celica examined herself, she found the pain had all concentrated around her brand.

For the first time, she noticed her surroundings were much different now. This part of Rigel Castle felt like neither like its brutal dungeons nor its deceptive residential wings. It seemed...older, less another man-made structure and more as if it had emerged from the earth itself.

A flight of stairs descended before her, yet as she peered over the edge, she could see no bottom. It just extended deeper and deeper into the cave. Every instinct in her body warned against what might wait at the bottom, but her brand seemed to sting even more the closer she got.

What did such a phenomenon mean, Celica couldn’t say. But she wanted to it mean something. That was the only thing she was certain of anymore.

And so she mouthed another her prayer to herself as she ventured down.

Time seemed to elongate, seconds taking minutes to pass. The steeper the stairs grew, the more the brand burned her skin. Soon both facts were all that she was focusing on. What if in reality she was just falling into a giant pit? She usually wasn’t one to doubt her perception so much, but the pain seemed to twist and bend her sight. When she made it to the bottom would she find her limbs broken and mangled for her reckless endeavor?

Just when she was sure the pain in her palm would grow overwhelming, when her courage would finally give way and she’d scramble back to Alm’s room to forget about the attack on the Deliverance and play the good Rigelian wife, she came across a strange cell of sorts.

In the middle of it sat a great skeleton of a dragon with a sword piercing its skull.

“Oh Mila...” Celica murmured to herself.

“You called?”

It took all of her willpower not to shriek as she moved closer to find another dragon lying just out of her initial line of vision. Brown-dried blood stained its scales while feathery wings curled around its body. It had been centuries since she had assumed that form, but could it really be?

“Earth Mother!” Celica’s voice cracked with emotion. Her arm seemed to move with a mind of its own, straining to touch her, yet what little distance she could reach through the iron bars wasn’t enough.

“I’m here, child.” She sighed. “It pains me I can’t take a shape you are more comfortable with, but it really is me.”

After weeks of refusing to cry, it was like the floodgates opened. Celica found herself sobbing like a child again as she collapsed to the floor. There was so much she wanted to say, it all swirled together into a mess of tears. Had Mila heard all the prayers she had offered up, knew the pain and humiliation she had endured in her name? Dragon or no, she wanted to be there with her, pressed against her scales as she babbled away every hidden secret she had carried since the fire.

But no matter how close she was to true peace, Celica knew she couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. Slowly, she rose so that she could sink into a proper bow.

“I traversed all of Valentia in search of you, Earth Mother. How may I serve you?”

“You may rise, Anthiese.” It felt strange to hear Mila address her. Outside of the disaster of a honeymoon, she had only visited her once or twice. Her purpose had always been to stand as her father’s daughter rather than an individual, to be seen and not heard as the pageantry and rituals took place before her eyes. “My, you look so much like Liprica now. You’ve blossomed into such a fine lady.”

Celica stiffened. Sometimes even she forgot about her mother’s life before becoming just another wife of her father’s. She had been a sacred and well-respected priestess at Mila’s Temple. To directly serve their goddess was an honor only few ever received. She should have held that position until the day she died.

Yet after her father’s men had kidnapped her in the middle of the night, Mila hadn’t remarked on the situation at all.

“Her sacrifice was a tragedy I grieve to this day,” Mila closed her eyes and paused as she took a labored breath. “But without it, I couldn’t have claimed you as mine.”

“Claimed me?”

“Yes,” With one word it was like a spark had been ignited her eyes. “Neither Duma nor I knew the exact details, but we shared our blood with you humans, for a reason. One day our bloodline would return to save us from our darkest days.”

It was difficult to process such news, but something deep inside of Celica accepted it without question. Her pain and suffering had been for a reason. She wasn’t a failure. Her goddess needed her, specifically. Despite the rush though, she tried to remain calm and level-headed.

“What did they do to you, Earth Mother?” Her gaze drifted back to dragon skeleton with the sword. “Is that--”

“I’ll explain everything to the best of my abilities.” Mila tilted her head towards the other dragon. “That is, indeed, my brother, and that is Falchion. It was a secret weapon he held, back during our quarreling days. If he died against me, then one of his branded could return the favor and avenge him. Only it seems the current emperor has gone mad and fancied himself a god greater than Duma. I don’t know what spurred this betrayal, but I pity my brother all the same.”

“What about the prince?” She found herself interrupting Mila by accident. “Forgive me, but I perceived that he was the one to harm you.”

“He did.” Something like laughter bubbled up from her fangs, but it was as if her body couldn’t form the right sounds. “Poor boy has been twisted from his birth to hate his master and true destiny. He used Duma’s hair and teeth to create a special net to ensnare me. Can you imagine such blasphemy?”

It was only with that information, Celica finally noticed the wires extending from Mila’s body. They were thin, only visible when they caught the light. Usually such trifling things would be easily ignored by a goddess. It had to be something about coming from Duma that did this.

“Why haven’t they killed you too? What twisted purpose would they torture you for?” It felt like she was on the verge of something, like she was slowly putting together a puzzle and just needed a few more pieces, but she still couldn’t quite tell what the picture was.

There was that not-laugh again. Was she trying to smile? Mila was showing teeth, but there was little mirth in the action. “My dear brother isn’t dead. He almost is, but it seems sentiment got in the way at the last minute. Or spite, who can tell? But this is where you can come in and save me.” Mila strained to lean forward, yet could only move a few centimeters. “You are branded. If in his dying breath he gives you permission to wield Falchion, you could cut me free. Nothing else can break these ties. You’re my only hope, Anthiese.”

The weight of her gaze laid heavy on Celica’s chest. As honorable as such a role was, the responsibility was beginning to drown out her previous elation. She was so tired. She didn’t know how many more burdens she could carry before her body gave way.

“Are you sure this is the only choice, I don’t what would make Duma trust me now when I’ve--”

“Don’t question my judgment!” Her sudden roar made Celica flinch. “I apologize,” Quickly Mila lowered her voice. “But you do know what a brand means?” There was that spark again. “Your life is mine. I nursed your ancestors for centuries. As the product of their prosperity, you have no right to refuse me now.” This time, Celica could tell she was indeed trying to smile, although the expression was terrifying on her face. “I believe in you.”

Celica took a deep breath. Mila was right. How selfish could she be to abandon her country and people right at the last minute? If that ambush on the Deliverance was really going to happen, she couldn’t waste anymore time dallying about.

“I’ll do it.” She bowed deep and low to the ground. “I won’t let you down.”

After examining the cell, soon, she had found an entrance. Considering Mila was trapped in her dragon form, it seemed they hadn’t bother to lock a small human-sized door on the other side. When she entered, the size of both dragons took her aback, yet Mila continued to give that fanged grin in encouragement.

“Take Falchion. Then all will be made clear to you.”

As Celica took hold of Falchion, she didn’t know what she expected. Perhaps more pain, or holy fire damning her for touching another god’s sacred weapon.

Well she didn’t know when she closed her eyes, but when she opened them instead she found a tall man standing before her.

He was dressed in Rigelian armor, long green hair done back in a ponytail. Despite lacking any similar facial features to his sister, somehow she recognized him immediately.

“Duma,” Celica whispered. Then realizing her error, she tried to bow while still holding on to Falchion, although of course she couldn’t bow as deeply as she had for Mila, as that would be disloyal to her, yet for some reason she couldn’t see Mila nor Falchion anymore where had they--

“Peace, child.” His deep voice steadied her thoughts.

“War Father,” Celica ducked her head. “I petition you on the behalf of my own patron. Please excuse any sacrilege I might have committed against your Faithful and put aside any old grudges because the only way I can--”

“I said peace, child.” This time there was an edge to his voice. “Although I am in this decaying state, I still have not lost my hearing. I know my sister’s schemes. The only thing I remain ignorant of, is if you are worthy of my judgment or not.”

It took all her willpower to stay standing tall, to keep looking him in the eyes. She didn’t know what was more likely to happen once her nerve gave out, if she would cry or strike him.

“You have the bearings of a warrior, child of peace. That’s not something I’ve seen in many of my kings, much less a pet spoiled on milk and honey.”

“Forgive me War Father,” Before she could stop herself, the words were already slipping past her tongue. “But I don’t recall ever being given milk and honey.”

Red eyes set on her, and for a moment, Celica was certain she’d be vaporized any second. Instead, Duma tilted his head.

“Elaborate.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear, but Jedah talked as if you loved suffering. I’ve had enough suffering just to get to where I am standing now. I don’t wish to suffer more simply for your entertainment.” Alm had been the first to insist that pretty lies had no place in Rigel. Even if that had proven to be a pretty lie in of itself, she wanted to see how their god would fare against a brutal truth.

Duma just continued to study her. “Tell me, child of peace. Do you hate me?”

The question took her aback. “I respected you. Even if Mila guarded Zofia, without you, Valentia would have never survived. I’m grateful for that.”

“Why do you use the past tense?”

“Because when I was forced to pray to you until my voice went hoarse, when my torturers hurt me in your name, I truly did loathe you. Even if you never wanted any of that to happen to me, I can’t help but carry that pain with me when I think of you now. I don’t know which one will win out after this is over.”

“You’re mistaken to believe hate swallows every other emotion.” Slowly he closed the distance between them. “There’s a part of me that still hates my sister, yet the only reason I’ve refused to die yet is in hopes that she might be spared.” As large as he was next to her, there was something in the curve of his lip that seemed to bring him down to her level. “Love and hate are a masochistic pair of dancers, yet they continue twirling around one another all the same."

Something uncomfortable swirled in the pits of her stomach. She did her best to push it down. “So did I fail your judgment?”

“I wanted Prince Albein to wield Falchion so badly.” Duma sighed. “He reminded me so much of Rigel. I thought we might take all of Valentia together. Maybe even dethrone Naga and her precious people.” Whatever vulnerability that had existed before was gone now, replaced with a proud strength that could snap her like a twig if he so pleased. “But I supposed his soul partner shall do. I see fire in your eyes, child of peace. You know how to do what is necessary.” Gently he placed his hand on top of her head.

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you. Once Falchion is unsealed, there will be no going back. Promise me you’ll save my sister.”

“I will.” Celica clasped her hands and brought them to her lips. “I swear on my life.”

“No matter what she says.” The last part startled her, and her confusion must have shown on her face. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to explain. Still I always believe even the worst suffering can bring wisdom. I hope it may guide you well.” He turned around, looking at a horizon that didn’t exist. “Is it alright if I close my eyes now? I used to be too stubborn to ever accept peace. Perhaps this old fool still has time to learn.”

In an explosion of light, Duma’s image dispersed. When Celica found herself opening her eyes again, Falchion was free and the skeleton gone.

“I’ll pray for you, War Father.” Celica found herself whispering. “I’ll pray that you learn peace.”

“Good work Anthiese.” Mila’s voice was high and tinny, breaking Celica from her musing. “Now just cut the wires and then everything will be fixed.”

The weight of the sword felt heavier than it should. As she dragged it toward Mila, she tried to assess Duma’s words. Did he believe Mila to have lost all hope? Or perhaps he worried that she might unknowingly drag her own brand bearer into another trap.

“Wait,” Celica slowed to a stop. “Before we start this, there is something you have to know. I have soldiers who could be walking into a trap--”

“None of that will matter once I’m free!” Mila groaned. “Please you’ll understand soon.”

It seemed in this panicked state, there was little reasoning with her. It was selfish of her to not consider how Mila’s pain might cloud her mind just as it had clouded her own in the dungeon. There seemed to be one only one way to dispel the chaos. With a sigh, Celica readied her blade.

Once Mila is free, everything will be fixed.

With a single swing, Celica cut the wires embedded in Mila.

In an instant, she stood on her hindquarters, form shifting rapidly between her full draconic size and a woman of feathers and scales. Every time Celica’s eyes got used to one version, Mila snapped back to a different one, sometimes even ending up stuck in a grotesque half-form. It was only once her mind gave up on processing this did she finally register the guttral scream that remained just as pained and tortured no matter what.

“Oh Earth Mother,” Celica whimpered, not sure if she was calling out to the being in front of her anymore.

“No...I-I expected...this,” Mila croaked out between cries. “I apologize for my deceit.”

A great clawed foot crashed into Celica’s chest as Mila straddled her. Her claws tore through her shirt with ease and laid readied above her skin to do the same thing.

“Mila please, I didn’t mean to hurt you!” She pushed uselessly against her leg, unable to escape its weight. “I’m sorry, please forgive me!”

“Your soul is so bright...it’s such a beautiful thing,” Her voice was more gentle than ever, sounding scarily human-like now. “Just one bite won’t hurt,” Her right foot transformed into a human hand, and it gripped Celica’s chin. “Quit squirming and remember your vows, Liprica.”

What followed next shouldn’t have occurred. Falchion had been knocked from her hands and laid out of reach. And even without the lack of touch, enchanted weapons always took a while to master. Arts couldn’t be called from them without intense practice. Yet once Mila grabbed her, Celica felt as if her bones had been turned to gunpowder.

And well Duma had said the fire had been there from the start.

An inferno of red and gold consumed them both. Mila’s cries, their brilliant blaze, it was all drowned out by the blood boiling in her veins. The part of herself aware of what was happening wondered if this is what her siblings had felt in the villa, if they had now bestowed on her combined pain of their deaths as they had slowly burned to ash. Or maybe it wasn’t ghosts, but fate that had paid her a visit. Maybe all the times she should have died had now converged to make sure she couldn’t slip away this time.

The rest of her could only weep in fear.

As quickly as the flame had appeared, it died out soon after. Celica struggled to remain conscious, but darkness blurred her vision. The only thing her eyes could focus on was Mila, now charred and burned as she stumbled back. Yet as she regained her footing, she took off running towards her.

 Oh this is it

The thought came to her with sparkling clarity. Killed by her own goddess, how crueler could the universe get?

Yet right as Mila was about to trample her, she leaped and crashed through the cell bars. A roar filled the tunnels and once it faded away, equal parts dread and relief flooded her body. Soon she could tell her vision would darken completely.

 Seems I’m still the princess who refuses to die...

 I guess even I don’t deserve such kindness.

~

The first thing destiny took from Alm was his dignity.

A servant had barged into his room, and in his half asleep state he had cared little to listen to her. Rather he had frantically pulled at his covers to try and maintain some degree of modesty for him and Anthiese.

But as he reached for her, all he found was empty space.

While stunned, the servant had dragged him out at bed. She was an older matron who between frantic cries scoffed at his bashfulness. Rather than noticing his indecency at all, she kept yelling about a giant beast ravaging the halls.

In an instant, Alm became completely awake.

He sent the servant in search of his sword and armor as he dressed himself, mind whirling with worries. There was so much to consider, where to find Father, if the Duma wires had given way, and if so, would it be worth it to try and pry Falchion out of Duma’s skull for the umpteenth time. But one thought concerned him above all else.

She’s not here. She said she’d stay here.

His first instinct had been to run up to Father’s bedroom, but by the time he made it there, he was nowhere to be found. Anxiety and fear gripped his being. He searched for a servant or guard to guide him, but everyone he talked to proved to be just as agitated and confused as him. Would Berkut be any help? Or would there just be another naked, surprised prince to have to explain everything all over again to? Gods, where had Anthiese gone?

There were so many questions, so many possible answers he didn’t want to face. He couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse when a rumbling shook the castle, jostling him from his thoughts. Before he could regain his footing, there was a crash, and a soldier was thrown through a nearby window.

“What’s going on? Can you report on the current situation?” His first instinct was to help the soldier up, but on closer expectation he found her legs broken, bloody things.

“Monster...” The soldier muttered as she clung to his breastplate. “You have to help the Emperor, he’s--” Her words descended into an unintelligible mess of groans. As much as her state pained him, he couldn’t help but drop her at the revelation.

For a split second, he almost prayed.

Instead though, he rushed out onto the ramparts the soldier had been thrown from. The night was still dark, with only a few torches to light the way. But for his lack of sight, the sounds and smells illuminated enough. There a low, constant moan, humming from station to station. With each source a disgusting mixture of blood and piss tainted the air. While Alm was no stranger to the battlefield, this wasn’t anything so honorable. This was a massacre.

 Don't look at them, find Father

He ran down its length, trying not to focus on the bodies the light settled on, trying not to listen to their calls for help. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--” Maybe that was all he was good for anymore: useless apologies that were uttered too late. None of his words had ever been good enough for Anthiese, why did he thing they would do him any good as hurried whispers? At this point he felt as he was no longer himself anymore, but some puppet on a string desperately trying to remember his dance. Gods, he had to do something. He was the brand bearer, it didn’t matter who started the fire, if the world burned, it only do so because of his failure to stop it.

 They have to be alive, they have to be alive, please take me if you must, but they have to be--

Both his thoughts and steps came to a crashing halt once he reached the far bastion. In the darkness it was difficult to make sense of it all, but there was something almost in the shape of Mila. It was the right size, bearing both feathers and scales, but something in his mind couldn’t put all the details quite together. He had already seen her draconic form, already faced down the goddess and her greatest power, yet something about this terrified him to the core of his being.

The earlier rumbling crystallized into something like words as she bent towards the soldier pinned beneath her.

“Heretic, blasphemous rat, wicked man, rotting in my shit is too good a fate for you, you don’t deserve to wear my brother’s brand--”

“No!” The cry came from somewhere young and foolish inside of him. At the interruption, the dragon turned to reveal a beautiful woman’s face stained with blood. Her movement allowed a beam of moonlight to slip through and confirm the worse of his fears.

This time even just focusing on the details couldn’t save him from the truth. Even if he could have somehow missed the emperor’s lance which laid still clutched in his hands, if he brilliant red and gold armor wasn’t a give-away, if the entire face had been smashed in and not only halfway where he could still fear like never before on Father’s face--

His body was in motion before he could realize it, sword poised to hit not the most lethal locations, but the most painful ones. Yet with each swing, she deflected the blow with hardened scales lined against her legs.

“My, my, you need to save your breathe boy,” It was only then Alm realized he was screaming, no roaring as if he was a wild beast himself. Yet such taunts only made him grow louder and his lunges more frantic.

“I’m trying to do you a service!” She laughed. “While you couldn’t help your upbringing, your pain will be a long, (delicious) experience.” Despite her crowing, she stumbled at those words. Alm wasted no time. In one swift motion he raised his sword--

--and just missed her as jumped off the bastion and flew away.

For a minute, Alm could only stare at her slowly fading figure and seethe in his rage. He wanted to transcend his bones and flesh, become a force of nature with no higher purpose in his life than to destroy. But as he lost sight of Mila, the grief and pain became all there was left of him.

Before he figured it would consumed him completely, he approached Father’s corpse. There was little that would make such a grisly sight palatable, but he did his best to straighten his armor, to place his crown back upon his head. He did his best to fight against the tide of regrets. It was a warrior’s death. He had protected his country until his last breath. Better to mean something than to just waste away.

But it didn’t stop Alm from wishing more than anything that he had at least gotten to be there with him when he died, to have more memories of the end than a mangled corpse.

“Father, what am I supposed to do now?”

The only answer he received was his own chocked sobs.

A.N. Lots more blood and pain in this chapter, which was similar to the writing process for this lol, I had a rough semester, plus some outside projects, which made what I knew would be a difficult chapter even more of a challenge, sorry if this feels thin content-wise, but there is a lot going on with lore and action so I figured it would better to stop obsessively editing it and to just get it out before Three Houses takes up a lot of my free time

The plot of Echoes have finally come to terrorize the PLBT!cast, just when a stable status quo seemed in sight, now both of them most handle the consequences of their choices

[mcspirkholidayfest]

It’s the time of year again: Get To Know Your Mod! This year the moderators will be answering McSpirk headcanons.

Hello, everyone!  I’m @klmeri , and I feel like I’ve been around for too long but you know there’s this beautiful thing called McSpirk that keeps drawing me back.  I will be writing my headcanons aka mini stories in the TOS ‘verse, not because I love it best (AOS is lovely too) but simply for the ease of focusing on a Triumvirate that canonically has a lot of history together.  I’ve dedicated nearly a decade to the joys of all things Triumvirate, so it’s with shameless insistence that I say read on, enjoy, and bless the other mods and the participants of McSpirk Holiday Fest with your attention too.  There are a great many headcanons, stories, and art for you at this tumblr!

I will be answering these:

Who initiates hand holding while the other is piloting the craft

Who would cook the better romantic dinner

Who kissed who first

Who holds the door on dates

Who remembers things

Who caves to the other giving them pleading eyes

Who shows up at the other’s work randomly with gifts

Who initiates hand holding while the other is piloting the craft

Let’s be realistic.  It’s Spock or Kirk piloting the craft.  McCoy isn’t allowed. Sure, he might be trained and can navigate them the heck outta a bad situation in a pinch but if you value your sanity and don’t want to revisit what you last ate, you don’t let McCoy take the pilot’s seat.  And like most crafts (shuttles, hover-things, alien contraptions), there is usually no more than two seats up front, precisely for the pilot and co-pilot.  That means Kirk and Spock are often side-by-side and McCoy is in a seat behind them.  This gives him great advantage (at least from his perspective) because it means he can do everything he wants with little to no repercussions, as that one time Jim tried to twist backward to make Leonard stop poking his shoulder did not go over well when Spock also took his attention off the console to intervene in their mock-fight and the whole craft nearly collided with a market stand of smelly produce in an overpopulated thoroughfare.  Leonard does have some control over his childish impulses however; more frequently since he, Jim, and Spock got married, he finds himself reaching for the co-pilot’s hand like a lovesick moon-calf.  If it’s Jim’s hand, Jim is very quick to lace their fingers together and kiss Leonard’s knuckles.  If Spock happens to be in the co-pilot’s seat, he lets McCoy rest his hand lightly on the back of his, an area which is less sensitive than the palm and finger-pads.  Leonard has come to understand this is still a very intimate sort of contact for a Vulcan.  With the pilot, it’s different though.  Leonard doesn’t dare interfere with the hands of the person controlling the craft (Jim, keep both hands on the levers, damn it!), but of course that isn’t a deterrent to showing affection.  He likes to prop his chin on the shoulder of that partner.  In this way, holding the hand of one and leaning against the other, McCoy stays connected to both.  As the three of them know when it comes to loving each other, there are no favorites.  Neither Kirk nor Spock have complained about this penchant of McCoy’s, and he hopes they never will.

Who would cook the better romantic dinner

Cooking is for those who can’t figure out how to use the replicator.  Regardless of how many times, Jim Kirk hears this from Leonard McCoy, he doesn’t feel an ounce of shame over his desire to court his two favorite people.  And because Jim is a widely read man, being particularly fond of literature with both adventure and romance, he has many and varied ideas on how a gentleman pays court.  But cooking is not easy, he discovers.  At least, the recipe for that Vulcan entree seems simple enough until one undertakes the act of preparing it.  And, unfortunately, the final result doesn’t match the picture or the description of its supposed taste.  Jim isn’t a quitter though, and on his third attempt (the kitchen crew would probably be appalled by the mess of the first two times), he gets it right.  Spock thanks him for the effort later, and McCoy—after cracking a few jokes—appears equally appreciative of the country casserole Jim made for him.  When all is said and done, success isn’t tied to Jim Kirk as a great chef or even as the best at cooking (as Kirk suspects McCoy could whip up a gourmet meal in a nanosecond); it is that his labor of love is truly one of a kind, standing out despite that none of them can stomach a second helping of a dish Jim might have flubbed a little during the making of it.  McCoy, with Spock nodding in agreement, claims that is his best quality.

Who kissed who first

Jim swears he initiated the first kiss.  He did.  He will tell that to anyone who is gutsy enough to ask.

Except, years later, when Jim and Leonard sit down together and think deeply about the subject, analyzing the technique of kissing as humans versus as human-and-Vulcan, they realize Spock was kissing them long before their first passionate affair.  

“We were duped,” McCoy says.

Jim decides, “Spock must have known what he wanted.”

“I knew there was something weird going on.  He couldn’t keep his hands to himself!”

The men laugh about it, then, and never let on to Spock that they know his little secret.

Who holds the door on dates

If the universe finds it alarming that Kirk, Spock, and McCoy race to see who can be the first to sacrifice himself for the other two, the universe has never paid attention to the all-out war that is Kirk, Spock, and McCoy dating.  A man raised to have good manners holds the door.  A gentleman looks after his date.  A fool in love lets his adoration be known through every tiny action.  So, who holds the door on dates?  Whoever gets there first!  That’s both a sore spot and a playful game for the three of them.  Spock wins most often, simply because Jim and Leonard are too busy tripping over each other trying to play the part of a proper escort.  Spock will patiently wait for them to realize he has the door wide-open, and then one will frown about it and the other will grumble something about getting there first next time.  But in general Spock has to stop holding the door a minute or so after, as the next battle usually ensues over which of Jim or Leonard should go through the doorway ahead of the others.  A Vulcan’s patience, like a human’s, does have a limit after all.  

None of them will admit it, but they are keeping score as to who can be the most mannered/gentlemanly/thoughtful lover.  A true headache for any outsider to watch.

Who remembers things

Technically, Spock would claim his eidetic memory is superior.  But that Vulcan doesn’t have a leg to stand on if you ask McCoy.  Remembering the date of a dentist appointment isn’t the same as remembering the day they first said “I love you” to each other.  If a man can’t recall a moment like that, having an eidetic memory is about as useful as a boot full of piss.  

Spock isn’t fond of that strongly delivered expression, but sadly Jim, standing next to him, isn’t in a position to come to the Vulcan’s rescue.  While Jim certainly can remember special dates like McCoy is referring to—anniversaries, first kisses, etc.—his days are so busy that his short memory has become less and less reliable; hence all those calendar reminders on his personal padd.  And, okay, he might have missed the last important date, although he never forgets the romantic holidays.

In short, Leonard McCoy is very methodical in the maintenance of his relationships.  He believes wholeheartedly in celebrating the special moments over and over again, which of course is the problem that led to this fight.  Spock is not accustomed to the same way of thinking, and though he knows very well the precise date and time of all the little moments McCoy is rattling off, he did not once consider those moments would need to be recalled on an annual basis.  This is one of those little trials unique to a relationship. The good thing is, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy will come to a joint agreement over what days are to be remembered and celebrated again.  Spock will continue to remember the mundane details like appointments, meetings, and his partners’ schedules.  Kirk will continue to rely on his padd for reminders but as the staunchest romantic of all three, he will put both McCoy and Spock to shame with his celebratory efforts.

Who caves to the other giving them pleading eyes

Jim, being readily expressive with his body language, has the best pleading eyes of the three men.  He rarely feels desperate enough to employ the technique, however, preferring other, more direct means of persuasion; yet when the need arises and Jim falls back to the pleading eyes, he is always surprised to discover they never work.  Why Spock and McCoy are oddly immune and utterly unmoved by any sort of sad, pitiful face Jim can conjure is quite the mystery to him, particularly as Jim considers himself a master charmer.

Spock’s dignity more so than his Vulcan upbringing does not allow for such behavior.  He would rather argue his point of view until he runs out of breath. If that fails—such is rarely the case as Spock’s stamina (and stubbornness) is greater than his companions’ combined—he may admit momentary defeat until another angle of the argument can inevitably be worked out.  

It goes without saying, then, that McCoy could be the best at using this technique.  Truth be told, though, he knows something that works better, for McCoy is no stranger to how sensitive Spock and Kirk are to his moods and is equally aware of his own tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, so to speak.  Often, under duress or in the face of ill news, he cannot fully mask feelings like disappointment or sadness. So, Leonard might subtly infuse a little of that natural dejection into his body language or his tone (a tiny sloping of the shoulders or a soft, dejected sigh) when something isn’t going his way, and this small deception frequently proves effective.  Leonard has won more arguments with Spock and sparked more swift reconsideration from Jim this way than sticking to his usual method of intractability.  But Leonard doesn’t abuse this power he wields over the hearts of his partners because persuading a lover to eat a healthy salad or to cuddle with him a while longer on the couch can be relatively harmless, but asking a man to go against his values or moral code is not.  Leonard understands that difference.

Who shows up at the other’s work randomly with gifts

Spock would insist that his behavior is a simple matter of performing his duties as first officer and husband in proper fashion, but in truth the Vulcan is a closeted caretaker.  Having grown up in an environment that did not often appreciate the subtle differences in his character due to his being half-human, he treasures those who accept him for who he is, and therefore he treasures Kirk and McCoy.  Logic suggests to hold on to something precious requires taking very good care of it.  With this belief, Spock finds it no hardship in seemingly randomly checking up on his partners mid-shift or at odd hours and often without warning, bearing a small gift like a meal for the replenishment of energy during a long shift in Sickbay for Leonard or the summarization of those quarterly reports cluttering up Jim’s inbox.  Spock’s thoughtfulness is in turn treasured by his husbands. Leonard and Jim always have a thank you or gesture of gratitude for him.  They make certain Spock understands they care for him regardless of these surprise visits. This aspect of their relationship is one of the sweetest and also a testament to the depth of their love. Later, during Kirk and McCoy’s retirement years, they take great joy in returning the favor while Spock continues his work for Starfleet.

[theonceoverthinker]

OUAT 2X18 - Selfless, Brave, and True

Hey, reader! And WOOD-n’t you know, August is here too!!!!

So while we’re all here together, let’s talk about this episode! Under the cut we go!

Press Release While Mary Margaret goes off on her own in an attempt to come to grips with what she did to Cora and how her deed has affected her, she stumbles upon August, who has hidden himself away from the others and is completely made of wood – ashamed at the actions he has taken in life; and Emma is shocked when Neal invites his fiancée, Tamara, to come to Storybrooke. Meanwhile, before the curse was cast, August is introduced to a man of magic who may be able to prevent him from turning back into wood – but at a steep price. General Thoughts - Characters/Stories/Themes and Their Effectiveness This is one of those episodes where the events of it are good, but can’t really be picked apart and discussed in specific segments like I usually do (Besides, the “Insights” make up for it this time! XD ). I like both of the stories and their use of character. I’m admittedly a sucker for episodes where a character makes a decision in one part and then ends up on the opposite side of the proverbial equation in the other, and this one was done pretty well! It’s a simple type of character development, but it honestly gets the job done. August is built to be just selfish enough for the episode’s purposes, but his fear of dying was an appropriate choice as to make his cowardice and selfishness never take him over the line of detestability. Additionally, while I take issue with one aspect of it, I think August’s redemption works well through his sacrifice as death was something he feared so much and was capitalized on well enough in the flashback, and his reward is well deserved. In both segments, Tamara works as a twist character and while I get tired sometimes of those overly mysterious characters who dodge most every question like a banana peel in Smash Bros, I think they did a good job in making The Dragon likable enough. If I had to complain about something, I just feel like the twist that makes August change his mind about leaving should’ve been more character based and closer to the theme of being selfless, brave, and true. As it is, it’s just seeing a photograph, and that’s not really all that revolutionary to someone who was content enough to run away earlier despite knowing what Tamara could do. It exposes nothing about his morality. What I would’ve done is have Tamara also take the string from the Dragon. It would’ve tied (GET IT?! TIED XD ) back to who August was and his father. Insights - Stream of Consciousness -Phuket? More like “fuck it.” Aren’t I right August, ya beach bum? XD -”I’m turning into wood.” Given your previous position, I guess the wood that goes around comes around! ;) -David, you sure that snowbells are the best flowers to give Snow to cheer her up? Because she literally just buried her friend with them a few days ago. Maybe you oughta go with tulips or a nice rose, perhaps? -Also, David! You look hoooooot in that shirt! Fuck the sausage and eggs! I’d be content enough with that big slab of meat you call a bicep! ;) -Ooh! I love that bit of indirect tough love advice Emma gives David on Snow’s behalf! It’s a nice callback to their friendship! And it works! AND Snow relays that advice to August later on! -”None of it will matter?” I’m with Snow, David. Shit’s not that easy. -”Please. Give me time.” There might be some in that breakfast he cooked. Just saying. -”She should be here at any minute now.” Neal, give Emma some notice! A text, at least! -”This town is turning into a theme park.” I’m about 1,000,000% sure no one who runs a Disney park is reading my cute little web reviews, but if you are, PLEASE make Storybrooke a theme park or even just a street in Disney World (And then get me free tickets as a thank you for the idea!) -I can NEVER hear Jennifer say “where I’m/you’re from” again without thinking about that fucking blooper! XD -”She’s bringing bagels.” To be honest, I’d be sold here too. New York bagels are objectively the best and I pity every one of you who has never had one. You poor souls! -Mary Margaret: Keeper of the best coping mechanism EVER since 2013 (?) -*August shows up* I’ve heard of Woodsman in this series, but this is ridiculous! -*August fucking stabs himself with a scalpel and is chased* What the fuck did you expect to happen?! -*August gets pulled into the supply closet* August was ready to throw down! And look at his hands. Is that cultural appropriation or did he actually learn how to fight in Phuket? -August is so well sanded! Either Gepetto didn’t get paid NEARLY enough or August did some grooming! -August ships SwanFire! Who knew? ...Besides everyone who paid more attention than me during the original airing of the episode, that is? XD -Tamara brought the fucking goods! Your revealed villainy aside, you’re a fucking champ! No wonder I liked you! -Awww! Henry let Neal keep the book! <3 -Btw, WHERE THE FUCK IS RUMPLE? Unghh. One thing I wish we had more of this season was more Papa Fire moments. I mean, the guy just got his son back AND avoided death. I feel like he should be knocking on Neal’s door every day to talk to him and his absence at this point is really noticeable. I know we see them together in the next episode, but it’s not enough. Yes, Neal still holds a lot of resentment, but in the last scene they were together, they had a moment of kindness and Rumple’s the type to jump on that like a toddler on a trampoline! -Tamara, I know you’re acting, but you’re giving a 10 and you need to pull that back to a 6. Hell, precisely BECAUSE you’re acting, you should pull it back just a touch! -”I have a soft spot for little kids in trouble.” Awwww! </3 -”If I were you, I’d try the fish -- blackened soul.” That was a fucking good one liner! -Damn, Tamara! Give you some ominous music and a glare and suddenly, out goes the cuddly and in goes the scary! -Dragon, don’t dodge the question! Goddd, don’t be one of those annoying types of mysterious characters!! -”Because what he was is what he is.” Blue! THIS is why everyone thinks you’re shady! -Tamara. Do not pull out the giant envelope of cash in public, and then LEAVE it out! Look, I love August, but he’s about as shady as the underside of the branches he was carved out of! -”For someone who spent his entire life running, you should be in better shape.” XD Great quip, Dragon! -”Are you two trying to steal the magic from Storybrooke?” How did you reach that conclusion? I mean, I get that Tamara’s shadier right now than weeping willow by the equator at high noon, but there’s a jump in logic here that I’m missing. Like, as far as you know, she likes magic. She cured her cancer with it! It makes sense when August finds out the truth, but it would only work when he discovers it. -Regina, who the hockey sticks do you think you’re fooling by playing dumb?! -”Mary Margaret. What are you doing? He’s apologizing.” Emma, he literally just told your mother that the thing she’s spent so much time blaming herself for (Possibly from the moment you were born) was orchestrated by him. She’s allowed to be angry. I feel like both you and I would have a harsher reaction if we were in her shoes! -”That wasn’t me.” Jesus, people! YOU ARE ALLOWED TO BE ANGRY! YOUR LACK OF ANGER IS MAKING ME ANGRY! I mean, I get that Snow knows she would’ve done the same thing, but she didn’t. Marco did, and that condemnation for it was well warranted. -I DO like how responsible Marco’s being for his actions and the effect that it had on August. That was SO needed! -OMG! THE TASER!!! XD -Damn, I wish we saw what The Dragon’s real form was. -Tamara, you’re a sneaky little asshole, but damnit you have a nice car. -The CGI for this episode must’ve eaten the budget like a kid eats a happy meal. -How the fuck did the Blue Fairy get there so quickly! Hell, maybe you ARE shady! -I actually like that we see that selfish side of Neal in the last flashback. It shows both how the world has changed him AND how the Stiltskin’ cowardice curse has left some bits in him as well. -Tamara! I’m supposed to hate you! Stop being so snuggly! -”I promise I will never lie to you again.” ...I’m sorry, Emma. I’ve gotta do it. *deep breath* Suuuuuuuuuuure, Emma. -”It had started to blacken because of what I did.” ...I guess I’m supposed to believe that she redeemed herself after the Maleficent stuff. -”But it [redemption] cost him [August] everything.” Yeahhh...no. He seriously went from what was probably a pretty miserable life to a fresh start. -I kind of wish Greg and Tamara ended up being recurring villains. We’d get the villain ship I always wanted and they could be curb stomped all the time! XD Arcs - How are These Storylines Progressing? Tamara - Tamara’s shown up! I actually love her first episode as a villain. Yeah, the taser is corny, but if that puts you over the top, then I have to ask just what show you’re watching! But onto the character herself, she’s incredibly intelligent with how she deals with people. Within ten seconds of seeing Neal, she knows how to play him like a fiddle and her time with August in the present shows the insight she’s gained about him in their one encounter. Hell, she sort of won the day, and all without using a hint of magic! Emma lying to Henry - Finally! This arc is over! I gotta say, this was a hard (Albeit well done) arc to watch. It’s never easy seeing your favorite character get antagonized, no matter how justly. That having been said, as there was no reference to the lie before Emma brought it up right before the final apology, I can’t help but wish that it was either brought up once more in this episode or done in the last episode where it had more thematic prominence. Favorite Dynamic Snow and Emma. As I pointed out in my “Insights,” Emma’s motivational speech to David and heard indirectly by Snow is the thing that bounces her back to life and that sentiment carries Snow throughout the rest of the episode. It’s such a small moment but it speaks so well of the bond that the two of them have built up over the seasons. I like the way that Emma inspires Snow, of ony for how funny it is to see her listen to “My Reputation” while shooting arrows for stress relief. And suddenly, the toaster scene makes so much sense... Writer Kalinda Vazquez and Robert Hull are here for their swan song of the season (Try saying THAT five times fast!) and they both do a pretty decent job here. The dialogue, story, and character choices fit well, and while there were some aspects I wish were handled better, they did an amicable job. Rating 8/10. Once again, I don’t find that there was a lot to say about this episode, but it was quite a good one! It was an entertaining watch with a nice new setting for the flashback, and characters that fit together to convey a great story! I found it to be pretty funny at times and it got me excited about what’s to come! And can you really ask for more out of an episode? ...Well, yeah, but it’s good enough! XD ()()()()()()()()() Thank you so much for reading and to the fine folks at @watchingfairytales. Sorry this wasn’t a super long or in-depth review, but I can only work with what I’m given. Anyway, if it’s not too much trouble before you go, I’d like to ask you for a little help! A couple of days ago, it was announced that the finale won’t be broken up for the final week of the Season 2 posts, and I want to know if you want me to do two separate reviews, or one mega-ultra-super-chocolatey-magical-sugar-spice-and-everything-nice review! It will be a LONG review, but if you think that these two episodes beLONG together, please let me know so I’ll know what to do when the time comes! You can leave a reply here or send me an ask or send me your thoughts by carrier pigeon. Really, it’s all good!

Next time...whoo. My cotton shirt is making me soooo hot! I’m going to change into something...lacey. ;)

See you all then.

Season 2 Tally (157/220) Writer Tally for Season 2: Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis: (39/60) Jane Espenson (35/50) Andrew Chambliss and Ian Goldberg (31/50) David Goodman (24/30)* Robert Hull (24/30)* Christine Boylan (17/30) Kalinda Vazquez (28/30)* Daniel Thomsen (18/20)* * Indicates that their work for the season is complete Operation Rewatch Archives

[theglassishalfsomething]

Bing Interviews Darcy: Fixing on the Hour

Hi!!!!!! I’m so excited to do this!!!!!!! (How very Bing of me, :D) These are mostly about Darcy’s feelings for Bing and for Eli. Two of her great loves!

1. What is your favorite Darcy/Bing moment?

TLB: I feel like the most amazing moment in Bing and Darcy’s friendship is when Darcy truly and sincerely apologizes to Bing for taking her away from James. Darcy’s in the middle of traffic, miles away from Bing, but she decides that she just can’t take it anymore and has to come clean. I think it’s important for so many reasons--first, that Darcy has already done a lot of great and meaningful acts of personal development, but there is always room for more, and this her more; second, that she’s terrified that Bing won’t be friends with her anymore but does it anyway; and finally, how Bing reacts. I just let Bing speak through me in that moment and it flowed very naturally. Bing is strong because she chooses to forgive. She chooses to love. And although she sometimes lets people run over her in other settings, she is very staunchly protective of her ability to love and forgive. She won’t let Darcy beat herself up about it and insist that she’s done something irredeemable. Bing is, at heart, a redemption stan! So yeah, that’s my favorite moment for them: one where we see inexorable strength from Bing, and generous humility from Darcy, which is a nice reversal of traits.

2. What do you think is the moment Darcy falls in love with Eli? And I know this is a stupid question because: “I cannot fix upon the hour or the spot or the look or the words that laid the foundation. It was too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.” But what is the moment, to you, where Darcy realizes/admits to herself that she’s in love with Eli?

TLB: Listen, Darcy immediately knows he’s hot, and subverts the thought before it’s even been consciously observed. But despite that, Darcy doesn’t really take an interest in him until she sees things about him that contradict her assumptions. In their very first meeting, she seems him take control of his dad, and she feels sorry for him. When he shows up at Netherfield, she’s uncomfortable with the way Cal and Harry treat him, and she notices how soft he is with his brother. But I think the moment that Darcy really, truly falls for Eli in more than just a “crush” sense is when she sees him at the Netherfield Ball--obviously she’s all aflutter about dancing with him but what it comes down to is recognizing that there’s a stubborn nobility about him and the way he takes care of his family. It isn’t to be pitied. And Darcy can’t help but respect that.

So, if all the foundation is there--attraction and respect and longing--why doesn’t she phrase it right at Hunsford? I don’t think it’s love, then. She thinks it is! It’s meant to be love! She wants it to be love! (She doesn’t think she’s capable of love...). C.S. Lewis talked about how, if we end up in heaven, everything about our lives was pointing towards heaven, and if we end up in hell, everything about our lives was pointing towards hell. Sobering, right? But I think it’s the same with love. Darcy was infatuated and bothered and interested in Eli, and she put it all on the line at the infamous “proposal” because “she never does anything by halves.” But love, true love? When did it BECOME that? 

I think it became true love when it softened. After the letter, which was not selfish, per se, but still a self-focused act...and yet simultaneously a renunciation of self. After the letter, Darcy sees him again at Pemberley.  She isn’t asking anything from him, this time, but she also sees how he’s softened. She watches him be kind to George. All of this is quieter and steadier and therefore more real. “In love” as a heady phrase becomes the word itself: LOVE. It’s love that encourages and allows her to help Eli and his family in the chapters that follow. And that’s why we can’t pin it down to an exact moment. It’s a progression, and it’s all pointing towards a beautiful end.

3. What is the moment, if you had to pin it to a moment, in which Eli falls for Darcy?

TLB: OK, this is a bit simpler, because he was being such a dunderhead, wasn’t he? I mean, he had his moments of attraction but it’s DEFINITELY the moment when he sees her with her hands full of roses at Pemberley. It just IS.

4. What was the hardest Darcy/Eli scene to write?

TLB: Getting the Infamous Proposal + the Letter right were not so much hard as just...high stakes. I really wanted it to be the clouds-bursting, earth-shaking moment that it is in P&P. I got good reviews for that, so--I think I did my job? A scene that I got a higher-than-expected amount of critique for was when Darcy rescues Eli from the fight and then patches him up. I LOVE THAT SCENE. But some of y’all had thoughts!

5. Is there a scene in FOTH that turned out better than you thought?

TLB: I guess the Letter worked for people, as I said. And I was glad, because the Letter is iconic. But for me, I feel that the Pemberley arc is some of my most magnificent work. Let’s see how it handles the rewrite!

6. As you wrote this and as you rewrite it, what surprises you about Darcy and Eli’s love story? About Bing and Darcy’s friendship?

TLB: Since Bing and Darcy’s friendship is in large part inspired by our own, as I get to know YOU better, I get to know THEM better, in ways that are unusual for an author, I think, because I have such a vivid muse :). And so this time around, rewriting, Bing is...she’s a bit spunkier! She has bad moments and bad days and she has great one-liners and she’s not afraid to say what she thinks. I think my first draft of Bing was a bit too sparkly and princess-like...and there’s nothing wrong with that, but she has edges. What’s beautiful--then and now--is how much Darcy and Bing work at their relationship. Friendship isn’t inferior to romance. Everyone always admits that romantic relationships need work. So do friendships! And when that work is done sincerely, it’s a joy. So that’s something that’s been cemented, again. And as for a new observation about Darcy...I’m fleshing out her backstory so much more this time! And that will influence all her relationships.

As for Eli and Darcy’s love story, I guess what surprises me is that they’re almost not compatible...and yet they are! I think that they are simultaneously magnetically drawn to each other but also a match that requires a lot of work. They are absolutely meant to be together but it’s not a relationship everyone might understand. I think, rather than being confusing/off-putting to the audience though, it makes it compelling.

7. I like to think about relationships in terms of emotional heaviness and lightness (because as we know everything is about balance. #reylo) So with Darcy and Eli, who’s the heavy one, who’s the light one? Or does it shift?

TLB: I think that Darcy is the heavy one and Eli is the light one. But the problem is that Eli’s life is really heavy and I think that he actually...has a harder time functioning than Darcy does? Like Darcy’s heaviness makes it hard for her to find personal healing and happiness, but she is very competent at carrying out her responsibilities and just...moving through life. She is very narrowly focused, it’s true, and that’s why she needs Eli’s levity to open up her prospects and hopes. But Eli struggles because he was made for laughter and dreams and adventure, and instead he’s trapped by his reality. And I love him very, very much but he has a LOT of growing to do. Both in balancing his emotions and his experiences with what he wants to become, and also in reclaiming his natural levity in healthy, positive ways. Does that make sense? I hope so!

FYI--Darcy is Kylo and Eli is Rey. It’s law.

8. How do you think Eli will ever fully get over his deep-seated belief that he’s not good enough for Darcy?

TLB: It takes longer than FoTH--which is why I planned and am writing a sequel--but yes. He has to, because that’s what real growth looks like. Saying “I don’t deserve...” is inherently selfish and prideful. That sounds really harsh! Let me explain. If we believe our wrongdoing and our shortcomings are too vast to be forgiven, if we believe we can’t be loved in spite of them, despite how much self-loathing we might couch this in, we are kind...elevating our idea of self over all other realities, aren’t we? And so in that sense, it is a generous gift to allow yourself to be loved. I think over time Eli will discover that allowing Darcy to love him is something that helps Darcy immensely, and will sacrifice his own carefully guarded pains for her good and happiness.

9. Name three songs that describe Darcy/Eli at different stages.

TLB:

1. Old Money by Lana Del Rey is perfect for Darcy at the beginning of the story, and though it isn’t a strictly romantic song, it’s exactly the context I’d want the reader to have a sense for how much she longs but can’t seem to reach him.

2. Changes in the Weather by Barefoot Truth was like...a super-important song that I overheard in a Panera around the time I was writing the Pemberley scenes (random sidenote: I often write “watching” instead of “writing” which is kind of a good instance of parapraxis, because I do sometimes feel like I’m writing down what I see!) and then I used it to give me the exact right mood for their eventual joyful reunion.

3. Dancing with Our Hands Tied by, you guessed it, TAYLOR SWIFT. Obviously this came out a year after I started FoTH and six months after I finished, but I think this is the perfectly beautiful and rather melancholy next chapter of their lives.

10. What does Darcy love best about Bing and vice-versa? 

TLB: Darcy loves how safe she feels with Bing. She’s constantly judging herself, but she doesn’t feel judged by Bing. So Bing is one of the few people who is kinder to Darcy than she is to herself.

Bing loves most, I think, that Darcy is DIFFERENT. She’s remarkable and one-of-a-kind and Bing isn’t in the least threatened by everything that makes Darcy so removed from the rest of the world, or the typical ideal of a “woman.” 

[words-writ-in-starlight]

I love the PJO!Diana so much? It's just- I just- wow? So amaze. Thank you for that.

“hey i might write more of that diana at camp halfblood au if anyone was interested” me, swooping in like a peregrine falcon: I AM INTERESTED!

Well, hell, I got free time.  The first bit is here.

Diana knocks lightly on the door of the white manor house and waits.  Her hair is tied back into a braid in the style of her home, easily managed for traveling, and she is dressed harmlessly, like a museum curator, with a red scarf wound loosely about her neck and her lasso tucked into her satchel.

“What?” demands an irritable voice from inside, and the door flies open without a sign of anyone beyond it.  Diana’s three companions, whose names she knows now, are still on the grass beyond the porch, watching her with varying degrees of pity and amusement.  She strides through the door without regard for either.

There is a man sitting at a card table, and he is playing cards with a centaur.

Well, all right, then.

“Sit,” the man says, pointing at a chair with a can of Diet Coke, and folds his hand of cards with a sigh.  Diana doesn’t sit, remains standing, polite but stubborn.  He looks up to her and she sees a glint of something in his eye, more than the portly middle-aged man with a bad-tempered set to his mouth he takes the form of.  Diana looks back and breathes the taste of wine in the air, and wonders what he sees in her eyes.  Truth.  Or maybe battle.

“So,” the man says.  “I heard you’d be coming.“

“And here I am,” she says.  “May I ask why I’m here?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Amazon?”

“Not particularly.”

Dionysus gestures expansively toward the windows, to the sprawling grounds outside.  “This is the largest gathering of halfbloods on Earth, girl.  And the whole lot of them were almost massacred in the war against the Titans last year.  They need a teacher–a real teacher, with real battle experience.  Chiron is all well and good, but every person who’s assisted him so far turned out to be evil, a robot, or both.”

Diana looks at him for a moment.  “And none of the gods will take that on?”

“Ha!”  He turns to the centaur.  Chiron.  Diana wants to speak with him so badly that it makes her chest ache–Chiron, trainer of heroes, who knew her mother when she led the Amazons to victory.  “Listen to her.”

“These are the gods’ children,” Diana says, keeping the edge out of her voice through main force.  “Is a museum curator the best they can find?”

Dionysus looks at her again, and his eyes glitter again, and Diana sets her jaw hard and stares back.

“A museum curator, no,” he says evenly, taking a drink of his Diet Coke.  “A warrior trained on Themyscira, though–a veteran of half a dozen wars and the inspiration for a fistful of legends.  We’ll take that.”  He scoffs.  “You don’t even know where your power comes from, do you, girl?”

“My power comes from my people,” Diana says, holding her head up under the weight of his derision.  “And from the life that Zeus gave me.”

“And from prayer.”  Dionysus stares her down, and his voice lowers, into something that creeps into her ears and paints pictures across her mind’s eye.  “From a thousand soldiers on a battlefield in Germany, who saw a goddess take the field alone.  From a concentration camp, who saw a gate ripped from its hinges.  From fearful children and refugees across the world, who saw a single woman go to war and win.”

Diana sees herself, or almost herself.  A figure ten feet tall, holding a shield in one hand and a flaming sword in the other, her skin glowing gold and her armor unmarred by the battle, casting down those unworthy with all her power behind every blow.  

She is unspeakable, untouchable, undefeatable–divine.

Dionysus’ voice creeps further, lower still.  “And all those people in all those countries told their children and their children’s children about the woman who had saved them, and they built you your very own religion.  You gain your immortality from our father.  You gain your power from them.”

Diana swallows and imagines an iron wall around her mind, and the images disappear.  There is only Dionysus and the taste of wine in the air, and she smiles at him, baring all of her teeth.

“I’ve defeated a god before,” she says.  “Stay out of my head.”

Dionysus, wonder of wonders, actually smiles back.  Only half mocking.  “You have potential, girl.  So.  Will you stay and instruct the brats, or will you go back to hiding in a museum?”

Resting a hand on the table, Diana considers the question.

Percy is sixteen years old and he has the eyes of a man in his fifth or sixth decade, the survivor of a prophecy that ate up dozens of children before it was exhausted.  Annabeth has a coil of grey hair that falls into her face even when she ties it back.  They are children and they are warriors and they need help.

“I’ll teach them what I know of fighting,” Diana says after a moment.  “But I’m a volunteer, not a prisoner.  I come and go as I please, and I won’t be beholden to Olympus or anyone who lives there.  Yourself included, Lord Dionysus.”

“Mister D, here,” he says.  “And those sound like satisfactory terms to me.”

“Right,” Diana agrees.  She knocks her knuckles against the table and says, “I’ll go see what your arena looks like.”  She starts toward the door and stops and turns back.  “And one more thing.  My name is Diana.”

“I know your name, girl.”

“Then,” Diana says sweetly, “I recommend you stop calling me girl.”

***

It’s at dinner that night that Diana meets the rest of her new students.  Camp Halfblood.  She’s almost endeared.  She’s had one or two people ask her if she’s been claimed yet, and Percy and Annabeth, her self-appointed guides after Rachel was dragged off on an errand, both snickered until they were blue in the face over it.

“Who was your mother?” Annabeth asked curiously after the second time the question was posed.  “A goddess?”

“My mother is Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons,” Diana said.  “She crafted me from clay and Zeus gave me life, as a weapon to protect them.”  She doesn’t know if this is the truth or if she is Zeus’ daughter in the more traditional sense, but she also doesn’t much care.

“Well damn,” Percy said, frankly impressed.

And now they are in a pavillion, with Diana at the head table and watching the students offer sacrifices to a brazier.  The smoke billows thick and heady, and Diana watches it rise with a considering eye.  How much of a god is she, then?  If she gains power from prayer, from belief, as Dionysus implied, then could she gain strength from a sacrifice the same way they do?  If someone knew her name to direct a prayer, would she hear it?

Camp Halfblood has ice cream, and it’s magnificent.  Diana elects not to think about sacrifices, and Dionysus waits for everyone to be seated again before he stands up.

“Right,” he says, his voice carrying even though he sounds bored.  “New instructor.  You,” he says, pointing to her.  “Stand up.”  Diana simply looks at him until he sighs and says, “Please.”  Once she’s standing, she offers a wry little wave to the pavillion and tries not to look at how empty it seems, far too few people to fill the tables.

“This is Diana,” Dionysus announces.  “She’s going to teach you how to kill things more competently than you currently do.  Introduce yourself or something.”

“All right,” she says, because it seems fair enough even though he’s clearly using it as an excuse to sit back down and ignore her.  The students–campers?–are attentive, though.  “My name is Diana, princess of Themyscira.  I am an Amazon and I have a great deal of combat training.  I look forward to working with you all.“  She considers for a moment and adds, “Are there any questions?”

“I thought the Amazons vanished like thousands of years ago,” a voice from the crowd calls.

“Themyscira is a hidden island in the Atlantic, so, yes, they did vanish but we’re still alive, anyone else?”

“Are you a halfblood?” another voice shouts, and Diana purses her lips.

“Not…as such,” she says carefully.  “My position is–under debate.”  Dionysus snorts at that.  

Percy, sitting near the front where he can see Diana–she thinks that he did it as a kindness, so that she could see someone familiar nearby, and she’s touched by it–gestures to get her attention and smirks as he says, “You’d better just tell them.”

Diana glances briefly at Dionysus–this is his home ground, his approval to give–and then sighs and looks back at the curious faces spread out like a small lake.

“A century ago,” she says, “I left Themyscira and fought a god to end a World War.  I was–I was naive, I suppose.  Until then, I didn’t know what I was.”  She has never said this out loud.  To anyone.  It takes an act of will to force the words out.  “I’ve never been to Olympus and I certainly don’t live there, but I am the daughter of Zeus, and I am a god.”

The pavillion explodes into shouting, and Diana sits down.  Percy grins at her and salutes with a glass of something in a truly toxic shade of blue, and Diana grins back.

“You’ll fit in just fine,” Dionysus sighs.

Diana considers that for a moment, picking up a wine glass that fills itself with pale gold liquid at her touch.  A sip reveals that it is wine from Themyscira, the crisp sweet white that Diana always favored, and Dionysus gives the glass a slightly betrayed look.

“I think I’m offended by that,” Diana decides at last.

“That’s fair,” Dionysus concedes, and slams his Diet Coke like a shot of tequila.

[noxusappreciationblog-blog]

The Good. The Bad. The Cryptic. What is in store for our favorite Noxians? (Part 2: Riven, Swain, Sion, Talon, and Vladimir)

The lores were updated once more in the PBE, at least the short versions of what is to be displayed in the new client. Still, we can take a guess as to what they plan to do for the champions of the most glorious nation. I already went through Darius, Draven, Elise, Katarina, and Leblanc here . So let’s get right into it...

Riven

Once a leader in the warhosts of Noxus, Riven is an expatriate in a land she previously tried to conquer. She rose through the ranks on the strength of her conviction and her brutal efficiency, and was rewarded with a legendary runic blade—however, on the Ionian front, Riven's faith in her homeland was tested and ultimately broken. Having severed all ties to the empire, she now wanders with her shattered sword, seeking atonement for a past she cannot forgive.

This wasn’t problematic to me at first impression. I mean, at first glance it’s not much different to her old lore, right? However, three crucial words turned my initial opinion on its head. I’ll play a little game and wait for you, the reader, to find these three problematic words. Hint: severing ties with the past. (old lore).

Alright, alright. Now compare the phrase from his old lore to these three words:  severed all ties. This new lores implies she wants nothing to do with Nouxs. Old Riven wished to reform it, not cut all ties from it and wallow in self-pity. This would an absolute shame because it destroys an important proactive characteristic of Riven. I’ll wait for her complete lore to make full judgment but I’m slightly worried for our prized fighter. 

Sion

A war hero from a bygone era, Sion was revered in Noxus for choking the life out of a Demacian king with his bare hands—but, denied oblivion, he was resurrected to serve his empire even in death. His indiscriminate slaughter claimed all who stood in his way, regardless of allegiance, proving he no longer retained his former humanity. Even so, with crude armor bolted onto rotten flesh, Sion continues to charge into battle with reckless abandon, struggling to remember his true self between the swings of his mighty axe.

I’m confused by this and it ask more questions than it answers. Indiscriminate slaughter? In his short story he clearly wanted to grind the Demacians’ blood out:

The cadence of Noxian drums. I shall be free. Demacian blood will run in the streets!

This feels like it really need the full biography to give it context before any judgment can be made. 

Swain

Swain is the Grand General of Noxus, visionary ruler of an expansionist nation that reveres only strength. Though he was cast down and crippled in the Ionian wars, he seized control of the empire with ruthless determination. Now, Swain commands his warhosts from the front lines, marching against a coming darkness that only he can see. In a swirl of sacrifice and secrets, the greatest secret of all is that the true enemy lies within.

I’ll be honest I did not expect Swain to show up so soon. At the mere sight of his name my hype levels went though the roof before even reading it. And boy did just four sentences left me thirsty for me. Riot sure knows how to handle teasers. We do not talk about the Jhin fiasco . 

What I love about this biography is that it tells us enough but not too much as to spoil it.  So Swain is fighting against a great evil but what is this greater evil? He is confirmed to be crippled but how? What is the significance of the Ionia wars on Swain’s psyche?  The true enemy lies within? That could mean so many things! Please Riot I must know! All aboard the 

Talon

Talon is the knife in the darkness, a merciless killer able to strike without warning and escape before any alarm is raised. He carved out a dangerous reputation on the brutal streets of Noxus, where he was forced to fight, kill, and steal to survive. Adopted by the notorious Du Couteau family, he now plies his deadly trade at the empire's command, assassinating enemy leaders, captains, and heroes… as well as any Noxian foolish enough to earn the scorn of their masters.

 Again this like Sion this needs a full biography before any real judgment can be made but I do have a few thought in mind...

First of all, it was stated in his old biography that he services should be to Du Couteau alone. On the other hand, in his new lore he is serving the empire as a whole and more than likely without General Du Couteau so he is not serving Du Couteau in any way.

Second of all, where is his obsession with finding out where Katarina’s father is?

Again I remain positive that this is because this short biography is just an incredibly simplified version of the plans they have for him. After all, Scott Hawkes aka Jaredan, a writer at riot, has said this about Du Couteau.

So Talon will definitely fits in these future plans somewhere and more than likely they didn’t want to spoil too much in his short biography. 

Vladimir 

A fiend with a thirst for mortal blood, Vladimir has influenced the affairs of Noxus since the empire's earliest days. In addition to unnaturally extending his life, his mastery of hemomancy allows him to control the minds and bodies of others as easily as his own. In the flamboyant salons of the Noxian aristocracy, this has enabled him to build a fanatical cult of personality around himself—while in the lowest back alleys, it allows him to bleed his enemies dry.

The best for last. My first impression? Just how old and powerful is Vladimir? His new lore reads like a combination of LeBlanc and Elise. Has influenced the affairs of Noxus since the empire’s earliest day.

This was in LeBlanc recent biography:

 has manipulated people and events since the earliest days of Noxus.

A fanatical cult is similar to what Elise is doing. Yes, they are all part of the Black Rose and these commonalities might have been intentional but Vladimir requires a unique identity, one that he can call his own and right now it’s nothing more than pseudo-vampire. Though I really enjoyed this sentence:

In the flamboyant salons of the Noxian aristocracy, this has enabled him to build a fanatical cult of personality around himself.

Now this has potential and they should run with this. I want to see Vladimir as an aristocratic blood mage more than a immortal pseudo-vampire. Again we must wait for the full lore to make judgment but I do hope they can carve a better identity for Vladimir in the future. 

[cinnonym]

Who might I be? Anyway, as your ask is open for prompts: extreme (distinctive) characters.

Well, if that isn’t my favourite person in the whole wide world

It’s not every day you encounter the perfect jawline. So when you do, you don’t let it go again. Which, to sum it up, was how Emmy Lou ended up at the mechatronics workshop.

Her backpack dug painfully into this place right between her ribs, where it hurt the most, the assortment of pens and notebooks an unorganized mess. In her defence, she had thrown everything together in her haste to get up and follow jawline-girl from the tram.

Normally, unfinished drawings didn’t annoy her much – it was inevitable if you insisted on drawing strangers on the tram. A tram, by very definition, both collected and lost people at every station, none of which were in Emmy Lou’s control. Her notebooks were overflowing with half-drawn sketches, their status ranging anywhere from a few lines to full-grown coloured art pieces, depending on both the schedule of her models and her own motivation on that particular day.

The point was, Emmy Lou didn’t care all that much about the people she perpetuated on her pages. They were practice, simple, gratis practice, a means to an end to some day get her access to art school. 

The other day an elderly man had looked over her shoulder and sent her a thumbs-up. „Never give up on your passion,“ he’d said and Emmy Lou still couldn’t decide if she should be discouraged by the hopeless manner he’d said it in, or motivated because he’d gone through the trouble to talk to her at all. Then again, Mary always said she was overthinking too much, so maybe she just ought to be glad to have had a human interaction.

None of which mattered now, Emmy Lou told herself strictly, angling her head backwards to look up at the shabby wall in front of her. A brickstone house, similarly rundown as the cottage Emmy Lou herself lived in these days, covered in malicious looking tendrils of ivy. A rusty sign hung from an iron stick, its colours faded it read „Bill'n'Ben’s, Mechatronics inc“. Beneath the sign was a door with a bell.

Emmy Loud had spent the last five minutes looking at said door. Jawline-girl had vanished behind it, a teasing whip of her ponytail the last thing Emmy Lou had seen from her. It was idiotic, probably, to have come here, on account of a half-finished portrait. It was probably idiotic to have come here, period. Emmy Lou should be at the market, running errands for her mum and younger brothers. Instead she was following a girl to her workplace like a downright creep. On the other hand, now that she had come as far, shouldn’t she at least give the situation a try and ring that bell? What could possibly go wrong?

That, Emmy Lou noticed rather quickly, was exactly the wrong question to ask herself. She had barely finished the thought when the scenarios popped up in her head: jawline-girl could be part of a cult, a group of gangly teenagers just waiting for innocent redheads like Emmy Lou to offer as a sacrifice. Or the mechatronics shop could be a disguise for a laboratory of super-scientists – jawline-girl certainly looked the part – and they would abduct Emmy Lou for their researching purposes as soon as she rang the bell. Or worse, the bell itself could be connected to a bomb, which would inevitably destroy the whole building and everything in it, because evidence had to be annihilated.

Or maybe it wasn’t and instead jawline-girl would open the door and laugh at Emmy Lou. In her mind, Emmy Lou imagined a high-pitched and obnoxious laugh that would destroy the positive image she had of the girl. A sneer that would twist that beautiful jawline into something not at all draw-worthy until Emmy Lou would leave, scarred for life and forever untrusting of human beauty.

Before Emmy Lou could lose herself too much in the twisted corners of her brain – though some of the pictures did make for excellent comic material – she used a trick Mary had once shown her, after one of Emmy Lou’s frequent attacks-of-counterproductive-overthinking, short ACO. She took a deep breath, imagined the oxygen streaming down her pharynx, slowly reaching her tubes first, then her bronchia, alveoli and finally her blood. The only subject Emmy Lou liked more than Arts was Biology, and that was mostly due to her young and over-motivated Arts teacher at school, who had insisted on trying out crazy new methods every week. (Recreating statues had been the worst of them. Emmy Lou hated touching other people.)

Once she had successfully distracted herself with the wonders of breathing and the human organism, Emmy Lou turned back to the door. It didn’t have a window, which was too bad, since Emmy Lou would have loved the minimal advantage of knowing where she was about to go before she went there. As it was, she didn’t have much of a choice but to press the bell and wait.

In the twenty-ish seconds it took Bill or Ben or whoever actually owned the shop to open the door, Emmy Lou had made three half-hearted attempts to run. In fact, the only thing really keeping her from making a dash was that the street the workshop lay in stretched on for at least a mile in each direction, with absolutely no corner, turns or even a house entrance to hide behind. If there was anything more embarrassing than ringing a bell of an unknown shop, it was being caught on her flight. 

Plus, she really wanted to finish her portrait of jawline-girl.Which reminded Emmy Lou of the possibility that it could be jawline-girl herself, who was now slowly turning the knob to answer the door, and the thought was so frightening – because what should Emmy Lou say, „I really like your jawline, please let me draw it?“ - that she almost reconsidered her priorities and made a run for it after all.

But by then, the door had finally swung open and Emmy Lou stood rooted to the spot, clutching the string of her backpack with one hand, the other still awkwardly hovering over the doorbell, as she mustered the person in front of her. 

It wasn’t the girl, which was a good omen (she hoped). It wasn’t an old man either, which was the picture both Ben and Bill had evoked in Emmy Lou’s mind. It was, however, the next best thing: an elderly woman. Jackpot, Emmy Lou thought, because while the woman watched her with apprehension of the kind that made all words vanish from Emmy Lou’s brain, she also seemed rather kind and grandmotherly, which was always a good thing.

Emmy Lou remembered her manners just in time before the woman could open her own mouth and undoubtedly ask what the hell Emmy Lou was doing here. Because a short girl with too-frizzy hair and a backpack bulging with notebooks certainly didn’t make the impression of frequenting a mechatronics workshop. But Emmy Lou smiled her most convincing smile that she had practiced in front of her mirror for months now and said brightly enough to fool even herself: „Excuse me, Madam, I am looking for Mister Bill?“

Which, for some reason Emmy Lou couldn’t quite understand – Bill was one of the owners or had she remembered a wrong name? - drew a hearty laugh from the woman.

„My dear,” she then said, her voice just as hearty, and not at all frail like Emmy Lou would have expected, “Bill died years ago. I just haven’t gotten around to change the sign yet, besides, it looks so handsomely alliterative, don’t you think? My name’s Benedicta, I’m the widow. Whatever business you had with dear Bill, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me instead.“

„Oh,“ made Emmy Lou, who felt incredibly dumb and vaguely horrified at the idea of other, worse outcomes of her blunder. What if Benedicta had gotten angry instead of amused, or worse, started to cry. What if Bill had died yesterday instead of years ago? She could have put her finger right into a fresh wound and hurt this kindly lady whom she didn’t even know, for no other reason than her absolute incompetence to let go of a perfect jawline when she encountered it.

Benedicta, apparently mistaking Emmy Lou’s mortification at the near miss for some sort of grief, put out a hand to stroke Emmy Lou’s sleeve briefly. (Emmy Lou barely held her hand in place instead of recoiling from the touch, but only because she was still too dazed to react.) 

„Poor girl, don’t be sad,“ she said, her voice hovering between pity, which Emmy Lou abhorred, and a strange amusement. „He died quite peacefully, in his sleep, whoosh and gone. Besides, nobody is really mourning him, he had always been the kind of person who didn’t quite belong on earth, don’t you think?“

Emmy Lou, once again, hesitated. The sheer volubility of the woman overwhelmed her, but at the same time, she felt grateful she didn’t have to do the talking herself. Also, Benedicta was already half-dragging, half-leading her inside, which seemed like a good first step. Now Emmy Lou only had to find jawline-girl and ask her if she minded posing for her, so she could finish her drawing.

But Benedicta, chattering continuously, solved even the next obstacle for Emmy Lou. They had barely passed through a short and narrow hallway, Emmy Lou struggling to fit her bulky backpack through, when Benedicta interrupted her monologue for a second to call out: „Don’t mind us, Tess, tis just a visitor looking for old Bill, isn’t that perfectly amusing?“ And half a minute later, jawline-girl popped her head around a corner, mustered Emmy Lou with the same cool stare she had objected her phone to, back on the tram, and disappeared again.

Emmy Lou almost started after her, drawn to the possibility and once again mesmerized by the stunning perfection of her jawline, but Benedicta’s hand was still on her sleeve, rooting Emmy Lou to her spot at the kitchen table.

„That was my niece, Tessa, she’s living with me. Helping out at the shop too, though Lord knows she isn’t made for the handiwork – no offence, sweetpie!“ The latter being called out in response to the gruff that came from the corner Tessa had vanished behind. 

Benedicta leaned in conspiratorially and winked. „She hates being inept at anything but I’m only telling the truth, you know. People have to learn to live with the truth.“

„I can still hear you,“ Tessa’s voice sounded out, low and melodic though sharp in its irritation, and it was a voice to remember, a voice that demanded attention and praise; a voice befitting that jawline. Once again, Emmy Lou stirred, her artist heart drawing her towards Tessa, towards the artwork. But Benedicta’s grip might as well have been iron for its unwillingness to let her go, and Emmy Lou had no choice but to stay and face the woman’s cheerful smile and airy tone.

„So, what business did you have with dear old Bill?“

Emmy Lou flinched. It seemed ironic, but she had almost forgotten about her excuse to ring the bell, to get into this house which didn’t seem like a workshop at all but more like a really homely kitchen.

„I, uh,“ was what she made as she tried feverishly to come up with an explanation that for one, satisfied Benedicta’s curiosity and on the other hand, could also lead up to a portrait session with Tessa. She came up blank. 

Benedicta was still watching her apprehensively and even from Tessa’s general direction, Emmy Lou picked up a curious sense of expectation, almost as if both women knew she had been playing a ruse thus far and were looking forward to the next act of the play Emmy Lou was performing for them. 

Emmy Lou coloured. Her mind, her wonderfully imaginative mind, that could come up with a thousand and one horror scenarios if need be, that served as live commentator and innate cinema most waking hours of her day, lay now empty and silent before her, unable to concoct a single excuse. 

She sighed.

„I am an artist,“ she said truthfully and at last, before Benedicta could start speaking again, questioning her further, pressing. Her hand, still on Emmy Lou’s arm, felt less comforting now, and a brief image of handcuffs flashed through Emmy Lou’s mind before it went black again. „I’m here because I want to draw - „

„The sign!“ Benedicta interrupted, cheerfully enough to break the heavy atmosphere that had grown in the room. „Of course, that’s why you were mentioning it earlier, Bill had always wanted to repaint the sign. No sense for vintage, the man, that’s what I always said, but you know how they are.“ She nudged Emmy Lou and winked. 

Emmy Lou responded with a weak smile of her own, amazed that yet another problem had been solved by Benedicta’s bubbly personality. Was it lying, she asked herself, if she didn’t correct the wrong assumptions other people made? Was it wrong not to mention that it had been Benedicta, who had been speaking of the sign earlier, that Emmy Lou had never mentioned it once? Was it very despicable not to stop Benedicta in her cheerful rant over how she had paint stored downstairs and how Emmy Lou could start whenever she wanted and “feel free to redesign it completely, dear, I love me some change, besides, it wouldn’t hurt business if a fresh sign attracted some more customers than the current one did.” 

And then she added „Oh, and dear, Tess can help you, she’s decent with colouring, if not at car work,“ and Emmy Lou decided that if she was a despicable being, at least she got what she wanted. Which was more time to study Tessa’s jawline, so she would go with the play for now.

„That sounds awesome,“ she managed to fit in between two of Benedicta’s floods of words, and both of them ignored the complaining „Aunt Bee!“ from the other room.

When the topic turned towards payment, however, even Emmy Lou’s unscrupulousness found an abrupt end.

 „I don’t mind doing it for free,“ she insisted, over and over again, her guts twisting uncomfortably. „Consider it a last gift for poor Bill, a sign in his honour…“

But Benedicta wouldn’t hear of it. „Nonsense,“ she said, her fingers momentarily tightening around Emmy Lou’s wrist with a fierce kindness. „Of course you will be paid, if not in money, at least accept cake and biscuits while you’re working. It’s the least I can do, besides, every girl should have cake and biscuits, I’ve found it lightens the mood so much, don’t you think?“ Emmy Lou couldn’t really argue with that. 

In the end, it was decided that Emmy Lou would start her job tomorrow – now she just had to come up with an excuse for mum, to explain her sudden unavailability for daily chores – and that paint and tools would all be provided by Benedicta whereas Emmy Lou just had to „come and make art“.

And promptly, Emmy Lou was out of the warm kitchen and on the shabby street again, her hand clutching a slip of paper with Benedicta’s phone number - ”In case anything comes up, you know” - her mind struggling to comprehend what had actually just happened. She hadn’t seen Tessa again, but that was okay because starting tomorrow she would see the girl more than enough to finish her sketch. 

And now, Emmy Lou thought, I just have to come up with an idea for that blasted sign I’m supposed to paint and everything will be fine. 

Lying isn’t really lying if you work for it, right? Also, she was adamant to tell herself over and over again; that jawline? It was totally worth it.

[janeykath318]

Five Times Jim Died, And One Time He Didnt

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Consider: demon Reinhardt based on his bloodhardt or blackhardt skins! Does a mortal accidentally summon him? Or is it wrong place, wrong time? Either way, Rein wins

{GUESS WHO LOVED THIS IDEA AND GOT A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY? and then realized that they made the intro of the story way too long??? yeah, it’s J. Hope it’s still to your liking, nonnie!}{-J}——————————-“Fuck.” When you first awoke, there was only one word that came to mind. It repeated, of course, over and over and over, but it was still just one word. What else could capture the moment? Perhaps something simple, like a guttural ‘ouch’. Then again, swearing fit just as well, a quick, harsh repetition, just like the sharp pain echoing in the back of your skull. That throbbing was part of why all higher forms of vocabulary had seemed to leave you. As soon as you might have clasped a new thought, or regained another memory, a wave of aching would crash over you, leaving you to your coughing and choking.

‘Twas not until several minutes later that the pain started to subside. But with that relief came no kind of solace, nor peace of mind. As your head cleared, and your thoughts uncluttered, the nature of your situation revealed itself. Despite bitterly dim lighting, it was easy to tell that you tied to some sort of angled platform. Across from you you could just barely make out the likely cause of your predicament: A strange figure, donned in a sheer black robe, kneeling before something just out of your sight. When the throbbing fully vanished, you were able to make out the barest of whisperings. Their meaning was unknown, but they still felt sinister somehow, hanging over your senses like a cloud of dread.

Whoever brought you here clearly lacked good intentions.

Finally thinking clearly, and able to understand your own movements, you started tugging on your bindings. The rope was thick as well as coarse, making your skin seem to burn as you struggled against it.  It soon became clear that you wouldn’t be able to pull yourself free. Your only hope of survival, as far as you could tell, was the appearance of some majestic hero who could undo the knots that bound you. Of course… the chances of someone knowing you were in danger (and where you were) seemed dismally slim. You were at the mercy of your shrouded captor, whoever they were, whatever twisted schemes they had in mind. Understandably, the thought made your chest tighten up uncomfortably. Death felt like an inevitable destination, the last stop of the night, where every last passenger had to get off, whether or not they wanted to.

A stifled cry fell past your lips, barely rising past the din of the chanting figure. If they noticed, they didn’t show it, too absorbed in their work to grant you their attention. For what felt like hours you were left on your own to suffer quietly. In reality, it was less than fifteen minutes, but the anxiety boiling inside you was a master at shifting your perception of time. When your captor did finally shift their gaze upon you, however, you felt yourself long for the embrace of solitude to return. Their eyes gleamed in the low light, a terrible craze echoing within them. As if feasting upon your sense of horror, they took a long sniff as they approached, smirk barely visible through the darkness. Shuddering, you did your best to tear your gaze away.

“Don’t worry, dear, you’ll soon be serving a greater purpose than you could ever imagine,” the figure purred. A long, thin finger pressed against your cheek, slowly dragging down the skin. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and bile threaten to rise up your throat. “I’m sure he’ll find you to be… more than satisfactory.”

With that the figure pulled away, chuckling softly to themselves, retreating back to what you assumed was some sort of altar. Once more the sound of chanting filled the space. The way it seemed to reverberate throughout the room caught you off guard, the noise building up as if there were dozens joining in the chorus instead of a single soul. It took every ounce of your willpower to not cry out, your mind fearing what your captor would do if you interrupted, yet still you felt the need to tug on your bindings. Unsurprisingly it was just as futile as it had been the last time you tried. Tears started to fall from your eyes, and you were forced to choke back another sob. While you squirmed and cried, the figure shifted about, never pausing from their chant, lighting candles as they moved around. As the flames were born, light was scattered across the room. At last you could see the full span of your holdings.

Fear, which had previously been gently strumming your heartstrings, was now tugging upon them forcefully. The scale of the trouble you were in was monstrous. Countless sigils and marks adorned the walls as well as the floor, occult origins clear. What truly signaled the sheer magnitude of your fucked-ness was not the design of the symbols, however, was the fact that the carvings were rapidly beginning to glow and shake, growing in intensity. As troubling as the sight was, you found yourself physically unable to look away. Something in the air was preventing you from clamping your eyes shut. Not even a single blink was granted to you, not a moment of reprieve, as the highlight of the show began:

Crackling akin to that of thunder tore through the air, the rippling sound waves shaking the entirety of your surroundings, all the while threatening to cave in your skull. Yet even then your eyes dare not shut, glued instead to the center of the room. Something horrid was surging through the largest sigil… With every second the floor cracked further, pieces vibrating as they lifted up and out. Your captor turned back to you as soon as it started, lips no longer moving, despite the continuing cacophony chorus. A smirk graced their features, inspiring yet another shudder of your spine. The blade they retrieved from their cloak had a similar effect.

“Fuck.” Once again only one word could slip past your quivering lips. But this time your repetitive mutterings easily melted into oblivion, replaced by gargled, choked-out grunts and cough-inducing whimpers. The knife-tip had reached you swiftly, pressing into the center of your throat, dragging down in a perfect straight line. There was just enough force behind the movements to slice your flesh. It spread the skin with ease, the weave of your body splitting at the seams. Blood soon came out in a crimson torrent. Still, the blade continued to travel, all the way from the bottom of your chin to the base of your groin, never drifting to the side, never changing depth. A haze fell over your vision as the figure rose back up, prepared to make another incision….

A thunderous roar sent your mind reeling as the room was swamped with a terrific flash of light. Evidently your captor was sent forward as well, as their blade suddenly slid against your skin, taking a painful path across your chest. Yet another harsh cry forced its way up your throat, this time with a clump of blood accompanying it. Several moments passed before your vision finally cleared up. Unsurprisingly, what you saw when it did was far from beautiful, instead a wound upon the world, marring its sacred visage: Something towered above you, clad in hellfire armor. Almost immediately your captor was kneeling before the monster. Meaningless words poured from their mouth, praises of some sort, ramblings of a madman.

“IS THAT SO, LITTLE ONE?” The massive beast bellowed, a rumble of a laugh following, his entire figure shaking with amusement. “PUNY MORTALS ARE ALWAYS SO EASILY IMPRESSED. I HAVEN’T EVEN TORN ANYONE’S LIMBS OFF YET!” With that said he released another raucous chuckle before placing a heavy hand on your captor’s shoulder. They nearly collapsed beneath his touch, visibly cringing at the impact. This only seemed to amuse him more, as he kept on laughing, the fires within his armor seeming to flare out. You weren’t sure if he shook the room with every noise, or if your vision was still fucked. What you did know, however, was that blood was still exiting your wounds. Another clump caught in your throat a moment later, making you sputter and groan loudly. Unfortunately… this drew the monster’s attention to you. “AH, THIS MUST BE THE SACRIFICE! I THANK YOU, MORTAL, FOR THE LOVELY GIFT! BUT NOW, I REALLY SHOULD CONTINUE WITH MY CONQUEST OF THIS PITIFUL REALM,” he announced, starting to clamber towards you.

Panic surged through you as you watched him through cloudy eyes. A lump formed in your throat, every breath coming out as a wheeze. This is the end, you thought, this is where I die. But the beast froze before he could reach you. Slowly he turned his head back, your gaze following the motion, eventually landing on the mysterious figure who had brought you here. Their hands were clasped tightly around the beast’s ankle, and words that hardly registered to you flowed from them. Evidently he didn’t quite understand either, as he gave a big chuckle before casually picking them up, letting them hand from their robes.

“I’M AFRAID I DIDN’T QUITE CATCH THAT, KLEINE.” Your captor started stuttering, frustration mixed with fear dominating their expression. It took them a few moments to gather their thoughts and finally speak clearly.

“You can’t leave yet!” They huffed, eyes staring hard. “I summoned you, therefore you must follow my commands!” Almost immediately after the words left their mouth they froze up, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere, terror overriding their confidence. Meanwhile the monster had stopped laughing, instead silently seething with rage. The air itself seemed to hang heavy over him. Breathing easily was a distant memory, one you longed to remember. “I-I did the ritual just as described. Got the- the sacrifice and everything!” Your captor continued, stumbling over every word. As pathetic as their display was… the demon had abandoned any traces of his prior amusement.

“YOU DID THE RITUAL, YES. BUT IT WAS A MERE SUMMONING, NOT A BINDING,” he growled, voice low, full of barely contained rage, and easily capable of filling the space. Something had snapped within his personality, shown by the way he then tossed the figure aside. An irritated scoff left him just as they slammed into the cold ground. “DID YOU REALLY THINK IT WOULD BE SO EASY TO CONTROL ME? I AM A GOD COMPARED TO YOU! YOU ARE NAUGHT BUT A WORM, LITTLE ONE.” 

With that said he marched towards the crumpled body. The figure was squirming, groaning all the while, shoulder clearly bent the wrong way. If they heard the demon coming, they weren’t able to do anything about it. Before you even had a chance to blink he had yanked them upwards, pinning them to one of the walls, their other hand thrusting straight into their chest… Gagging, you forced yourself to look away. Although you couldn’t see what happened, the noises you heard were more than enough to paint a brutal, bloody picture of the resulting wound. For a moment you tried to block everything out.

“BAH, THESE MORTALS ARE NO CHALLENGE!” The demon yelled, forcing your attention to turn back towards him. You almost threw up when your gaze landed on the heart in his hand. While you held back the bile in your throat, he simply gave the organ a squeeze, letting it burst within his grasp. “I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO USE MY HAMMER… SUCH A SHAME, DON’T YOU THINK?” He asked, turning to your quivering form. Every step he took towards you sent another chill straight to your core. If not for the blood-loss threatening to knock you out, you would have been a crying, screaming mess. “DON’T FEEL LIKE TALKING, EH?… SUCH A SHAME, YOU LOOK LIKE YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL SCREAM. I SUPPOSE I’LL JUST HAVE TO MAKE YOU SHOW ME AFTER I TAKE YOU HOME,” he continued, smugness radiating from him.

You wanted to protest, really. But he picked you up with such ease, armor nearly burning hot to the touch, lifting you like one might lift a feather. Once more he let out a hearty laugh. With it, he slung you over his shoulder and stepped back into the center of the room. The last thing you saw before succumbing to unconsciousness was a hellish portal reaching to swallow you up…

[invisibleimpossibilities]

Custom Bio: Section IV

IV. Where the Timelines Split

    Only so many successful defenses could protect her wards before word spread among thieves. No matter how she might have prepared when things around the her little corner stayed too quiet for too long, a large enough and coordinated enough group could just not be stopped by one person and a few booby traps. The oncoming attack would become a fixed point in fate, leaving a young woman lying unconscious in the very grasses she'd tried to save, and about to awaken to a whole new life.

    What life... varied.

1. Grima [Original timeline]

     A vicious, valiant effort to fight off far too numerous bandits left her wounded, surrounded, disarmed, and disgraced. They were interested in loot, not lives, and were quite happy to leave her breathing to goad and watch her wallow in her own pitiful, defeated state. Bound in ropes and broken down, one last blow from the hilt of an axe to her already dizzy head knocked the last remnants of awareness from her brain. They ransacked while she lay senseless, chased the couple from their own house, plundered the place, and then burnt it down for sport. So too, did they steal away her home, her last hopes, any pride to even try and seek out another provider, and any heart she might have had left.

     She'd learned the extension of her original Grimleal lessons that day, she decided: Life is cruel, and no one can really make it better for very long. Everything is doomed to collapse in one way or another, sooner or later. All that mattered in the meantime was power. Enough power to destroy anyone and anything before it destroys you.

     She heard voices nearby, shouting at each other, shouting names. Chrom. Lissa. The royal siblings. The prince who'd failed a member of his kingdom for so long, who'd let her scrounge around and suffer the treatment of his supposed nobles and dignified countrymen. A convenient and perfect person to rid herself of and start taking better control of her life and this land. Still beaten and shaking from the attack several hours ago, the group ate her sob story right up. Offered her safe passage to the next town - the next town, which those bandits had deemed another target. With more bodies and weapons like pawns at her back, she'd take them down. How perfect that vengeance could buy her way into the prince's favor and earn her a place in his Shepherds.

     Soon enough, those scouting out for an assassination attack would take home word of a strange Plegian girl fighting with an extension of Ylisse's army, and Validar would contact his lost daughter with promises that she was far more amenable to (now so distanced from her late mother and disillusioned with half of her teachings). She would act as double agent, further earning the trust of the exalts, all the while sneaking people into Ylisstol and reconnaissance back to Plegia, working alongside her father's instructions to ensure the great Grima's plan could unfold, and biding her excitement until the day she could burn the heart of Naga's chosen one and ascend to her rightful throne of godhood.

     She made no ties with the lessers who surrounded her; never loved and never married. While child minions sounded quite useful, she didn't risk worthy blood being passed on; didn't risk a successor who might steal Grima's favor from her.

     (Plucking possible children from alternate timelines once Grima had already taken over, however... remained an option.)

     Grima the Fell Dragon brought about the apocalypse this world deserved.

2. Robin [Game timeline - Neutral End (?) - Morgan's timeline]

     Grima remembered the moment there was a change of heart which made it more powerful. In chasing Lucina into the past, he decided to meet his vessel there to merge. It didn't go as planned.

     The hired sword and the bandits still rushed forward to meet in the farmer's field, but as initial taunts were being tossed... the young woman passed out. With a few kicks and a hearty laugh at how much better they must be than the fools who'd called her a challenge, they passed right on. They ravaged the homestead just the same, but now... she never even found out. Never hurt or regretted, for it meant nothing to her.

     A man found her in the field, he matched the face of the vision he had woken her from. She remembered his name... and that is all.

     Someone asks for hers, and the only clouded image which came to mind

was the yellow-beaked dawn of a new day and the warm array like a sunrise on the breast of a horizon all shining bright to break through dreary browns and grays of fate that surround it to mark the coming of spring after a cold, harsh winter

The answer that perched on the branch of her tongue that stirred her soul as something appropriate that formed more familiar from her lips was not the forgotten name of a destined daughter

but a chosen identity: Robin.

     Robin became a loyal Shepherd. Learned what it meant to support, to love, to better one's self... to look up to someone and earn their trust in return. Befriended her prince and his people, honestly and truly. Thwarted cultists and warlords as they rose. Fought for good and to change fate, and fought for her friends to help their dreams come true.

     Struggles and personal ties and further studies and long conversations taught her to open her heart to introspection. To emotion and intimacy.

     She even became a wife.

     When the final battle against her former self and the choice to bring Grima's terror to a temporary halt or to total destruction was placed before her, everyone told her not to take the final blow. Told her that she was still needed and it would be best to take care of herself, and a different future could be safeguarded by a different group who would certainly also be successful. She wanted to be part of a future; she didn't want to leave anyone behind or be the cause of their pain. So many voices made her promise not to leave, said that to keep her around was worth it.

     She loved them. So she listened to them. She let Chrom lay the fell dragon down to an indefinite sleep, and she went on living her life.

     A decision which would slowly eat away at every bit of her sanity from that day forward.

     Along the way, she became a mother, too.

     She thought she would be happy. With all the terrible calls and cruel decisions and juggling of people's lives, she thought she could live with letting herself thrive for once. No. She felt nothing but guilt. She looked around and saw nothing but regret. Each day felt like one she'd stolen from someone else. Each word that came from another felt like more reassuring lies.  

     She started resenting those around her. Finally researched more of the religion she'd apparently been raised with, ...and found it making far more sense than she'd ever thought. The solace of the damned. It wasn’t okay. It had never been okay. She shouldn't have listened, she shouldn't have opened herself. She believed so strongly in the invisible ties between people, but it had brought her nothing but misery in the end, anyway. It had changed nothing about future or fate. One day Grima would come again. It was inevitable. It would always be inevitable.

     And it would happen sooner than the several lifetimes everyone else thought they'd won.

     In her madness, Robin would begin the sacrifice - as always - with her own family. But in a brief moment of lucidity (the eyes of Morgan, the terrified, innocent eyes of her child), she would beg Naga for a second chance. One more chance to change fate. The other children were blessed with one, why not her own! Open the past again! Let her heart learn one more thing!

     It was granted, and by Naga's power, once her son passed through the gate - all memories besides the mission given by a mother, all memories of terrible atrocities, would be erased, in the hopes that they could finally be undone.

3. Morgan [Game timeline - Good End]

     One more traveler enters the past through a portal to the Ruins of Time. With Lucina. With Grima. To find a Robin who'd recently claimed her own identity.

     And he would help her envision what having a future really meant. Help her understand what it meant to love a child, and how to make and forgive even harder choices (which yet only really ever had one answer) which came with that responsibility. He would show her that in giving the love of a mother, there is nothing she would not or could not do to ensure that her life would be used to leave a better world for him and any other children.

     Even if the cost was death itself.