#made it erode and become part of the earth

[fanfic-gremlin-ft-trauma]

if do you take this jerk to be (your one and only) by @jatersade has 1 000 000 fans I am one of them. If it has 100 000 fans I am one of them. If it has 1 000 fans I am one of them. If it has 100 fans I am one of them. If it has 10 fans I am one of them. If it has 1 fan then I am that fan. If it has 0 fans then I am dead. (yk what that’s a lie I’ll still be a fan in the GRAVE)

[dredgesnails]

I love to imagine the magic mountain bases all actually existing completely separately from each other in completely different time periods (almost), despite being physically in the same location.

In the ancient world, pyramids are constructed at the base of a huge volcano to honor the dead and worship old gods. A wide path leads to an entrance into the volcano, far enough in that the heat gets dangerous. Inside, sacrifices are made to the gods, to their king, offerings given up for the benefit of them all. The king is kind and forgiving, loyal to his people, asking for little and giving as much as he can. The gods however, are cruel, and all civilisations must fall eventually. For this one it's after a great eruption, one that shakes the earth with all the fury of the gods, that the pyramids become abandoned, left alone for centuries to erode. Over time new life grows, and thick jungles begin to hide the pyramids from view, until eventually, they’ve become a part of the natural landscape. Venture far enough in, however, and you might find remnants of the ancient civilisation: old writing in a language no one knows anymore, praises given to their old king; the remnants of ancient weapons and armour; the shapes of people who once lived forever preserved in ash and pumice.

~

It's the start of the industrial revolution, and rumours start spreading of an eclectic man and his steamrail full of exotic animals from across the globe. He’s a travelling zoo, of sorts, appearing in the strangest of places (as long as there's a railway line, he'll be there), areas it logically shouldn't be able to reach. He’s got all sorts of animals, from dolphins and turtles to strange, mysterious beasts. Where does he keep them all when they're not on the train? Some say he doesn't exist. others insist he does, that he lives underneath a mountain no one dares to visit. It's an active volcano, they say, dangerous to go near. If anyone dared to explore they might stumble upon the largest, most diverse collection of animals they've ever seen, and, most bizarrely, a large steam locomotive that runs on its own railway track, seemingly on a loop through the volcano itself. The tunnel is so dark the train disappears into it entirely. a young exploration group decide to find out for themselves, years later, and at first they think there's nothing there, until one of them stumbles upon the obvious remnants of a railway line, no longer in use but not so old that it's started to break down. Maybe he did exist after all...

~

In the late 1800s, a small fishing community establishes itself by the mountain. Electricity is new, and with the new machines and motors available to them the community quickly grows into a small village. Something is wrong, though. The rocks embedded in the mountain appear to resemble a skull more and more by the day, water streaming from one eye socket as though it’s crying. Underground passages and tunnels are found by the new residents, all leading to strange chambers. There's something in the water. A young man, one of the first in the village, disappears for a month, and when he returns, he's changed. He insists the ocean speaks to him, to everyone through him. He fishes for hours, days, weeks on end. When his madness begins infecting others, most gain the sense to stay away from him, but not everyone does. There's something in the water.

By the mid 1920s, the small fishing village is still standing, although most of the residents from four decades ago have since left. A young woman, traveling alone in her tiny fishing boat, docks at the village in need of repairs. What was meant to be a one night stay turns into days, then weeks, then months, as she begins to notice strange happenings in the village. A local artist has locked himself in his house, gone mad from something he found in the ocean. A scientist is experimenting with strange materials, and sometimes at night strange noises come from her house. There's something in the water. An older man speaks in tongues, driven mad by the sea. There's something in the water. The young fisher sees him occasionally, staring through her, unseeing. She's begun dreaming of ancient monsters in the depths of the water below her, reaching their long arms out and crushing her and everyone else. When she looks into the sea she can't see anything. It’s just inky blackness.

(No one knows how the village gets destroyed. One day it's here, and the next it's turned to rubble, razed to the ground by forces beyond human perception. It appears no one survived, but strangely, there's no trace of the small fishing boat the young woman had arrived in, nor of her body, and if anyone stopped for long enough in the wrecked city they might hear mumbling at night from underground, the mad ramblings of a man who has seen too much.)

~

Magic mountain row thrives in the early 2000s. They’ve beaten the Y2K bug (it really wasn't that much of a problem, anyway), business is booming at all the independent stores, and the local economy is better than ever. It doesn’t matter that not many people want to live here because new tech keeps Big Ron busy, and Willie Jr is old enough to start working at his father's shop, preparing himself to take over the business. The safe storage containers are always a little open, but nothing ever really goes missing, because no new people means everyone knows everyone. A young boy visits his neighbours for the last time before he leaves with his family; his dad's got a better job somewhere far away and they have to leave now, and besides it’s safer not to live by a barely-dormant volcano (it’s not as cool, though). His new neighbourhood has a lot more kids his age, but he can't help but miss the eccentric nature of his old neighbours. He returns to his childhood home twenty years later to find it empty. Most of magic mountain row is empty now, actually. There are a few places still open: Big Ron refuses to close up shop because Willie Jr, who has taken over the business now that his father's passed, still needs his help from time to time. Anyone still living here is merely clinging to a past they remember so fondly they can't adapt for the future. They're happy, though. They’re happy to remain here until it's their time to go.

~

In the not-so-distant future, a dense city is formed on the mountain. It started out as a smaller town, with traditional architecture and shrines dotted around the place, but as technology advanced and society progressed it grew and evolved into towering skyscrapers, holographic billboards, a rail system that winds through buildings and above streets. Elements of the past still remain - lush gardens lined with cherry blossom trees, the old shrines and temples still standing, a mark of the city's history and longevity. The city stands the longest, weathers the strongest storms, grows and evolves and changes, but all must come to an end, eventually. A rumbling in the earth, a once-dormant volcano waking from its slumber. They have the tech to know it's coming, now, so they all flee before it can hit. Only one man stays behind. This is his city. This is his home. He built this entire place from the ground up, and he’s not going to leave it behind. He makes his way to one of the shrines. Praying to his goddess, he leaves her one final offering, and when the ash settles all trace of him is gone.

~

The apocalypse happens in a future beyond our reckoning. A city lies, abandoned by most, on top of the ruins of civilisations that came before. Once a lively hub of activity and tech and innovation, the city has become a ghost town, occupied only by the artificial intelligences that had driven humanity out. They wander aimlessly, mimicking the behaviours of the humans they used to watch and help, protecting the inner core of their city that keeps everything, including themselves, alive. The humans reside elsewhere, in a bunker resembling the old world, with more vegetation and life than the city had despite being hidden underground. The city’s architects reassure everyone that they’ll be able to return someday soon. The one who designed the robots, a man more cyber than human by this point, just needs to fix a few issues with their programming. He doesn’t want to destroy them but he might have to. His partner, who designed most of the city, will need to commence repairs before anyone can live in the city again. So they leave, vowing to fix the city so that everyone can return to society. No one knows they will never return.

[ozzgin]

Hello, i’m back 😁.

I’m finaly going to ask you the 3 part of Yautja female reader raised on earth.

So reader had her first heat and she spend it with her yautja male. And suprise !!!! She’s pregnant !

Her mate want to take her to their home planet but reader becomes agressive when he tried and they all know the rule : you don’t fuck with pregnant yautja. No seriously, never do that.

And so the male see the way her family is really happy about this news and they help reader with her pregnancy and they fully support her. Which is suprising for our male yautja because usualy pregnant females yautja go on their pregnancy alone. And if you feel up for it, could you write about active labour : reader is having contractions for hours, she wants support and her mate ( males aren’t suppose to ne here for the labor ) and then the baby is here and everyone love this little buttle of joy.

Hope you have time for this resquest and thanks for reading this, bye.

Welcome back! The third part of the Predator saga has been requested by @avaleigh16 as well, so I’m tagging you as promised! :) Each Predator is written under the assumption that you’ve picked them as a partner with perhaps a little bit of reaction from the other suitors. Sorry for the delay!

Various Predators x Predator! Reader Headcanons: Mating

Featuring the four Predator types and their independent story if you’ve accepted them as your mate. Dealing with pregnancy and birth.

Part 1: Meeting

Part 2: Courting

Part 3: Mating

After a long and exhausting courting process from all these unexpected suitors, you’ve made your decision and chose your mate. Not only that, but consuming the new relationship has left you visibly pregnant. And the father is none other than…

Feral Predator

What a bizarre choice in the eyes of the other suitors. You’ve picked the foreigner of unknown origins, from the deserted plains of the opposing hemisphere. Two different Yautja species meeting and mating. What would the outcome be? Neither the Feral Predator nor you care much about genetics. He is much more interested in planning his new family unit, except you’re not as enthusiastic about leaving your caregivers behind. Surely you can’t expect to raise your children with these frail humans. They have no skill nor value to pass on to your offspring and there are no biological ties holding you back. He notices your increased aggression and would rather not press the matters further and compromise your health, at least for now. And while he is baffled by the strange customs of assisting you throughout your pregnancy, he can’t deny the enjoyment of being included. To your surprise, in your moments of required bed rest, you spot Feral Predator continuing your household tasks for the humans. He doesn’t agree with your choices, but he will respect them nevertheless. If the humans are this important to you, he can make the effort to tolerate them.

Elite Predator

Being on this pathetic planet hasn’t eroded your common sense it seems. You’ve made the right choice. All that’s left is returning to Yautja Prime, preferably before you have to carry a needy newborn around. His patience is running thin upon hearing your obstinate refusals. What could it be this time? Pregnancy hormones? Alas, he’d rather not fight you in this feral state. It’s not optimal, but right now there’s little room for protest. If you so desire, you can have your final stay with the little creatures. Although he’s not happy at all to witness them flocking to your aid whenever something is required. You can spot the Elite Predator sulking from a distance, following his part in the tradition and giving you space. His frown, however, only lasts until the first contractions. The small earthly creatures demand his presence. It is not commonly done, but then again, can he really miss the opportunity of attending the birth of his own offspring? It’s a comical sight, his tall frame towering over the gathered family, and you can’t help but chuckle between the labored breaths. You’ll deal with his moods later.

Fugitive Bad Blood

The Fugitive knew that despite all the disapproving eyes, you’d still pick him as your partner. You have the blood of your parents running through your veins. For how long were you planning on avoiding your nature, your very fate? Thankfully you’ve come to your senses, though he might need to shake the remaining doubt off of you with his own hands. Your attachment to these life forms is frankly annoying and he doesn’t mind making the choices for you. In fact, there’s no decision to make if you only have one option. He has already proven to you that anyone else besides him is a superfluous existence. He is your guarantee to survival and anything else your heart might desire. You have managed to keep him away from your family with distant promises of compliance once the suckling is here. As you approach the moment of birth, you can sense his excitement and anticipation. The tension is the air is thick, almost suffocating. You don’t doubt his loyalty to you. If only you could use it for the safety of your earthly parents instead.

Berserker

You choosing him as your partner was the best for everyone, really. He would’ve had no trouble hunting down his competition. You soon find out just how possessive and territorial the Berserker is when not even your family can approach you. Perhaps the pregnancy has caused him to be extra careful. Not only are you his mate, but the mother of his future sucklings, so he’s not taking any risks of a foreign presence outside his own. After all, why would you need anyone else but him? You can feel anger knotting inside your stomach, but fighting against the Berserker is not the wisest move. Even though he wouldn’t recklessly jeopardize his lineage. Most likely. Probably. You will have to do something soon, because he has expressed his intentions to leave this planet as soon as the birth happens. Naturally you’ll join him. There’s a long life ahead and he’s determined to keep you with him. Just what have you gotten yourself into?

[thyras]

→ of greater aspirations

PAIRING → annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 11.6k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → angst, sauron kinda comes to terms that he's been a dick

SUMMARY → in becoming annatar, you struggle with your resolve but can you withstand everything this form hopes to tempt you with?

AUTHORS NOTE → alright this is a long one guys so buckle up, I stayed up all night trying to finish it and edit it because the tears were going at all the lovely comments and at the way this chapter turned out. but I will head you a little bit because do not forget sauron is still a deceiver even if he wishes to bask in readers light. also evenstar carried me through this chapter so if that should give you a hint to where this is going 🤭

PARTS → masterlist

Your lingering dreams clung to you like cobwebs as you descended the stairs to the forge. They felt so vivid, so real—the warmth of his touch, the way his fingers lazily traced patterns in your hair. You could have sworn he was there with you once more, lying beside you as he had in days long gone. But those days had passed, and you had made peace with the idea that he would never warm your bed again.

Or so you told yourself.

Still, it hurt. It hurt to think such thoughts, to let go of the fragile thread of hope you didn’t realize you still held.

To damn him is to damn me. The words you’d spoken the night before echoed through your mind, wrapping around your aching heart like a vine. You’d meant them, though the truth of them cut deep. His words, his actions—they had been anything but kind, yet you recognized the shadow at work in him. It wasn’t truly him who had spoken so harshly. It was the darkness, the thing he used to shield himself from your prying, to keep you from glimpsing what lay in his heart or what plans he had for Celebrimbor—or for your people.

And yet, despite the sting of his words, you couldn’t shake the sense that they had hurt him to say even more than they had hurt you to hear. He still longed for you, as you longed for him. Even now, you could feel it, like a distant melody woven into the air. But his heart… it was broken. So fractured and enshrouded by the darkness Morgoth had cast upon him that even the light of your fëa, the purity of your being, must have burned him. You were the light he had once cradled so tenderly, and now it seared him to the touch.

You had always been so pure, so bright. Even in the early days, when others whispered of what you were—of what you had been created to do—you had shone. Unlike so many of your kin, your heart had never hardened, even in the face of all you had endured. You had chosen not to heed the call to Valinor, nor had you succumbed to the despair, desires, or anger that had consumed others when the shadow first began to spread across Middle-earth.

For five thousand years, you had walked these lands, watching as they changed and twisted beneath your feet. You had tangled with the fates of the Valar and witnessed the burning of your world. You had stood unyielding as the shadow stretched its hand over all you loved, and you had seen everything you cherished reduced to ash.

No one could truly understand the depths of your pain, the sorrow that had become an unshakable part of you. No one except, perhaps, Lord Círdan. He alone could offer even a fragment of sympathy, for he had walked these shores just as long as you. Like you, he had watched the tides of time erode the edges of his world, leaving behind scars that never truly healed.

And yet, even he could not fully grasp what it meant to be tethered to someone like Sauron—to know the brilliance of Mairon and mourn him, even as the darkness he became reached for you. To feel the pull of a soul so intricately bound to yours, even when you knew it could destroy you.

As you reached the forge, the cool air kissed your skin, grounding you in the present. The dreams, the memories, the echoes of last night—they all seemed to hover at the edge of your mind, refusing to fade entirely. You pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the task ahead, though you could still feel the weight of his presence lingering like the scent of smoke after a fire.

Perhaps it was foolish to hope. But hope, no matter how fragile, was all you had left.

You picked up your skirts and descended the stairs into the heart of the forge. The air was heavy with the scent of molten metal and the rhythmic echo of hammers striking anvils. Though you hadn’t noticed the two figures standing in the study above, you felt his gaze on you almost instantly. It was as though his presence reached out to you across the expanse of the stone floor, drawing your attention like a moth to flame. Your steps faltered slightly as you approached the stairs that led to where they stood, your breath catching in your chest.

When you finally raised your eyes, your feet stalled completely. Warmth spread across your face as recognition washed over you. No matter how he changed his form, the call of his threads was unmistakable. Even now, you could feel the bond between your souls pulling taut, your heart singing for his as his did for you.

Celebrimbor’s presence barely registered as your gaze locked onto him—your husband. His new form was striking, commanding. Taller than before, with an undeniable authority that filled the room. In this elven guise, he radiated an aura of grandeur that Halbrand’s subdued human form had lacked. His hair, golden blonde with a faint coppery hue that caught the light just so, was a detail you were certain he had crafted specifically for your pleasure. Yet, despite the way it made your heart hammer in your chest, you steeled yourself against it. You would not be swayed by such simple tricks, no matter how they stirred old, buried feelings.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that unsettled you—it was the light he radiated. It was so pure, so reminiscent of the glow he had once carried as Mairon. For a moment, you questioned if it was real or another calculated ploy meant to draw you in.

Celebrimbor, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air, stepped forward and took your arm gently, his excitement evident. “My lady Thilwen, the Valar have graced us with an emissary,” he said, his tone bright. He motioned toward the figure beside him, but you stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to move. You feared that if you so much as shifted, the illusion would consume you, and you would forget who he truly was.

“This is my Lord Annatar—”

“Lord of Gifts,” you finished for him, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. Your husband inclined his head in a slight bow, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.

“I am surprised the Valar are even concerned with our affairs,” you said, your tone carefully measured as you scrutinized him. “Surely they have far more pressing matters to attend to.” Your words were a subtle challenge, daring him to reveal his hand.

Annatar stepped forward, closing the space between you and Celebrimbor with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped just short of where you stood, the intensity of his gaze piercing through you.

“They are impressed with your work,” he said smoothly, his voice like honey laced with steel. “And with your sacrifices, my lady.” His eyes, a startlingly vivid blue, met yours, and in that instant, you knew. This was no emissary of the Valar. This was him. Sauron. Mairon. The shadowed being who had once been your light.

You could see it now—the faint crack in his carefully crafted facade. The glimmer in his eyes that betrayed his true intent. This was yet another attempt to sway you, to pull you into his web and bind you to his cause.

“They have sent me to help you both achieve even grander works,” he continued, his voice carrying the weight of promise and persuasion. “Creations that will be known across the land, revered for centuries to come.”

Your pulse quickened as his words settled over you, thick with the unmistakable pull of his influence. You were no stranger to his tactics, and yet, you couldn’t deny the part of you that still yearned for what he once was—for the promise of Mairon, not the shadow of Sauron.

Celebrimbor, entirely unaware of the charged undercurrent between you and Annatar, seemed enthralled by the offer. His grip on your arm tightened slightly as he glanced back at you with hopeful eyes. “Think of what we could achieve together, Thilwen. With his guidance, we could surpass anything we’ve ever imagined.”

You tore your gaze from Annatar to glance at Celebrimbor. His enthusiasm was genuine, but it pained you to see how easily he was falling into the snare. Did he not see the cracks? The subtle signs of deception?

“I am certain his… guidance will be invaluable,” you said carefully, your tone neutral. “But only time will tell if such gifts come without strings.”

Annatar’s smile deepened, his expression unreadable. “You have always been perceptive, my lady,” he said, his voice low. “But I assure you, my only goal is to help you create a legacy that will outshine the stars themselves.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you studied him. The light he radiated still tugged at you, threatening to erode your resolve. But you had learned long ago that light could be just as deceptive as shadow.

“I do not believe, Lady Thilwen—” Annatar’s voice faltered, trailing off as his gaze lingered on the back of your head. You descended the stairs without a glance his way, the soft swish of your robes brushing against the silence, heading toward where the other smiths had begun to gather for their morning instructions. Your composure was impeccable, your movements graceful, yet the distance between you and him was palpable, a barrier as impenetrable as stone.

“She is not fond of many,” Celebrimbor said matter-of-factly, his focus already shifting to the stack of designs he had left on the nearby table. He spared Annatar a brief glance, noting the way the other lingered, still staring after you. “A five-thousand-year existence will do that to a person. Don’t take it personally.”

Celebrimbor smiled faintly, his tone lighthearted, though there was a note of sympathy woven into his words. Annatar, however, said nothing, his piercing gaze fixed on you as though he could will you to turn and look at him. His expression was carefully unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the effort it took to maintain such restraint

“You both are very close, yes?” Annatar asked at last, his voice smooth, though there was an undercurrent to his tone—something sharp, buried beneath the pleasantry.

Celebrimbor chuckled softly, the sound light and unconcerned. “Platonically, yes,” he said, glancing up to follow Annatar’s gaze toward you. His expression softened, his features almost reverent as he watched you move among the smiths with quiet authority.

The sight stirred something in Sauron, though he kept his composure. None of the simmering frustration bubbling just beneath the surface showed on his face, though it burned in his veins. The softness in Celebrimbor’s gaze as he spoke of you was enough to twist the knife.

“After her husband’s disappearance,” Celebrimbor continued, his voice dropping into a note of melancholy, “she fell into great sorrow. A sorrow she has never truly emerged from, not entirely. For years, she forbade anyone from entering his workshop, hoping—praying—that he might return one day. But he never did. Some say the shadow took him, others think he was as you are.”

Sauron’s lips pressed into a thin line as the words struck him harder than he anticipated. For a fleeting moment, he was back in Laureandor, walking through the streets as fire consumed the city. He remembered stepping into the workshop he had once shared with you. The silence there had been deafening, the air thick with ash and despair. Every tool had been left untouched, every workbench preserved just as it had been. Dust had settled like a shroud over it all, an unspoken testament to your devotion.

He understood now. You hadn’t simply kept the workshop untouched as a memorial—you had kept it as a beacon, a symbol of your belief that he might still return to the light.

His heart ached at the memory, a rare crack in the armor he wore. But he quickly locked the vulnerability away, burying it beneath layers of composure. Celebrimbor’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“She loves him very much,” the elf said quietly, his tone carrying a wistful admiration. “As all elves love their mates.”

“Loves?” Annatar prompted, his tone calm and neutral, though his piercing gaze betrayed the weight of the question.

Celebrimbor tilted his head slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Elves mate for life, much like swans. The core of our being is bound to the other,” he explained. His voice grew solemn, tinged with wonder. “She will never stop loving him. Never cease longing for his fëa to find hers once more.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and struck a chord deep within Sauron. He clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling. Despite everything—despite the centuries of darkness, destruction, and lies—you still loved him. Not the being he had become, but the one he once was. The one you had believed in so completely.

The one he had destroyed.

“He was a smith, correct?” Annatar asked, his voice measured, the question almost idle.

Celebrimbor nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “A damn good one,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of admiration. “It is said he rivaled Aulë himself in skill.” His gaze grew wistful. “But that, of course, is only legend.”

Annatar inclined his head, a fleeting smile gracing his lips. It was so faint it could have been mistaken for a shadow. Beneath his mask of calm, though, a flicker of satisfaction burned within him.

He relished the quiet reverence his former self still inspired. The whispers of his mastery, still alive in their minds, amused him. Celebrimbor’s awe in particular was delicious—how little he truly knew of the hands behind those creations, or the shadow that now guided them.

“She grieves him deeply,” Celebrimbor continued, pulling Annatar from his thoughts. “It’s… painful to watch, sometimes. Especially when she longs for her greatest desire—one he never gave her.”

The words lingered for a moment too long, and Celebrimbor froze, his expression shifting. He stiffened, realizing he had said too much, and immediately looked regretful.

“And what does she desire?” Annatar asked, his voice calm and curious, though his darkened gaze betrayed the storm beneath his surface.

Celebrimbor shook his head quickly, attempting to dismiss his slip. “Forget I said anything,” he said firmly. “It’s not my place to speak of such things.”

But Annatar already knew.

“She longs for a child,” he said softly, his voice even, though the revelation struck him like a blow.

The weight of the truth settled heavily on his mind. You had carried this longing for ages, a desire that had remained unfulfilled. He had denied you that—not because he didn’t wish to give it, but because of fear. Fear that his darkness would taint whatever you created together. Fear that he could not protect you from what the child’s existence might bring.

“She finds solace in telling her stories to young ears,” Celebrimbor added, his voice quieter now, almost mournful. “But do forget I said anything. It is none of our concern.”

Annatar remained silent, outwardly impassive, though his thoughts churned. The image of you speaking softly to children, your fëa yearning for something you believed you would never have, stirred something deep and painful within him.

He had denied you that dream, not because he did not want it, but because he had been too afraid. Too broken. And now, the weight of your unfulfilled longing was another scar in the chasm between who you wished him to be and the shadow he had become.

Celebrimbor’s words had ended the conversation, but they deepened the storm in Sauron’s mind. This longing was a part of your grief he had never reckoned with—and now, it loomed as another reminder of all he had taken from you.

After breaking for the noon meal, Annatar watched as the smiths filed out, their laughter and chatter fading into the distance. You and Celebrimbor, however, lingered. The two of you stood close at one of the workbenches, a partially unrolled parchment spread out before you. Celebrimbor leaned over your shoulder, his hand brushing the edge of the page as he pointed to something on the design. You nodded, scribbling notes and adjustments as the two of you exchanged ideas. Every so often, your laughter broke the silence, light and unguarded, mingling with his. The sight stirred something dark and volatile within Sauron.

His gaze fixed on you, every smile and every shared laugh causing his blood to simmer. How could someone like Celebrimbor even begin to compare? How could you laugh so freely with another, when your heart was meant to yearn for him—always for him?

“My lord Annatar, perhaps your insights might be helpful. Come, have a look,” Celebrimbor’s voice rang out suddenly, cutting through Sauron’s deadly thoughts. The elf turned, flashing him a welcoming smile.

Annatar inclined his head smoothly, masking the torrent of emotions within. With measured grace, he strode over to where the two of you stood. He didn’t miss the way you stiffened as he approached, though you tried to disguise it with practiced poise. He could see through the cracks that had begun to show in your composure.

He stopped beside you and glanced down at the parchment. The designs sprawled across the page caught his attention immediately. Rings. Ornate, intricate, and ambitious. The craftsmanship in the sketches was impressive, each line drawn with precision and intention. His sharp eyes recognized echoes of his own work—centuries of watching him had clearly honed your ability to replicate his talent. A small, fleeting sliver of pride slipped through his guarded thoughts, though it was quickly smothered by the simmering jealousy threatening to consume him.

“They are wonderful,” he said softly, his voice smooth but deliberate. His gaze shifted to you, his words calculated to test your reaction. “I am quite impressed that a smith’s wife has gained such a refined skill.”

Your head snapped up at his comment, your expression hardening instantly. The warmth that had lit your face while working with Celebrimbor evaporated, replaced by an icy glare. Your eyes narrowed, and your grip on the quill tightened.

“I have had a lot of time to study his work. If my des—”

“Thilwen,” Celebrimbor interrupted gently, resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. His tone was soothing, and he smiled at you warmly. “I do not believe he meant to diminish your skills. I think he is just as surprised as I was to discover how talented you truly are.”

You turned to look at Celebrimbor, the tension in your features softening. A sweet smile spread across your lips, and you placed your hand over his in a gesture of gratitude. He flushed slightly at the touch, and you giggled softly at the sight, giving his hand a playful pat before withdrawing.

The interaction was simple, harmless on the surface—but to Sauron, it was unbearable. The sight of Celebrimbor touching you, of your easy laughter at his expense, made fury claw at his chest. His mind raced, his shadowy instincts screaming to rip the elf apart, to remind him of his place. How dare Celebrimbor gaze at you with such affection, let alone lay a hand on you? And how dare you entertain it, even for a moment?

But he restrained himself. He needed Celebrimbor—for now. That fact alone tempered his anger, though only barely. Still, the revelation of your talent stirred a dark amusement within him. With your ability, perhaps Celebrimbor’s hands weren’t as indispensable as he once believed. The thought of the elf losing a hand—maybe even both—was a satisfying one. It might even teach him to keep his distance from you.

Annatar’s lips curved into a faint, calculated smile. For now, he would play the role of the gracious emissary. 

“I believe the Dwarves will be ever grateful for these designs,” Celebrimbor said warmly, a smile lingering on his lips as he released your shoulder. His confidence in the work you had both created was evident, and his voice carried the optimism of someone who believed deeply in the power of collaboration. “I am certain they will agree to assist us in crafting them further.”

You returned his smile, a faint but genuine curve of your lips as you watched his enthusiasm. For a moment, the weight of the forge and the presence of Annatar seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the shared pride in the work you had accomplished.

“I am sure they will,” Annatar interjected smoothly, his voice cutting through the moment like the edge of a blade. His tone was calm, even amiable, but there was an undercurrent to it—something dark and sharp that only you could hear, woven like a discordant note beneath the surface.

You stiffened slightly at his words, your gaze flicking to him. His smile was disarming, polite even, but the intensity in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn’t merely talking about the Dwarves’ gratitude or their willingness to collaborate. No, this was about something else entirely. Something that lingered unspoken between the two of you.

Annatar’s eyes slid from you to Celebrimbor, and for a brief moment, you saw the faintest flicker of something dangerous—possessive, even—as he regarded the elf. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, masked behind his perfect facade.

“The Dwarves are practical beings,” Annatar continued, his voice carrying the same effortless charm that always seemed to veil his deeper intentions. “They will see the value in these designs, in what they can achieve. With their resources combined with the ingenuity here, there is no limit to what can be created.”

Celebrimbor nodded eagerly, missing the tension in the air entirely. “Exactly,” he said, his enthusiasm bubbling over. “This could be the start of something even more extraordinary than just merely helping craft this forge—an alliance of minds and craftsmanship that will shape the very fabric of Middle-earth.”

You tried to focus on his words, on the bright vision he painted, but you could feel Annatar’s gaze lingering on you. The weight of it was impossible to ignore, a silent pull that threatened to draw you back into the shadows you had worked so hard to escape.

“They will be grateful, yes,” you said finally, your voice steady but clipped as you forced yourself to meet Annatar’s gaze. “But let us not forget that gratitude is often fleeting, especially when ambition takes root. We should tread carefully.”

Celebrimbor tilted his head slightly, his brows knitting together in mild confusion at your sudden caution, but Annatar’s lips curved ever so slightly. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Wise as always, Lady Thilwen,” he murmured, his tone low and measured. “Your insight is invaluable, as is your craft. The Dwarves would do well to recognize that.”

The words were meant as praise, but the weight behind them unsettled you. They felt too pointed, too personal, as if they were meant for you alone, even in the presence of Celebrimbor. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, refusing to let him see the cracks beneath your carefully composed exterior.

Celebrimbor, oblivious to the unspoken battle between the two of you, clapped his hands together and smiled brightly. “Well, then. I’ll prepare correspondence to Khazad-dûm to invite them to speak on this matter. With any luck, we’ll have their response before the next moon.”

You inclined your head, offering a small, polite smile to the elf. “That would be ideal.”

Celebrimbor turned back to the designs, already immersed in the next steps. But Annatar remained still, his attention fixed entirely on you. His expression was calm, almost unreadable, but his eyes spoke volumes—full of challenge, possession, and something darker still.

As the moment stretched between you, you turned away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. But even as you focused on the work before you, you could still feel the shadow of his presence lingering, pressing against the edges of your mind.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of amber and violet, Annatar watched you gather your designs with meticulous care. Each parchment was placed neatly among the pages of a tome in the study, the same diligence you had applied throughout the day evident in your every movement. The faint crackle of the fireplace filled the otherwise silent room, the warmth from its glow bathing you in soft, golden light.

Celebrimbor had retired hours ago, leaving you alone with Annatar in the quiet aftermath of the day’s work. He observed you closely, his sharp gaze following every step you took as you began tidying the space.

“May I help you?” he asked, his voice smooth yet tinged with something softer, something less guarded.

You paused, turning toward him with a glance that carried the faintest trace of suspicion. “I am fine, thank you,” you replied evenly, your tone polite but firm. “Celebrimbor is very particular about his organization.”

Annatar inclined his head in acknowledgment, though he remained where he was. With deliberate ease, he moved to one of the chairs at the nearby table and sat, watching as you resumed your task.

“Then I suppose I will simply keep you company,” he said with a faint smile, his earlier agitation long since tempered. The prospect of sharing this quiet evening with you—alone for the first time in what felt like an Age—filled him with a sense of bittersweet satisfaction. He allowed himself the rare indulgence of simply watching you, no longer needing to mask the reverence in his gaze.

You were as radiant as ever, your beauty illuminated by the amber glow of the fire behind you. The light danced across your features, highlighting the gentle curve of your cheek and the sparkle in your eyes—eyes that had captivated him since the first time they met his. No creation of Varda herself could rival the beauty he saw in you.

It was how you had earned your name, after all.

In the early days, you had carried a darker name, one he had whispered to you often, one that still lingered in the recesses of his mind. But the name bestowed upon you on your wedding night—gifted by the people of your city—had been meant to honor the light within you, the light that mirrored Varda’s own handiwork. You were as luminous as the stars themselves, and the moonlight had always been your companion, casting its gentle glow upon you wherever you walked.

And yet, shadow had been your companion too, as much a part of you as the light. He had been that shadow.

He remained silent, unwilling to break the moment as he watched you move with quiet purpose. The rhythmic sound of your footsteps and the subtle swish of your robes filled the room. His gaze lingered, reverent and unyielding, tracing the contours of your figure as though committing every detail to memory. He could sense your awareness of his eyes on you—how you carried yourself just a touch more stiffly, how your movements slowed under the weight of his attention.

He did not care. He let his gaze roam unabashedly, stripping away the layers of time, distance, and pain that had come between you. In this moment, there was only you—just as you had been, just as you still were.

“You truly are one that sparkles, my lady,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but it carried easily across the quiet room.

You froze mid-step, the tome you had been holding pressed protectively to your chest. The firelight caught the edges of your profile as you slowly turned your head to look at him. For a moment, the silence between you was heavy, charged with something unspoken and raw. His words had struck a chord deep within you, one you thought had been buried long ago.

The title he used—the one gifted to you in love and reverence, the one that honored your light—was not something he had said in centuries. And hearing it now, spoken so softly, so intimately, by the very shadow who had once cherished and then betrayed that light, left you momentarily unmoored.

“Do not call me that,” you said at last, your voice steady, though there was a tremor beneath it—barely noticeable, but enough for him to catch.

His lips curved into a faint smile, bittersweet and knowing. “It is what you are,” he replied softly, the weight of his gaze never leaving yours. “No matter how far we’ve come from what we were. No matter what shadows linger.”

You gripped the tome tighter, the leather edges digging into your fingers. “And yet it was you who sought to smother that light.”

The words hung between you like a drawn blade, sharp and cutting. Annatar’s smile faltered ever so slightly, his composure flickering for the briefest of moments before he regained control.

“I sought only to protect it,” he said, his voice quieter now, though there was an undercurrent of rawness to his tone. “Even if my methods… were flawed.”

Your eyes narrowed, your suspicion and anger rising like a tide to drown out the vulnerability his words sought to awaken. “Flawed is an understatement.”

Annatar leaned back in the chair, his expression unreadable, though his gaze never wavered. “Perhaps,” he said after a long moment, his tone distant yet heavy with meaning. “But even now, I see you, my love. And I wonder… do you still see me?”

You turned away sharply, unwilling to answer, unwilling to let his words find their mark. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, and the shadows from the fire seemed to stretch farther than they should.

“I will finish cleaning up,” you said flatly, the edge of your voice brooking no argument. “You are welcome to leave.”

But Annatar did not move. He simply watched as you returned to your task, his presence a quiet but unshakable weight in the room. The shadows of your shared history, the light and darkness that had bound you together so tightly once before, lingered in the space between you—unspoken, but impossible to ignore.

“Why do you run from your heart’s desire?” Annatar’s voice was low, curious, laced with genuine intent. He wasn’t mocking, nor was he playing at manipulation—not yet. He truly wanted to know. What was it that kept you from him? What tethered you so tightly to the lies you told yourself? He could sense it, the truth buried so deeply within your core that it was like a fire waiting to burn free.

“I do not run from anything,” you replied, though your voice held a hesitant tremor.

Annatar’s lips twitched into a brief smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a slow step closer, his piercing gaze fixed on you. “You run from me,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “From what we—”

“We shared nothing,” you interrupted sharply, spinning to face him. Your voice was steadier now, but your words were heavy with defiance. The declaration struck him, though he masked it well, his expression turning thoughtful.

His eyes narrowed slightly, irritation flickering behind his calm facade. This continued separation you clung to—the insistence on dividing Mairon from Sauron—was wearing thin. Did it truly pain you so much to reconcile the two? Could you not see they were one and the same?

“But I am Mairon still,” he said, his voice edged with quiet frustration. “As well as all the other names I have taken. They are all me.” His words hung in the air, his tone laced with both challenge and plea.

You turned to him fully now, your watery eyes locking onto his. He stilled at the sight, a pang of something unfamiliar rippling through him as he caught the glimmer of unshed tears. Your grip on the tome you held loosened, your fingers trembling slightly as your gaze bore into his.

“No, my lord,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion but resolute. “You are not.”

He flinched inwardly at the title—my lord—spoken with such a painful, deliberate distance. The words felt like a knife, carving a chasm wider than the ages between you.

“Mairon,” you continued, your voice softening as though the name itself were a tender wound, “was the name you were given. The name you were sung into being with. The name I gave my whole being to.” Your voice caught on the last word, but you pressed on, refusing to falter. “The names you’ve taken since… they are not mine. They are for you. They are what you chose for yourself, for the darkness you embraced.”

The air between you was thick with the weight of your words, the finality in them threatening to suffocate him. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching as he stared at you. His expression, so often composed, flickered—confusion, hurt, anger, and longing all warred within the depths of his eyes.

“And what of the being who stands before you now?” he asked quietly, his voice low, the edges sharp. “What of the one who still longs for the light you once gave him? Who still remembers what it was to be whole?”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes but refusing to fall. “You ask for the truth, Annatar?” you said, your voice quivering with a rawness you rarely let slip. “Then hear it: I do not know who stands before me anymore. You wear his face. You echo his voice. But Mairon—the Mairon I knew, the Mairon I loved—is gone.”

The words struck him harder than any blow. He took a step back, his jaw tightening, though his eyes never left yours. For the first time in an age, he faltered, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to mend the rift that had grown so vast between you.

“You are wrong,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I am still here. I have always been here, waiting. I have never stopped being yours.”

You shook your head once more, a single tear slipping free and tracing down your cheek. “No,” you whispered. “You stopped being mine the moment you chose shadow over light. The moment you turned away from what we were meant to be.”

He reached for you then, his hand hovering just above your arm as though afraid to touch, afraid to shatter what fragile connection still remained. But you stepped back, your gaze dropping to the floor.

“Please,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do not ask me to reconcile who you are now with who you were. It will only hurt us both.”

Annatar’s hand dropped to his side, his chest tight with the weight of your words. For the first time, he felt powerless—truly powerless—not in the face of a foe, but in the presence of the one being who had once made him feel whole. He watched as you turned away, clutching the tome close to your chest, your steps slow and deliberate as you moved to leave.

As you descended the stairs with your tome still clutched to your chest, he stood in the empty space, the shadows of the fire flickering against the walls. His fists clenched at his sides, his mind spiraling. You believed Mairon to be gone—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was still here, buried beneath the layers of darkness, waiting for you to see him, to reach him.

He couldn’t stop himself. His feet finally unglued from the floor, and he moved to follow you, his steps swift and soundless as though he were the shadow he had always been to your moonlight. You quickened your pace, perhaps sensing his presence in your wake, the air thick with the unspoken tension that always seemed to linger between you.

When you reached the darkened corridor, he acted, his hand darting out to grasp your upper arm with gentle yet unyielding force. You spun to face him, your eyes catching the flickering glow of the torches that lined the walls. Their warm light reflected in your gaze, but it did nothing to soften the cold wariness he found there.

Annatar’s breath caught for a moment as he looked at you. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as though you might shatter beneath his hand. He felt your body tense, saw the way you recoiled slightly against the gesture, but you didn’t pull away entirely. You stood there, rigid but unmoving, and he allowed himself a moment to savor the small victory—that you hadn’t turned and fled, that you hadn’t wrenched yourself free of his grasp.

The air between you tightened, charged with the weight of things unsaid. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches. He dared not speak, afraid that words might ruin whatever fragile ground he had gained in this fleeting moment. Instead, he let himself sink into your presence, drinking in the sight of you standing so close, the warmth of you mere inches away.

He knew he was getting somewhere. Slowly, carefully, the barriers you had so carefully constructed were beginning to crack. This proximity, this tension—it was something. A seed of possibility. And he would not waste it.

His hand lingered by your face, hesitant, as though waiting for permission that would never come. “You’ve always been like this,” he murmured finally, his voice quiet, his words more a thought spoken aloud than a statement meant to reach you. “So close, yet so far.”

Your eyes narrowed at his words, the warmth of the torchlight doing nothing to diminish the sharpness of your gaze. The icy defiance in your expression was a stark contrast to the warmth of your presence, and it only served to draw him in further.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” you said, your voice steady but laced with tension.

“Perhaps,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. “But I couldn’t let you slip away. Not again.”

You shifted in his grasp, your jaw tightening as though bracing yourself against the weight of his words. “You can’t keep doing this,” you said, your tone heavy with frustration, but there was something else there too—something softer, buried beneath the surface.

“And yet, here we are,” he countered gently, his gaze searching yours. “No matter how far you run, no matter how much you push me away… I will always find you. That is what I promised to do.”

You exhaled sharply, your free hand curling into a fist at your side. “You are relentless,” you said, though there was no venom in your words, only weariness.

He leaned in ever so slightly, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “I am what you make me, Mori. A shadow drawn to your light. I cannot help but follow.”

For a moment, your resolve seemed to waver, your gaze flickering as though caught between anger and something far more vulnerable. But then you took a deliberate step back, pulling your arm free from his grasp.

“You may follow,” you said quietly, your tone firm but laced with sadness, “but I do not lead for you.”

You turned to leave, but before you could take a single step, his hand reached for you once more. His fingers caught your chin, gently but firmly, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze. The corridor's flickering torchlight cast shadows across his face, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“Do not turn from me,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading.

You struggled against his grasp, your hand instinctively moving to push him away. But before you could act, he bent closer, his other hand brushing lightly against your cheek as he pressed a kiss to your lips. It was gentle—fleeting, like the brush of a feather against your skin. It wasn’t a demand, nor was it a conquest. It was something softer, something that spoke of what had once been and what he still longed for.

The kiss was not meant to linger. It was a memory brought to life, a silent plea, an offering. He drew back almost as quickly as he had leaned in, his fingers releasing your chin as though afraid to hold on too tightly. For a moment, the space between you felt like a void, as though the weight of the kiss hung in the air, refusing to dissipate.

You stared at him, your chest heaving with uneven breaths, your resolve shaken but not broken. Your lips tingled from the touch, a reminder of what you had once shared—of who you had once been to him. But that time was gone. You had told yourself this over and over, and yet his kiss made the fragile truth tremble.

His gaze softened, a rare vulnerability flashing in his eyes. “You are still mine,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, raw and aching. “Even if you deny it.”

“Mori,” he continued. His breath floating against your face, tilting your chin upward to meet his gaze. “I never wished to harm you. I tried with all my might to avoid bringing ruin to the things you loved.” His blue eyes glimmered under the warm torchlight of the corridor, and your heart betrayed you with a leap at his words. “But I failed, and you have every right to hate me.” He paused, his thumb brushing tenderly across your bottom lip, the intimate gesture drawing a tremor from you. His pupils dilated as you yielded to the touch, your lashes fluttering, your gaze softening, melting into him as you used to. “But, my love, everything I do is for you—so we can have the world I promised you. So you may no longer be bound to that ring for healing. I wish to heal you, to heal this world, so we may walk in those glades of old in peace.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as his words lingered, each one like a hook pulling at your resolve. But this—this—was not how you wanted him to reveal his affection. These weren’t Mairon’s words. They were Sauron’s. His honeyed voice spun a web of promises, seductive and deceitful, designed to draw you back into his grasp. He wanted you to believe that Mairon still existed within him, but you knew better.

Or so you told yourself.

“This is not how you should be doing this,” you murmured, barely a whisper. “You’re falling into the same madness Morgoth did. Perfection isn’t found in destruction, Annatar—it is bright and full of light.”

His eyes darkened briefly at the mention of his former master, but the shadow passed quickly, replaced by a low, soft chuckle.

“You have always wanted to see the good in me, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice laced with something unreadable, his gaze piercing as it searched yours for a trace of the truth you tried to bury.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” you admitted, the confession slipping out like a prayer you hadn’t meant to utter. Your ring-bearing hand rose hesitantly to rest against his chest. The coarse fabric of his gray robe did little to muffle the furious hammering of his heart beneath your palm. The ring on your finger pulsed faintly, chiming in quiet harmony as it pressed against his shadowed essence. Your voice was soft, almost trembling, but resolute. “My deepest desire has always been for you to be Mairon again. To find that harmony, that perfection you speak of. You could have all that—and more.”

His pupils dilated further, his grip on your chin tightening slightly, his gaze locking onto yours with a ferocity that sent your pulse racing. A dark smile curled at the corner of his lips, its shadowy intent unmistakable.

“Are you trying to seduce me, divine?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, as though testing the waters of your resolve. “Because I do believe you’ve already done so—just by existing. Every day, you’re a temptation greater than shadow or power.”

Heat flushed your cheeks as his hand fell, trailing slowly down to the silver chain and sapphire pendant resting just above your bodice. His cold palm pressed against the gem, the icy touch sending a ripple of goosebumps across your skin. Your heart betrayed you again, pounding harder, giving away the emotions you desperately tried to suppress.

For weeks, you had told yourself you wanted nothing to do with him. Yet here you were, crumbling under his gaze as you always had. The songs of your fëa drowned out your anger, your loathing, your righteous defiance. You loved him. Despite everything, you still loved him. No matter how hard you tried to push him away, you always found yourself circling back to him, like light drawn to shadow, forever intertwined.

It felt as though Eru had created you for this purpose—to temper his darkness, to draw him back to the light, to redeem him.

Sauron had once sought redemption. He had once longed to undo the damage he had caused, to restore the light he had tainted. Perhaps, somewhere deep within him, he still did. Even before you had awoken, he had longed for you. He had forged your wedding band beneath the light of the Two Lamps, driven by a yearning to find your fëa and bind it to his own. Every fiber of his being was intertwined with yours, and though you fought against it now, that connection still lingered, strong and unyielding.

Halbrand. Annatar. Sauron. Each name carried a fragment of Mairon. You couldn’t help but see him, even in the subtle details he thought to hide—the reddish freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, the faint copper tint to his blonde hair when caught in the right light. They were crafted with you in mind, meant to remind you of the one you had loved. No one else would notice. No one else could.

Even so, you steeled yourself. You would not fall victim to his charm, no matter how much your fëa ached to be one with his again.

“You think too highly of yourself,” you breathed, breaking the moment with sharp, cutting words. “I only wish for your repentance. Then, perhaps, I could forgive you.”

His eyes closed briefly, his hand lingering on the sapphire pendant before he let it drop. When he opened them again, his gaze was soft, familiar, almost reverent.

“When I crafted this jewel and chain, I poured my light into it. No trace of shadow,” he said quietly, his voice almost fragile. “I was pure of heart when I made them both. That is why they and the band hurt you now. My chain, crafted by another, bore no trace of me, so it did not harm you.”

His eyes fell to the sapphire resting against your sternum. The way he gazed at it was almost worshipful, a reflection of how Mairon had once looked at you—with a love so profound it had unraveled you. The memory of those adoring eyes, soft and unguarded, made your breath hitch.

“Mori,” he whispered, his voice trembling with an edge of longing. “My greatest inspiration, my light in the darkness.”

Your knees felt weak as he spoke, invoking the vows you had exchanged under a moonlit sky. The words wrapped around your heart like a tether, pulling taut. “You were always too kind for my shadow,” he continued, his hand brushing against your cheek. “Always pulling me back to the light, even when I hardly deserved it.”

“If you think your silken words can win me over—” you began, but he cut you off.

“Then I am mistaken,” he said softly, finishing for you. “I know you still loathe my existence, and no words of redemption will quench that hatred. I have hurt you, and it was never my intention. My shadow has hurt you more than I could ever comprehend. And I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

The words struck you like a blow, rendering you speechless. His blue eyes bore into yours, unflinching, stripped of deception. Deep within your fëa, something told you this was no trick. He was genuine.

Sauron was sorry.

Utterly speechless, you stared at him, unable to form a response. His lips curved into a faint, playful smile, as though he could sense the storm his confession had stirred within you.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he said softly. “Just knowing you’ve heard me brings me comfort.” He stepped back, releasing you. As he turned to leave, his footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into the shadows.

“You’d better not be lying, Annatar,” you called after him, your voice sharp with suspicion. Turning to face him, your gaze burned with renewed resolve. “If this is a scheme to draw me into your plans, you’ll never have my forgiveness.”

He inclined his head, his expression solemn but unshaken. “It is no scheme. My words are pure and sincere, my love. I only wish to have you once more—and never part again.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, doubt lingered. Sauron was a master of deception, and yet… a part of you, your deepest, truest self, wanted to believe him.

Days had passed since the kiss and the encounter in the corridor. It haunted you, lingering in every quiet moment, consuming your thoughts. It sickened you—how easily you were slipping back into old habits, falling into the familiar pull he had always held over you. Your mind betrayed you, wandering unbidden to memories of years long past. You saw yourself sitting beneath the trees at the edge of the winding River Sirion, the gentle trickle of water harmonizing with the songs of the forest. You remembered daydreaming about what it would be like when your fëa intertwined with his, how his hands and arms would become your sanctuary, and how you would be his for eternity, knowing only the affection of the man whose song had been woven to match your own.

Eärlindë had often laughed at you, shaking her head with amusement at your youthful infatuation. She would chide you for how childishly you had confined yourself to thoughts of Mairon, your love so boundless yet so naively certain. But now, those memories felt like echoes from another life, hollow and distant. Knowing who he had become, who he truly was, left an ache in your chest that refused to be soothed.

Had he been truthful when he said he never wanted to hurt you? You wanted to believe it, yet the weight of everything he had done, the destruction he had wrought, made it feel impossible.

Because hurt was all he had ever brought you.

He had torn down every piece of Mairon—the man who had built a life with you, the man you had trusted with the deepest parts of your soul—and in his place, he had built something dark and cold. Then he expected you to welcome him back with open arms, to let his silken words wash away the centuries of pain and betrayal. It infuriated you. How could he believe that would ever be enough? How could he not see the scars he had left behind?

You tilted your head back, gazing up at the leaves above you. They swayed gently in the breeze, their soft rustling the only sound in the stillness around you. Tears slipped down your cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. You tried to blink them away, but the weight of your emotions bore down too heavily.

The truth clawed its way to the surface, undeniable and unrelenting.

You had forgiven him.

The realization hit you like a blow. You had forgiven him the moment he arrived, riding into Eregion on that horse, broken and injured, seeking aid. You had forgiven him as he lay vulnerable on that bed, his walls down for the first time in what felt like an age. The love you had thought buried had surfaced then, unbidden but undeniable. But he didn’t know. He didn’t need to know. You had told yourself that forgiveness didn’t mean absolution. It didn’t mean you would welcome him back into your heart.

And yet, when Nenya came to you, when the ring hummed softly against your skin and the weight of your duty pressed upon you, you had forgiven him once more. You had sought to pull him back, to guide him to your side in the hopes that he could find the light again. It had been foolish, perhaps. Naïve. But you had tried. Because somewhere deep inside, no matter how many walls you built, no matter how much you loathed what he had become, you still saw him as he had been.

You still loved him.

Your tears fell faster now, and you pressed a trembling hand to your mouth, willing yourself to stop. But the grief, the longing, the anger—they all swirled together, overwhelming you. You had forgiven him over and over again, and yet he kept breaking you. How could he not see that his redemption had always been within reach, if only he would choose it? If only he would let go of the shadows he clung to so tightly?

The breeze brushed against your skin, cool and soothing, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to imagine the glades of old. To imagine him as he had been, the two of you walking hand in hand, your songs harmonizing in perfect rhythm once more.

But reality always returned, harsher than before. You wiped your tears away, steeling yourself against the ache in your chest. You had forgiven him, yes. But forgiveness didn’t mean you would fall into his arms again, not without him proving he could be the man you once knew.

Not without him choosing the light.

“My lady?” a soft voice called from behind you. Quickly, you wiped your tears from your cheeks and turned to see the gentle blue eyes and golden hair of Erynwen. She stood hesitantly a few paces away, her small hands clasped in front of her. She had come earlier than you’d expected for her stories—the tales you so loved to share with her.

“Erynwen, my love, come,” you said, your voice warm despite the lingering ache in your chest.

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting to the faint tear trails on your face. But after a moment’s pause, she moved to sit beside you on the stone bench. Her presence was like a balm, her youthful curiosity and innocence a reminder of simpler times. Your fingers gripped the edges of your ancient book tightly as she settled next to you, her wary gaze still lingering on you.

“Why are you sad, my lady?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious.

You glanced down at her, your lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile. “I miss someone,” you admitted softly, your voice almost carried away by the breeze.

“Master Morion?” she asked immediately, tilting her head as she studied your face.

The perceptiveness of the little elf made you smile despite the heaviness in your heart. “Yes,” you said, nodding. “I miss him very much.”

Erynwen furrowed her brow, her youthful features clouded with the beginnings of understanding. “Will he come back?” she asked innocently, her voice filled with the kind of hope only a child could carry.

You sighed, your gaze drifting back to the swaying leaves above. “I don’t know,” you said honestly. “But one day, Erynwen, you’ll understand things like this—loving another, missing someone, even when they’ve hurt you.”

She watched you intently, her small hand resting lightly on your arm, as though offering you comfort in the only way she could. After a moment, you forced a brighter smile, closing the book in your lap and straightening.

“Now,” you said, your tone gentler, “where were we?”

Her face brightened at the shift, her golden hair catching the dappled sunlight as she tilted her head thoughtfully. “I believe we were at Lord Beren and Lady Lúthien,” she said, settling herself against you.

You chuckled softly, opening the book to the marked page. “Ah, yes. A tale of love and bravery,” you said warmly. “One of my favorites.”

As you began to read, Erynwen leaned her head against your shoulder, her small body relaxing as she listened intently. The weight of her trust and presence steadied you, pulling you back from the spiraling thoughts that had consumed you earlier. The familiar cadence of the story rolled off your tongue, each word carrying the echoes of an age-old tale, filling the space between you with warmth and light.

For a time, as you read of Beren and Lúthien’s unwavering love, the ache in your heart softened. You allowed yourself to lose yourself in the story, in Erynwen’s wonder, and in the fleeting comfort of the moment.

Soft, melodic laughter drifted through the air, reaching his ears and tugging at his shadowed heart as he stepped out of the forge alongside Celebrimbor. His gaze instinctively traveled to the small courtyard nearby, where a tall golden tree stood, its shimmering leaves casting dappled light over the stone bench beneath it. There, you sat, your form illuminated by the soft glow of the afternoon light. Beside you, a smaller figure leaned against your side, rapt with attention, their youthful eyes wide as they listened to the story you were weaving.

His heart—a heart he often told himself no longer existed—warmed at the sight. You were exactly as he remembered, an image burned into his memory from another life. Always beneath the trees, always surrounded by your “ducklings,” as he had once teasingly called them. Children of all kinds, elves or otherwise, drawn to your gentle presence, their faces alight with wonder and excitement as they soaked in the tales you told.

He slowed his steps, ignoring the curious glance Celebrimbor cast his way, as though afraid to shatter the moment. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself the indulgence of watching you, letting the sight pull him back to a time when such moments were his to share with you. When he had been the one to lay his head in your lap, listening to your stories, watching your face glow with passion as you wove tales of light, love, and bravery.

It struck him then, more acutely than it had in centuries, how much he had lost. How much he had destroyed.

But the warmth of the moment—of your voice carrying softly across the courtyard, the laughter of the child beside you—was enough to keep the darkness in his chest at bay, if only for a moment.

“Is something the matter, my friend?” Celebrimbor’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he turned his head sharply, schooling his expression into one of neutral calm.

“No,” Annatar replied smoothly, his tone steady, though his gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer before he forced himself to look away. “Nothing at all.”

He continued walking alongside Celebrimbor, but the image of you beneath the tree, surrounded by life and light, lingered in his mind, etched into the shadows of his heart.

“She often does that with Erynwen,” Celebrimbor remarked, his voice light but thoughtful, clearly aware of exactly what had drawn Annatar’s gaze. “Erynwen lost her mother when she was very young. Her father could no longer care for her, so he brought her here to live with family, to give her a better life, as it were.” He glanced at Annatar as they continued walking. “Thilwen took her under her wing and has become something of a mother to her. She has a natural way of filling that role, doesn’t she? And Erynwen adores her for it. She loves reading Thilwen’s books, always eager for the next story.”

Annatar’s lips curved into a faint, fleeting smile, but his gaze once again drifted back toward the courtyard where you sat beneath the golden tree. Even at this distance, the sound of your voice seemed to carry, weaving a thread that pulled him closer in thought, if not in presence.

In your loneliness, in the wake of your broken heart and the yearning he had inflicted upon you, you had found healing—healing in the form of that little elf, whose laughter now mingled with your voice like a song. Erynwen was not of your flesh and blood, yet you regarded her as though she were your own. The tender, maternal way you spoke to her, the soft smile on your face as you shared your stories, sent a pang of jealousy twisting through Annatar’s heart.

It was a new ache, one he hadn’t expected. Over these long centuries, you had thrived—without his hand, without his touch, without the shadow of his presence. The Valar, in their infinite wisdom, had graced you with a gift as radiant and precious as the stars above. You had found a purpose, a light, a new source of joy, even after all he had done to extinguish the brightness within you.

It angered him, in a way—that he was not the source of your healing, that someone else, something else, had filled the void he had left behind. Yet, even in his anger, he could not deny the faint comfort it brought him. You were happy. You were full of light still, as radiant and captivating as you had been in the days of old. He had never wished to diminish that in you, not truly, even when his selfishness had pulled you into his darkness.

Perhaps it was selfishness even now, this flicker of longing in his heart. To see you so alive, so vibrant, filled him with both pride and pain. He wanted to be the one who brought you joy, the one who healed your heart. But he had cast himself into the shadows long ago, and in doing so, he had lost that right.

“Thilwen has always been a beacon of hope, hasn’t she?” Celebrimbor said, his voice warm with admiration. Annatar glanced at him, his smile tightening slightly, though he offered no reply. Words felt too small, too inadequate for the storm of emotions swirling within him.

Instead, as they walked on, Annatar allowed himself one last glance toward the courtyard. You sat there, a vision of grace and light, with Erynwen nestled close by your side. For a moment, the ache in his heart softened, replaced by something quieter, something almost peaceful.

And yet, the shadow in him whispered still. You had thrived without him—but you were meant to thrive with him. One day, he vowed silently, he would find a way to step back into your light. Whether you would welcome him when that day came, however, remained a question he feared to ask.

When he returned to the courtyard without Celebrimbor in tow, he found you still sitting beneath the golden tree. This time, however, you were not reading, nor was Erynwen by your side. You were staring up at the swaying golden leaves, a soft smile playing on your lips as you lost yourself in thought. He could see it in your eyes—you were reminiscing, letting memories from long ago carry you away. For a moment, he hesitated. He didn’t wish to disturb your peace.

But your light called to him. As it always did.

Annatar stepped toward you, his movements soft and deliberate, his presence carrying no malice. He only wanted to bask in your radiance, to let it temper his shadow, even if only for a fleeting moment. “Are there any requests?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You startled slightly, turning to face him. Shock flickered across your face, but it softened when you saw the warmth in his expression, the lack of threat in his posture. “Not at the moment,” you replied, your tone guarded but curious, “but what does his lordship have in mind?”

A chuckle escaped Annatar’s lips, low and rich, at the almost perfect rendition of his words on the day he had placed that band on your finger, binding your fëar together for all eternity. That memory flickered through him like a flame, warming and painful all at once.

“I have a suggestion,” he said, stepping closer. “How about Thingol and Melian?”

Your eyes widened, a blush rising to your cheeks at the mention of the story. The heat of it spread as your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by his familiarity with your favorite tale. “Is that not still your favorite?” he asked, his voice gentle, his lips curving into a soft smile. His heart quickened at the way the dappled sunlight seemed to encase you in a golden glow, amplifying your beauty.

“It is,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. He moved closer and lowered himself onto the bench beside you, keeping a respectful distance, though every fiber of his being yearned to close the gap. You opened the book in your lap, the very same one he had teasingly held away from you on the day you first met. A fond smile touched both your faces as the memory surfaced, unspoken but deeply felt.

Though he ached to reach for you, to let his fingers graze your skin, he refrained. He sat quietly as you flipped through the pages, watching you with a mixture of reverence and longing. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head in your lap, to feel your hands threading through his hair in lazy trails as you read the story aloud, just as you had done in Laureandor’s courtyards so long ago. Back then, there had been no shadow, no sorrow—only the warmth of your shared light, the harmony of your fëar intertwined.

He knew that this story likely brought you comfort now, a glimmer of hope that even with roles reversed, with grief and darkness weighing on your hearts, you both might find happiness again. Yet he couldn’t ignore the bitter truth—just as Thingol and Melian’s tale had ended in tragedy, so too had your own. Mairon had “died,” consumed by the shadow he had become, and you had walked the shores of this world burdened by the grief of his loss, aching for the fëa that had once sung in perfect harmony with yours.

“Well then,” Annatar said, his voice soft as a breeze, “I wish to hear it once more. Leave no stone unturned. Tell me every part. It has been so long.”

You hesitated, your cheeks warming under his gaze once more. But then you nodded, and your lips curved into a shy smile as you began to read.

The words flowed from your lips with the same magic they always had, each one wrapping around him and pulling him deeper into the story. Annatar found himself lost in your voice, in the way your mouth shaped the words so delicately, in the subtle glances you gave him as you read. His heart thundered in his chest as he debated his next move, knowing it would take more courage than he had mustered in an age.

Then, almost without realizing it, he leaned closer, and before he could stop himself, his lips captured yours.

It was gentle at first—a fleeting brush of shadow against light, a kiss meant to remind you of what you had once shared. You froze in surprise, hesitant, but when the book slipped from your grasp and his hand cupped your chin, the kiss deepened. It became a rhythm, passionate and familiar, one that mirrored the harmony your fëar had always known. A tremor ran through him as his lips moved against yours, and for the first time in centuries, tears threatened to fall.

Sauron had longed to feel you in his arms again. But Mairon, the part of him that he had buried so deeply, had yearned to give you the love you deserved, to take away the pain he had caused.

Your fingers gripped the gray fabric of his robes as his tongue brushed past your lips, drawing you even closer. You clung to one another as though anchoring yourselves, holding tightly so you wouldn’t drift away. When Annatar finally broke the kiss, he lingered, resting his forehead against yours. Both of you were breathless, hearts pounding in unison.

“Mori,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.”

Your hand brushed his cheek, and he felt the warmth of your tears mingling with his fingers. “I forgive you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “My sweet Mairon.”

At the mention of his name—the name he had fallen from, the name he had once believed he no longer deserved—his lips met yours again, this time with a desperation born of centuries of longing. Under the dappled sunlight filtering through the golden leaves above you, he allowed himself to be Mairon once more.

For the first time in his eternal existence, he felt a flicker of peace. The shadow within him receded, if only a little, and he knew that the longer he sat in your light, the more it would fade.

And for once, in all of Arda, that was the only thing he wanted.

[itacats]

Rain of Shadows

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: Graphic depictions of torture and psychological trauma, References to past abuse and emotional manipulation, Themes of recovery and the struggle for hope, code name used for reader, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: We're diving deep into the aftermath of Rain’s torture and their fragile journey toward healing. As Rain battles within their fractured mind, reliving painful memories that blur the line between trauma and survival, TF141 executes a daring rescue mission. Simon becomes the anchor in Rain’s tumultuous world, offering not just physical rescue, but emotional solace.

A/N: This part was incredibly emotional to write, capturing the raw, disorienting experience of trauma and the slow, tentative process of rebuilding trust. Simon’s role as a quiet protector was especially significant—his actions were not just about saving a comrade, but offering the possibility of something more: connection. The transition from isolation to a fragile bond felt poignant and necessary for Rain's journey. 🌙❤️

Rain of Shadows Masterlist

Part 8 - The Fractured Mind

Weeks passed in a haze of torment, each day eroding more of who you were. Bound to a cold metal table beneath glaring fluorescent lights, you existed in a realm where pain blurred the lines of reality. The electric shocks weren’t just a weapon—they were a scalpel, carving into your memories, leaving jagged edges where certainty once lived.

Your mind had become a battlefield of clashing worlds. One moment, you felt the warmth of your father’s embrace, his voice whispering, “I love you.” But in the next breath, that warmth twisted into the grating bark of an unnamed authority figure: “You will take orders!” The slap of a hand echoed in your mind, unbidden, and you remembered a glass of water spilling to the floor. The lesson had been clear: obedience above all, even when it left you broken.

The electric surges wove agony into every memory, unraveling the few threads of solace you had clung to. A mother’s gentle kiss dissolved into the barked commands of a drill sergeant, urging you to run until your legs collapsed. You were a marionette, and the hands pulling the strings were as faceless as they were relentless.

In that prison of pain, the person you had once been disappeared. What remained was a hollow shell, splintered and unrecognizable, trapped in a void where even survival felt like surrender.

Beyond the walls of your captivity, Task Force 141 moved heaven and earth to find you. Price, Soap, Gaz, and Simon carried the weight of your absence like a second skin, each of them unwilling to let you fade into the shadows of war.

“We’ll get them back,” Soap swore, his voice laced with unwavering conviction. “No one gets left behind.”

Simon Riley’s silence was louder than any words. He carried his own scars, a past that mirrored the fractured pieces of your life. He saw himself in you—the broken child forced to grow into a soldier, the one who had never known peace. For Simon, this mission wasn’t just about rescue; it was about redemption.

The day they found you, the air was thick with dread. The stronghold was a labyrinth of despair, each step carrying them closer to the unknown. When they breached the final door, they were met with darkness—a reflection of the chaos within your mind.

You lay strapped to the table, trembling as the aftershocks of torture rippled through your body. Electrodes clung to your temples, their wires snaking across the floor like vines choking the life from a tree. Dirt streaked your face, and your eyes, half-lidded, gazed into nothingness.

Simon was the first to reach you. His voice, steady and firm, broke through the haze: “I’ve got you now.”

Carefully, he removed the nodes from your head, his hands gentle despite the urgency of the moment. Lifting you into his arms, he cradled you as if you were made of glass. The warmth of his embrace was startling, an anchor in the tempest of your fractured mind.

The helicopter blades roared as they carried you away from the nightmare. Simon’s arms remained around you, his presence a shield against the world that had tried to break you. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, a rhythm that spoke of survival, of hope.

“We’ve got you,” Price said, his voice carrying over the din. “You’re safe now.”

Soap and Gaz flanked Simon, their faces etched with concern. They weren’t just protecting you from the enemies that lingered outside—they were guarding you against the ghosts that would surely follow.

In Simon’s embrace, the numbness began to thaw. You clung to him, not out of fear, but because his warmth was a light in the endless dark. His touch didn’t just hold you—it tethered you to the present, pulling you from the abyss you had been drowning in for weeks.

As the helicopter rose into the sky, your mind drifted between memories—some real, others fabricated by the agony of your captivity. You saw glimpses of a childhood free of pain, a life untainted by war. They felt distant, like dreams slipping through your fingers, but they were enough to remind you of what could be.

Simon’s arms tightened around you, his voice a quiet promise: “You’re not alone anymore.”

For the first time in years, you believed it. In the chaos of your rescue, a fragile bond had taken root, one forged not in blood but in trust. You had been stripped of everything, but they had given you something you had never thought possible—connection.

As you leaned into Simon’s embrace, you felt the steady pulse of his heartbeat against your own. It wasn’t just the rhythm of life—it was a promise of something more. A future not defined by pain, but by the bonds you had begun to forge.

The world outside the helicopter was still broken, its shadows waiting to swallow you whole. But in that moment, you found strength in the arms of someone who understood your darkness.

And as the first rays of dawn pierced the horizon, you dared to hope. Not for the life you had lost, but for the one you might yet build—a life where scars didn’t define you, but shaped the person you were becoming.

Taglist:

If you would like to be tagged in this story, let me know!

@jessicab1991

@burningarcadething

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[kaviary-blog]

WIP Tag Game

I got tagged by the talented @writing-intheundercroft

I have a lot of WIPs but most of them are one or two paragraphs. So here’s the longest one that may or may not ever get finished

Sad Ominis snippet, that’s a part two of the Nameless MC fic, under the cut :)

Ominis Gaunt knew many things about many of his classmates. Being blind came with its benefits, one of them being people tended to think him deaf as well; though he was quite the opposite.

His silence allowed for the noises and gossip of others to be heard and made memorable.

However, there was one student in particular that stood apart from the crowd. Outside the gathering of the masses and the events of life. Fluent in being unwanted and forgotten.

The only thing Ominis knew about her was the sound of her voice and the feel of her name as it took shape in his mouth and slipped off his tongue.

Sometimes it seemed as if he was the only one who knew what it felt like to shape her name the way it sounds. Well, sounded.

Never the feel of her skin or the texture of her hair. The occasional whiff of her scent would pass him by, though never lingering long enough to commit to memory. And the pattern of her footsteps was easily drowned out by their much heavier footed peers.

She stood outside the room that life took place in, even more so now that she had passed from the mortal world that had never acknowledged her.

Only in death had they known of her, and they knew only what she had done for them but never who she was. They knew her sacrifice but not her life.

Wilted flowers adorned the pedestal on which they placed her. A plaque reading an empty title, another excuse not to dig around searching for the name that died with her.

It didn’t take long after the start of their sixth year for people to slowly forget about the statue and the girl behind it. Allowing it to blend into the background and become a closer mirror of its personification.

She stood gallantly, protecting the school and the world that hadn’t ever welcomed her, her fate permanently set into eroding stone.

Her wand had been broken out of her hand, underclassmen thinking themselves impressive to have a replica of the Wand that Saved Hogwarts.

The only person who ever visited the statue anymore was a young man, though his face never turned up to hers. He would sit in silence at her feet, as they so often did before her demise.

Ominis Gaunt, the only person who remembered her. The only one who knew her name.

They used to sit silently and work on assignments together, never speaking much but understanding each other without the use of words.

The blond boy continued this tradition, sitting quietly at the foot of her statue and working silently in her protective atmosphere.

There had been times in the beginning where the temperature would drop and the air would grow still, times when the world seemed to remember what it had lost and was grieving with him. Times when the earth itself wept for her.

Time continued to pass, leaving her further and further behind. The further it went without her the more foreign her name felt in his mouth or in his thoughts; to the point he wasn’t sure if it was the correct shape anymore.

No pressure tags!!

@applinsandoranges @choccy-milky @marketfreshfics and any other who wants to participate!!

[peoniesandcoffee777]

ghostin

grief is funny. it’s 1948 and you’re mourning the loss of your lover, yet you get into bed every night with your partner.

A.N.: this is inspired by miss arianka’s song obvi. this song is so heartbreaking so i tried to emulate that into this. it’s set after bucky’s “death” in the first captain america movie. rip 🙏🗣️

warnings/disclaimers: …death?? process of grieving

i hope u enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You laid in bed, unmoving; except for the increasing speed of your blinks as you attempted to build a strong barrier against the waterworks threatening to spill out of your eyes. It proved no use as a tear trickled down your cheek, making you realize this has become routine for you: every night the incredibly heavy weight settles deep into your chest, contradicting the hollowness that fills it during the day.

Charles shifts in his sleep, and unbeknownst to him, you know he’s heard your uneven breaths and sniffles as he has been the past couple months. But every morning, he greets you with a smile accompanied by eyes that tell you otherwise; that he’s slept peacefully and undisturbed from your grief. That he’s focusing on life's greatest gift for the both of you: the present.

The thought of the present instills a sharper pain right through the entirety of your torso, as if the impending weight burdening you wasn’t enough. The guilt doesn’t do much to relieve any part of the pain you feel every night either; you have such a loving partner right beside you, so within your grasp. You know you need to focus on the now, on him, but every fiber of your being screams at you otherwise. Every neuron in your brain is working overdrive and flooding your every thought to be recollections of the past. The memories.

You can’t stop the hot tears that feel like they’re eroding your skin— the pain is chipping away at your exterior now that your interior is bare: nothing for grief to gnaw on. You’re now hyper aware of the fact that your boyfriend is pretending to still be sound asleep, but his careful breathing and uncanny stillness gives him away. You can’t find it in yourself to stop though, as memories of Bucky flash at you behind your eyelids like a film.

Saying you miss him is an understatement. The insufferable agony you feel not just every night, but at every second of Earth’s continuous existence can’t be put into words—it’s almost insulting to do so. You crave him. So, so, so much. His touch— his hands caressing your face as if you were his canvas. His kisses that made you high off of dopamine, his scent, his hands running through your hair in an effort to loosely brush them before braiding it the way you liked, the way he would leave a heap of clothes on the bedroom floor despite it annoying you. The way he held your hands to stop them from picking at each other’s skin. A horrible habit of yours, you realize when you look down at your hands— raw near your nails, once faded scars now red and reopened. You didn’t miss him— you ached for him back painfully.

You have so much love to give yet you know it won’t go anywhere. Can’t go anywhere. Charles, wide awake next to you, knows this and despite it all, he continues getting into bed with you every night. It’s heartbreaking really; continuing to love someone who wakes up grieving the dream they had about their late lover. Someone who can’t give the love their heart clutches onto so desperately, preserving it for someone who they know is dead.

You know that two hearts break every night as you two get into bed, an unspoken agreement hanging in the air. As you reunite with your lover in your dreams again, Charles will lay grounded in reality beside you, waiting. And in the morning, you’ll both pretend that you’re completely healed, you’re okay, and that you’ve slept well.

You know it’ll take a long time to lessen the irreversible damage your heart continues to endure. After all, it’s been 3 years and 178 days since Steve told you of Bucky’s passing and you still find yourself clutching Bucky’s old button ups to your chest, breathing in his faint cologne when Charles is away at work, terrified that you’ll forget the smell that used to comfort you everyday.

Maybe the pain will never truly dissipate— but rather subside temporarily and surprise you in the middle of the afternoon after hearing his favorite song on the radio. Or buying his chocolate peanut butter bars like you used to, then remembering Charles’ peanut allergy when he sees them in the grocery bag. Grieving is to just come to terms with the old and the new eventually, you suppose.

But for now, running to Bucky’s arms and holding his face in your hands when you see him after you’ve fallen asleep is enough.

[dailycharacteroption]

Planar Tour Guide: Negative Energy Plane part 2

(art by SapphireHollow on DeviantArt)

Geography

As we said yesterday, the negative energy plane is mostly a empty black expanse, a void that can never truly be filled. This embodied entropic hunger, which we know as “negative energy” or perhaps “void” energy, sucks at both vitality and matter itself. For unprotected mortals, it is death, one that devours their very soul and their body soon afterwards, and even the undead are not truly safe, with some losing their bodies after millenia of erosion until their souls too are devoured, leaving behind a negative impression that in time too will fade. However, there is still terrain and features if you know where to look.

Perhaps the most “common” area of permanent matter are the metaphorical “edges” where the plane brushes up upon others. These vast reaches of barren rock are pitted, cracked, and corroded, and are a metaphorical and metaphysical representation of how The Nothing erodes at every part of the cosmos it can reach, with pieces breaking off constantly to drift away until consumed entirely by the void.

While some of these pieces break down entirely, some become islands of refuge, particularly for those that wield magic powerful enough to hold the consuming effects of the plane at bay. Mortals trapped on islands of matter pulled from the material plane, huddling around a magic artifact to survive, as well as the private domains of particularly morbid mages and liches fall under this category.

There are, however, some well-known locations, such as the planet-sized crystalline sphere known as Eternity’s Doorstep. Despite being named by the sceanduinar, they know not it’s origin or purpose, but it’s effects are well-known. Undead that get too close are drawn to it by an insidious siren’s call, until they are pulled in, their souls ripped from any body they have left and pulled into the sphere, pulled deeper by shadows inside the sphere. The cryptic messages carved into the sphere’s surface, as well as the fact that it seems to be a congregating point for devourers, the one type of undead that seem immune to the call, suggests that this edifice may originate outside the Great Beyond, a creation of the same force that turns evil souls that venture beyond the cosmos into devourers as well.

Another massive edifice is Fallen Duromak, one of two planets drawn directly from the material plane. Evidence of a great war between daemon and devil-kind mar the surface, with only a cryptic message in a former temple of Pharasma hinting at what might have happened. Either way, it represents a treasure hunter’s dream. A world of relics, but one guarded by a population of undead, including nightshades aplenty made from the fiends pulled into the Void along with the planet.

On a smaller scale is the settlement of Malikar’s Keep. This castle and surrounding hunk of earth would be little different than any other sinister extraplanar lich’s lair if not for the fact that Malikar also maintains a population of living humans within the protection of his magic. Despite being stuck in one of the worst places in the cosmos to be, Malikar treats the mortals under his care relatively well for a despot, expecting them to serve him as needed as he keeps them alive.

And then there are sceanduinar cities like Xul Karanith, formed of twisting and spiraling masses of crystallized entropy. Where the bat-like crystalline creatures cultivate the crystals that give rise to their own kind as well as variants, not to mention where spheres of annihilation grow like fruit from such masses.

With examples like these, there is a lot to be said about the dangers and horrors of the Void. The very properties of the plane sap life from mortals, with only a rare few places being of a minor negative trait. Naturally, these properties inhibit healing magic while strengthening hostile necromancy. However, the gravity of the plane is subjective, making those able to protect themselves able to move about fairly easily.

That, of course, assumes that the traveler doesn’t run afoul the undead or anti-alive entities in Entropy’s Heart, but we’ll be covering those horrors in the next entry. Look forward to it tomorrow!

[sugar-phoenix]

Helloooo, sugar or phoenix! Everyone loves tropes, but I bet as a romantasy writer, you have some particular tropes that you really love.

What are some of your favourite tropes, whether to read or to write, that always just get your brain whirring?

Hello, thanks for asking! <3

I think, for writing, my favorite tropes would be:

Yin/Yang // opposite types -- I'm not sure if there's another name but it's like where the love interests are on two opposite sides of a spectrum, usually I like writing opposing magic systems and placing the two love interests at either ends of that.

Forced proximity/arranged marriage -- I like writing/reading this trope especially when the two characters don't exactly like each other or don't trust each other (but are forced to due to the circumstances).

Revenge? Vengeance? I love writing that kind of angsty stuff. Main character taking revenge for a loved one, main character being betrayed and taking revenge against the person who betrayed them, etc. etc. Bitter emotions that turn into passionate acts always get me.

As for reading... there are tropes that really get me going that aren't actually in the realm of romantasy!

Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, only one bed -- these are all the classic romantasy stuff that I will absolutely eat up.

Heist trope -- I LOVE heists. I love stuff like Six of Crows and Ocean's 11 -- the orchestrated plan and execution seriously make me sit up and want to write something related.

Doomed by the plot/doomed by fate -- I really like stuff like when a character tries to work against fate and they just don't succeed in getting their goal, but they also don't fail either -- but a different Third™️ option where they finally understand that they cannot get to that goal because their character has developed tenfold and they finally accept it (bonus points for angst if they sacrifice themselves).

In the same vein, I love self-fulfilling prophecies. Like, maybe it was a prophecy and everyone's fighting against it yet everything they're doing only moves the prophecy along -- OR maybe it was never a prophecy! Maybe it was just a rumor of a prophecy, or a prophecy that was made up, but because so many people believe in it, it fulfilled itself. That stuff really gets me, I eat it up.

Here are some other stuff that I love reading/writing:

Animal tropes. I'm not sure if this counts as a trope, but if a character is part animal, or an animal shifter, or has powers related to communication with animals, any of that -- love. Love reading it, love consuming media with those kinds of stuff in it, love writing it. I've always loved animals and drawing metaphors from people to animals and just -- anything like that.

Dark Academia.

Dark fantasy -- I love the angst factor in these, and I enjoy both reading and writing them.

Natural magic powers i.e. drawing powers from objects in the natural world, like gems, or moonlight/starlight, or plants, or blood/bones, etc. etc. These have so much potential for metaphors as well, like linking the idea of blood being a natural life force and making a character who has blood magic someone who really enjoys life and all it has to offer and maybe they don't like giving up on their pleasures in order to fight for a better cause (but they will have to anyway, cause you gotta fight your character flaw in order to grow).

Did I mention metaphors. I love metaphors and drawing real life functions to personalities and character flaws and that sort of stuff. Like making a "fox" character tricky, or making a tiger character someone who loves water and maybe wants to become a pirate (!! upcoming fiction?) -- anything like that. I especially like metaphors that aren't your standard cliche ones. For example, maybe you make a character with water powers one who is highly manipulative and finds themselves in everyone's weak crack, driving everyone to pieces -- because although we associate water with life and healing, water also erodes mountains and earth and rock. Things like that -- I love finding new ways to interpret things.

There's probably a lot more that I haven't mentioned but I think these are the things that I really, really love. Thanks so much for asking again! <3

[tabswrites]

The Birth of Eternity

Magic System Notes: Part 1

A/N: These posts are largely going to be used as a reference for those who ask about the magic system in Guardians of Eternity/Tomb of Light. I am deliberately keeping this as vague as possible to avoid spoilers, and some of the finer details might change!

ToL tag list: @writernopal @outpost51 (please ask to be +/-)

Also tagging @writingmaidenwarrior, this is Part 1 of my answer to your question! Do not feel like you have to read all of this, I can give you a summary :)

In order for me to explain the magic system in ToL, you need to know where magic came from. It started with a flash of light…

There once was a falling star that collided with Earth. This was the time before man, when the only living beings still lived in the sea. Upon impact, the meteor transformed the world around it, bringing to life strange plants and creatures familiar to the meteor, but foreign to its new world. The meteor’s physical form slowly eroded and crumbled, becoming one with the rocks and sediment, but below that grew a mass of pure, self-sustaining light. It could feel the ways that nature communicated–the roots of the trees, the intangible chemical signals passed back and forth. It learned to speak the language of the earth, and after thousands of years absorbing its knowledge, grew strong. Then, the first humans arrived.  

The Light observed man, determined to uncover the secrets of the strange life forms that had evolved free of its influence. For hundreds of thousands of years, they were simple, singularly focused beings not worth its time–until civilizations began to form. Watching the humans struggle amongst themselves to create order and structure, the Light drew two conclusions.

Man was unpredictable and dangerous.

Man could always be swayed with the promise of something new.

As the world continued to evolve, the Light feared for its future. Man’s curious nature left it in a constant state of panic, as it was unsure how man would react were they to discover its power. They tore apart nature as they saw fit and the Light was unsure it would be spared from man’s wrath. It chose to reach out to them, learning to speak to them through sounds and images rather than chemical signals. It discovered that man, always reaching towards something new, was incomplete, sad and hollow–so it chose to make them whole by giving them their own light called an Aura. The Light transformed man into formidable beings with great power, allowing them to shape the world any way they wished. As more years passed, they realized the magic was there to stay, along with its source, and man chose to give it a name: Eternity.

Eternity had intended to share its Light as a peace offering, to begin a symbiotic relationship where the humans would protect it in exchange for power. It thought that by making them whole, they would no longer need to search so desperately for the next best thing. Unfortunately, during all that time spent observing mankind, Eternity was oblivious to man’s innate darkness and was blind to their greed. It chose to be more selective in choosing the recipients of its Light, forcing humans to face their darkness. If they remained pure and good in the presence of their worst memories and fears, they were deemed worthy and became Auras. Those whose souls were tainted and irredeemable were turned away.

With the human population rapidly growing, Eternity once more feared for its future. It sent its strongest creatures, the Ursus Ornata, to guide the worthy to the Light. Those who proved to have the strongest hearts were chosen to be its Sentinels, shielding it from man’s greed and helping it grow with the rest of the world. Eternity still feared the Auras would fall victim to the corruption around them and made a decision to create the Shadows–granting power to humans who walked between the light and the dark and remained incorruptible. The Sentinels would watch over Eternity, Eternity would watch over the Auras, and the Shadows watched both.

This was the natural order of things on earth, until a Rameau betrayed a Rothe and changed the world forever. 

[baddiecarl]

Carl Grimes x Dhampir! reader

Part 1 - Batgirl

Hi guys!  So this is an idea I had bc I was allowed to watch BloodRayne way too young and it became one of the pieces of media I now daydream about.  Also I am fully admitting to lightly tampering with dhampir lore to fit the narrative I’m going for! Don’t take it too seriously, this is just for fun :) 

  Dhampir. A creature who is the result of a “union” between a human and a vampire, often female and male respectively.  As a consequence of this, a dominating amount of dhampirs go on to become vampire hunters.  Well equipped for the job with the ability to see vampires' true faces, heightened senses, strength, regeneration, and no vulnerability to crucifixes, holy water, or sunlight.  Blending in with humans almost entirely, even being able to digest and gain sustenance from human food, the only catch is that they still need blood.  Most choose to get it from vampires on their hunting kills, seeing it as something like an act of vengeance if not anything more than ridding the world of one more vampire. 

  Walking down an eroded street littered with soggy orange, yellow, and brown leaves shed from the trees above, you occasionally look up to see the sun shining through the branches.  Still, too far from Earth to feel much warmth, something you preferred compared to the blistering heat. 

“Just about afternoon”, you noted under your breath.  Now turning your full attention back to the street, following rusted and decaying street signs to an old shopping center and god willing finding something of use to you.  You could do with a new change of clothes considering how rainy it’s been, your light summer clothes were definitely not going to cut it once it starts getting colder.  Continuing to make a mental list of things to keep your eye out for, you round the corner of the street and lay eyes on the strip mall.  You pause for a moment to listen and watch for movement, any sign that you might not be alone, dead or alive.  

  After you surveyed your surroundings and made your way toward the building, you pulled one of your twin arm blades from your scabbard.  You knocked on the window of the old department store, once again listening and watching for anything that might be in there. Seeing no reason not to, you open the door and walk into the store.  You were pleasantly surprised by the fact that this place didn’t look like it had been picked through a ton so maybe you’d be able to find something to wear!  Staying alert, you look through the store with cautious steps while you glance over the racks.  Finally landing on a comfortable and practical pair of pants, you grab them and stuff them into your bag.  Feeling pretty good about the odds of you finding what you need, you go on to keep looking for a shirt and hopefully a good jacket.  Padding over to where all the shirts seem to be gathered you make your selection before searching for a jacket, turning around but almost immediately halted by a clattering coming from the back of the store.  

  “Fuck that,”  you muttered to yourself as you slinked out of the store, grabbing the first jacket you saw on your way out.  Unwilling to exert any unnecessary effort during a simple supply re-up before you had even started, you slipped through the door and shut it quietly behind you.  It was still clear outside, no cars, no walkers that had their eyes on you so you decided to just stick to being quick and fast.  Your next target was a gun shop. Even though your arm blades were extremely effective, you take your weapons very seriously and you’ve noticed that your handguns have been needing some maintenance and a few light repairs.  Knocking on the only remaining window of the old gun shop, you drew the attention of two walkers.  Arms extended, they came towards you through the broken windows, still trying to reach you as they tripped over each other.  “Like a couple of drunk toddlers,” you sighed as you singled out the one about to get up first, piercing your blade into his skull before he could fully stand.  The second walker is now up and walking toward you, in one fluid motion you remove your blade from the first walker and kick in the second one's knee, making him fall to the ground with a crack and a thud.  While he’s down you make quick work of plunging your blade into his temple.  

  Refocusing on what’s going on around you, you hear…footsteps?  Not the shuffling or dragging of walkers, but careful and deliberate steps falling on hard linoleum coming from the very back of the gun shop.  You silently walk into the store knowing you don’t really have a choice, you need to have at least one working gun.  You go to the left first, putting the most distance between you and the back room while you find a repair kit.  The quiet footsteps and faint rummaging noises continue as you pick through the shelves, not finding what you came for you end up walking through the store a little more.  Hoping to avoid whoever is back there, you take a quick walk through the aisles and resolve to leave if you don’t find a repair kit in the next three minutes.  You were just about to call it when you finally found a kit that had been sitting on the floor, swiftly picking it up and plopping it into your bag, you realized that you didn’t hear the rummaging or footsteps anymore.  Instead, you heard the sound of a latch bolt sliding against the strike plate and slightly hastened breathing.  Turning on your heel and glaring at the newly cracked open door, you take your chances and go for the door.  You can tell the person behind the door has figured this out too as you can hear their breathing pick up even more.  

  As you get up to the door you can hear a quickened heartbeat on top of the heavy breathing.  Using the suspense to your advantage, you stand to the side of the door and pull a small rock from your pocket and throw it towards the entrance of the store.  Hearing the heartbeat and breathing come even closer, you flung the door open, causing the person behind it to fall forward.  “Shit” the boy on the floor in front of you groaned as he turned over onto his back to look up at you.  “What the fuck?” he says through a wince.  “Yeah what the fuck is right, why were you watching me?” you ask, no longer feeling very threatened once you get a good look at the boy.  He looks just about your age; wavy brown hair, freckles, and the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever seen.  “How’d you know I was in here anyway?”  He deflected. “I heard footsteps, breathing, and the door opening.” You answered. “No way your ears are that good.”  

  God dude, you don’t even want to know how possible it is.  There are some upsides to your abilities but you were always left with the knowledge that you were different from everybody else.  You didn’t fit in entirely with humans and you most certainly didn’t fit in with vampires.  In fact, most vampires you came across wanted you dead anyway, they don’t take kindly to dhampirs at all; especially not the ones that become vampire hunters. 

  “Believe me or don’t, it doesn’t really matter. I just want to know why you were watching me.”  You persisted.  After a moment of silence, he stammered out a confession. “...fine, I was watching you. I saw you take out those walkers…it was impressive. I closed the door when you were done, I didn’t know whether or not I had to be threatened by you.”  He chuckled through the tail end of his sentence, clearly hoping to relieve the tension.  “I’m not a threat to you as long as you aren’t a threat to me.”  You tell him as you lean over to pick up the hat that fell off his head when he lost his balance.  You pass him his hat and offer your hand to help him up, letting your face melt into a soft smile as you watch him adjust and settle his hat back onto his head before he grips your hand and allows you to help pull him up.  

  “So what’s your name, cowboy?” you ask the boy, now fully standing in front of you.  “It’s Carl. And it’s a sheriff’s hat, not a cowboy hat,”  He replied with a hint of teasing condescension.  “What’s your name, batgirl?” he continued.  “Batgirl?” you scoffed.  “Yeah, you said your ears were so good that you heard me breathing behind this heavy ass door so… batgirl.”  “Fair enough. Well, my real name is (y/n) if you want to call me something other than batgirl.”  “Alright then (y/n). I’ve gotta ask, what’s with the giant crucifix?”  You glanced down at your necklace, realizing it had come untucked from behind your shirt when you bent down to pick up Carl’s hat.  “Oh, it’s just kind of a good luck charm I guess,” you try to give the simplest explanation possible as you put it back under your shirt.  “Oh I get it,” he said, assuming it belonged to someone you lost.  You just let him think that because it’s easier than giving him the whole truth.  

  “So what were you looking for in here? I can help if you want, I know guns pretty well.”  Why is he so eager to help?  “I’m good, I already got what I came for anyway,” you said as you stepped past him, now put off by the uncharacteristic behavior of someone living in the apocalypse.  Beginning to walk through the aisles and towards the exit, it doesn’t escape you that Carl is following behind you.  “Wait, where are you going?” he asks as you walk out the door and past the two walker corpses you took down before you came in.  You remembered Carl saying he saw you fighting them, it made you uneasy that he had been watching you for longer than you thought and you didn’t even notice.  Granted, your senses had been honed for seeking out vampires, but humans had become an equally large and present danger.  You abruptly turned around, almost making Carl fall over again from suddenly stopping in his tracks.  “Did you see me before I killed the walkers?”  You pressed. “What? No! I came in through the back and heard the walkers and I was about to come out and deal with them and then I saw you,” he defended.  “Were you making noise in the store to our right before you went to the gun shop?”  “No? Is something wrong?”  He’s clueless, but all your alarms were going off.  “Sorry I’m just a little nervous, I’m not really used to being around other people anymore,” you weren’t entirely lying, but not telling the truth either.  You could sense a vampire somewhere, you just couldn’t pinpoint exactly where.  “I can stick with you if you want some company?”  You nod and let him tag along with you into the old pharmacy, knowing the human would be safer if he was with you.

 Searching through the shelves for hygiene products, meds, and anything else you could use, Carl is doing the same.  Suddenly, you hear another clattering noise, this time it’s coming from right beneath your feet.  “Carl?”  You whisper yelled out to him. “Yeah?” “Be very still and very quiet, I just heard something coming from downstairs,” you warned as you tiptoed over to where he was, trying to locate a door that would lead to the sound. “There’s a downstairs to this place?” he commented. “There has to be,” you replied with certainty, walking to the far back of the shop, behind the counter and through the medication storage room. Sure enough, there was a door.  “Stay behind me, okay?” you asked as quietly as you could. “What? No, you should stay behind me! Why are we even going down there anyway?” he protested.  Before he could say anything else you were already opening the door and walking down the stairs, he quickly followed behind you with his gun drawn.  Now unsure what to think of this girl he just met, but still unwilling to let her be alone.  

  The basement is barely lit, with only one window covered in dust at the top of the wall in the right corner, leaving the furthest opposite corner to be cloaked in a dark shadow.  You stop halfway down and signal to Carl to wait on the stairs, he looks at you like he wants to ask something but just nods instead.  You walk down the rest of the stairs and face the shadow, you see it immediately.  The snarling face stands out against the pitch black in the corner under the steps.  “I can see you, y’know,”  you spoke to what Carl perceived as the complete darkness.  You hear an almost lion-like roar before the vampire launches itself at you.  Your reflexes in full swing, you reach for the holster under your shirt and grab your wooden stake. Before the vampire can lay hands on you, you jump to the right and roll over your shoulder, getting promptly back onto your feet.  Carl had no idea what he was seeing, he tried to get a good shot at who/whatever was attacking you, but couldn’t manage it with all the movement.  The vampire sprung forward at you again but was thwarted by your roundhouse kick.  You knocked him backward and while he was still stumbling you uppercut him, putting him flat out onto the floor. You jumped on top of him and held him down so you could drive your stake into his heart, his back arched in pain as he groaned out and finally let out his death rattle.  Now breathing heavily as you stand up and watch his body turn into a cloud of ashes that slowly sprinkled onto the dirty basement floor.  

  “What…the fuck…was that?”  Chest still heaving from the fight, you look over at Carl, who had moved slightly from his previous spot on the stairs.  “Was that what I think it was?” he asked you, absolutely dumbfounded by what he had just seen. “Depends on what you think it was,” you said, wanting him to come to his own conclusion, trying to gauge his reaction. “...I don’t want to sound crazy but I did just watch a dude turn into a pile of dust, right??” “Yes, you did, Carl.” “...seriously? You’re seriously telling me vampires are real?” He said, not wanting to believe any other monster existed.  ���Unfortunately.” You hated to burst his bubble, but it really is better that he knows now.  “Have they always been real or…?” He wondered aloud. “Yes. Pretty much since the beginning of time.”  You say as you take a couple of steps towards where he stands on the stairs. “How come I’ve never seen one before?”  “You’re lucky, do you normally stick with a big group?”  “Yeah, why?” He answered, not knowing where you were going with that question.  “They probably know it’s not worth it to fuck with you guys, you got a lot of muscle in your group?”  “Yeah, we do…” he felt both reassured and unsettled by this information, realizing several encounters with people in the night made so much more sense.  He knew about raiders obviously, but some things happened that didn’t seem consistent with the things raiders do at all.  People who held up him and his group and just asked endless questions like they were stalling for time but they were always overpowered by the people that (y/n) referred to as the muscles.  Carl was pulled from his thoughts by (y/n)’s voice. 

  “I think that was the only one down here.  He was probably the one who made the noise I heard in the other store, there’s another door here, these basements must be connected.”  You loosely pointed to the door.  “How do you know it’s the only one?”  “Well if there were more they all would’ve heard the fight and come running to help out their buddy, also they would’ve heard us talking by now and attacked us.”  You said bluntly, but Carl found it oddly comforting the way you walked into the situation with confidence.  “How long have you known?” He asked, wondering why this all seemed so normal to you. “Ever since I was old enough to understand.”  You said solemnly, slowly returning your gaze directly to his eyes. 

Hey it's me again! I hope you guys liked that, it was a lot of fun to write and I look forward to making more installments of this! Also please bear with me, I haven't written anything in years so I hope this isn't a miserable read. If you have any editorial suggestions, please let me know because I've read through this so many times that I'm probably blind to any mistakes!

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Hurricane Helene Stirs Up Gulf Coast Waters

Hurricane Helene charged into Florida’s Big Bend area on September 26, 2024, and pushed north with devastating consequences across several states. The heavy rains, high winds, and storm surge that affected land areas also left a mark on the ocean.

This image (right) shows the Gulf of Mexico on September 29, several days after Helene made landfall. For comparison, the left image shows the same area on September 22 during more typical conditions. Both images were acquired by the VIIRS (Visible Infrared Imaging Radiometer Suite) on the NOAA-21 satellite.

Helene’s winds and waves churned up sediment from the seafloor along shallow coastal areas. Light reflects from these fine particles and makes the water appear bright blue. Storm surge, flooded rivers, and flash floods produced runoff that eroded land surfaces and carried even more particles into the ocean, adding to the color. NOAA had called for the storm surge to reach as high as 20 feet above ground level along parts of Florida’s Gulf Coast.

Notice that prior to the storm, coastal waters already displayed faint light-blue and dark-green colors. Some of this color is likely from suspended sediment, but much of it is due to the reflection of light off sea grass beds, the sandy seafloor, and coral reefs (especially around the Bahamas). Some of the darkest areas near rivers might be colored by dissolved organic material. The region’s blackwater rivers, for example, are rich with decaying vegetation and other organic matter, and their stained water can become flushed into the ocean during heavy rains.

Suspended sediment colored the water across an even larger area on September 28. Clouds were abundant that day, but parts of the ocean surface were still visible when the OCI (Ocean Color Instrument) on NASA’s PACE (Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem) satellite acquired this image.

The effect can be visible long after the passing of a storm. One week after Helene made landfall over Florida, swirls of sediment were still widespread on October 3.

NASA Earth Observatory images by Michala Garrison, using MODIS and PACE data from NASA EOSDIS LANCE and GIBS/Worldview. Story by Kathryn Hansen.

[bookishjules]

thought dump for the midnight heir?? I feel like we’ve both been swept into a resurgence. I’ve got my own opinions but you seem to see a lot of the symbolism etc which I do love! But talk about anything, I’m just hungry for perspectives!

(idk how many original thoughts i have for you, so i'm just gonna go off and hope something lands lol)

one thing that's always been really intriguing to me is how the pure love that persists between tessa, will, and jem, can sour and become something sick from james' perception, that he would use his resentment of that love and as a measure for the damning pain he's in and thus an impetus to be intentionally careless with his life. while on the other hand, we have jesse who, according to tatiana, held onto life for his own mother, a mother who may have loved him but who would have taught only hatred and vengeance, of the wrongs that the world committed toward their family. it's almost like james' heart was pumped so full of love that it burst and splayed open only for grace to step into it and sew it back up around herself, a blade making the heart bleed from the inside. and jesse's heart was filled with a poison, toxic kind of love that eroded the organ, making the walls frail, but forcing a level of strength and dexterity into his blood, and thereby into grace as well, whom he welcomed to live inside his heart and draw from his yearning as well.

it's the way they all intertwine. the way the two boys parallel eachother, like james is the one who came through the looking glass and jesse is the one caught behind it. james shot down the chandelier and there was glass on the floor of blackthorn hall when magnus entered it. james with his cheshire cat grin and jesse's deathly portrait. james leaping back and forth into existence while jesse stands delicately on the line.

speaking of that leaping.. tmh james uses his shadows with such flippancy and control, like they're as much a part of him as his corporeal form. "we are dust and shadows," he reminds magnus. and i think it's so interesting, like in a biblical sense, dust is as much life as it is death ("from dust you were made and to dust you shall return"), and shadows move as one with the one they're tied to, but they are not really alive. so james is a shadow but one with its own mind and will, like peter pan's shadow. he doesn't bow to the essence and laws of life and dust. but then where is the dust? again, speaking to the parallels.. i think it could be jesse. he is not really dead, but not really alive, either, he exists as merely the imprint of the boy he once was was on the earth, with as much potential to be blown away by the wind as he has to be filled in with dust mixed with water and blood like cement making him whole again.

i mentioned peter pan's shadow, and that made me think that maybe jesse, in that case, would be peter himself, caught up in neverland, never growing up, unable to leave without dust that's given life in the form of pixie dust.

it's so interesting to think of how these two would eventually meet in the canon of tmh, because i do think tatiana would still find a way to kill five shadowhunters to bring him back to life. and if they return to idris, and if james fulfills his goal of being sent back to idris by being a rapscallion and harming mundanes instead of protecting them, they're bound to wind up in the same space together. it would be interesting if, in james' infatuation with grace, he takes up a shield behind her while she acts as her mother's blade, if he learns of the plans to raise jesse, and because of his fucked up sense of love and loyalty and the potential of a spell put on him by grace, he aids her in someway. james' wild ferocity tied down at jesse's feet by grace. peter and his shadow.

[dorminchu]

Between Heaven and Earth: Prologue: Part Two

a/n: Woah, this fic is picking up faster than I expected. Here's part two of the set-up before the Trainee Arc.

Two years of mandatory service eroded any illusion of normality or prestige for the newly-made Warriors. Model soldiers for the public, in photographs. To become viable in the eyes of the Titan Society, each of them had to serve their country like any other cadet. They stood apart from the teenaged boys and younger men conscripted into service, robbed of their childhoods but not old enough to be treated any better than nuisances or cannon fodder. Just a bitter consequence of the war effort and the weighted odds Marley faced.

The Warriors, placed on reserve until the Titan Society made its final decision, spent their time working in factories and farms, it was as though they'd never been promoted at all. Despite the claims to the contrary, despite the smartly-pressed uniforms and red armbands to prove their worth against the rest of their peers. All of them, in some way or another, were looking for a way out of their lives in the ghettos, from the ineffable stamp of Eldian bastard, none more than P. Galliard and Braun.

The morning of their coronation, crowded into a small cart and brought back to the old trainee camp in Liberio. Doctors from the Titan Research Society had agreed to hold a lecture with the proffered candidates.

Dr. Xaver, a short stout man who came over to greet the Commander and gave Colt Grice a brief nod. Pieck Finger's father, a neurologist, was busy speaking with a third man. His threadbare coat and spectacles set him apart from Magrath and the rest of the Marleyans in their well-tailored uniforms.

Xaver introduced him as, "My good colleague Dr. Jaeger, who works in the Titan Biology and Research division alongside myself and Dr. Finger."

"I don't remember him from Liberio," Braun muttered.

"He might be a foreigner," said M. Galliard.

"Pure Titans," Dr. Jaeger said," are what we call Eldians transformed by the Progenitor Titan. They vary in size, shape and intellect, and are controlled unconsciously by the Eldian within the Titan's nape, like a parasitic host."

"The Titan Society's first breakthrough were duplicates. With Tybur's blessing and the cooperation of the royal family on Paradis, we figured out a way to cultivate a variety of strains using the Progenitor's genes as a basis. Man-made Pure Titans are the simplest example. They're able to move around without sunlight, can be activated upon command, and the serum is cheap to produce."

"Still, there are downsides we can't ignore," said Dr. Xaver. "Without the use of a Coordinate, Pure Titans are essentially mindless. The man-made ones tend to act in ways we don't fully understand."

"Now," said Xaver, "there is a way for a Pure Titan to regain human form, by ingesting the spinal fluid of a Titan Shifter. The subject inside the Pure Titan will inherit the power and memories of that previous candidate. It is common for the subject to recall past events as if from a nightmare, or become overwhelmed by their inherited memories and decommissioned. There is an immense physical and psychological risk that comes with inheriting the power of a Titan Shifter through consumption."

Hoover and Braun exchanged glances.

"Each Titan Shifter in the Warrior Unit is injected with a specialized serum. The candidate retains his or her intelligence, and can return to human form at will. As each of you mature, your body will continue to function at peak physical condition for an average of thirteen years, depending on myriad factors. The Titan inherited, frequency of transformations or regeneration."

A hand rose from the crowd of Warrior cadets. "Why not create multiple Titan Shifters of one type?" said M. Galliard. "Wouldn't it be simpler to command a smaller squadron of Armoured Titans?"

Xaver and Finger shared a strange look. "Curating a particular strain of serum can take months, sometimes years depending on the complexity of the Titan's abilities. If there are complications, the fault comes back on us and we're apt to lose funding. By focusing on a small pool of candidates, we're able to ensure a higher rate of success."

"When the Shifter first activates their Titan, they may enter a state similar to the Pure Titan's unconsciousness. It is possible to regress into what is essentially an uncontrollable Pure Titan. Conditioning is critical."

Sometimes, candidates were selected into their early teen years, or as young as eight years old, but the age at which they were deployed as part of the Warrior Unit was ten to twelve with rare exception. "In the beginning," Mr. Finger said, "the Titan Society experimented on adult volunteers, so the results are still very skewed. But the serum doesn't appear to have adverse effects on children, male or female."

…

Letters were sent out to each family, dryly commemorating their child's placement. On the day of their coronation, each candidate was given the opportunity to say goodbye.

Hoover's father was a clergyman and his mother a schoolteacher. Finger's parents were neurologists. Galliard's father showed up to see his sons off in their mother's stead. Leonhardt, leaning against the wooden partition between the track and base, watched at a distance.

Braun couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her. That eagerness to prove herself, it always came off like she was putting on airs. Same as his regurgitation of political slogans, or P. Galliard running his mouth. The only purpose should be proving their loyalty to Marley and its tenets—to embrace them, because what non-Eldian would extend the same courtesy? Between rotting in the ghettos as a bastard, and making use of his cursed blood, it was a straightforward choice.

Leonhardt could scuff every grasshopper that crossed her path, she could play at indifference until there was no one left to prove herself to. Still, anyone who deigned to put Galliard in his place when he got too full of himself, Braun could respect.

This time, Braun's mother brought Gabi and Falco along. Gabi's hand secured in her aunt's while Falco walked by himself. Braun accepted a hug from his mother and reassured the three of them he'd be back in a year. Gabi eyed his armband, looking up at him with innocent awe.

"Have you killed any Marleyans yet?"

Braun shrugged. "It's not that exciting, Gabi. Just basic training."

Her face pulled into a look of deep thought, then brightened. "Does your dad know you're going to be fighting on the front lines?"

Braun's mother shot her a severe look and gripped a little tighter. Gabi winced, but looked to her cousin for approval. Braun's expression faltered. "Not yet. But I'll tell him when I get back. I'll have some experience by then."

"Karina." Mr. Leonhardt limped over. "It's been a while."

Ms. Braun took the opportunity, offing Braun a half-apologetic smile before excusing herself. Before she was out of earshot, Gabi turned around and fixed Braun with a conspiratorial stare. "Aunt Karina said you've got a nervous consternation."

"Constitution," said Falco under his breath.

Gabi frowned. "Yeah, I know what I meant. Quit tryin' to talk for me."

"Don't be so hard on your cousin," Braun said. "He's got to look after you while I'm gone."

Gabi looked up. "I can look after him, I don't mind. Right, Falco?"

The boy smiled. "Yeah." Scanning the grounds, past Braun, his expression pensive. His eyes fixed briefly on Leonhardt, alone. Suddenly, his face lit up. "Colt!" Falco took off running across the courtyard, threw his arms around his brother's waist.

Gabi side-eyed Braun. "He's such a kid."

Colt ruffled his hair and said, "Hey, Falco. You're getting taller."

Falco's grin faltered. "You're going to be away again." He averted his eyes down the field back to Braun and Gabi. "I wish you didn't have to be."

Good-byes were especially difficult. Falco only saw his brother once a year, at best. Even with Gabi to keep him on the straight and narrow, it wasn't the same as having a brother to wrestle with.

Turning back to Gabi, who had slipped away. He scanned the length of the field and finally caught sight of her, next to Leonhardt, leaning on the post in a child's fascimile of indifference. He jogged over, trying not to crack a smile.

Leonhardt shot him a look as if to say, I'm not here to babysit. Get your impressionable sibling away from me.

"She looked sad," Gabi nudged Braun in the ribs. "Which Titan is she?"

"Dunno, I haven't asked her."

"Why not?"

"She's not friendly."

"I guess. She wasn't really that bad. You probably made fun of her or something, that's why she doesn't like you."

"She wouldn't put up with that," Braun said. "She's tougher than she looks."

Gabi was watching Leonhardt over her shoulder. Her father had limped over to stand beside her. "Are there a lot of girl candidates?"

Braun took her firmly by the arm and said, "Colt'll want to say hello."

His mother was back by Colt’s side. Falco was making an effort to keep his composure. Colt put his hand to his brother's shoulder, saying, "It won't be as long as it seems. I'll write whenever I can."

Falco nodded through a tight smile.

"He's so fortunate to have you in his life," Ms. Braun said. "Once this war is over, you two can be a proper family again."

…

While the Mid-Eastern forces had no Titans of their own, their aerial and ground surpassed Marley's and attacks on the coast were becoming frequent. The newest candidates from the Warrior Unit had never lived through an air raid, though Bertholdt and the Galliards had a few stories passed down from their parents. Five of the graduates were smuggled into a train car and taken out of Liberio. The Warrior Unit would continue operations in secret. Their families would be relocated until further notice.

Finger and Braun and M. Galliard were huddled at the centre of the boxcar. Colt stayed by the door with a pistol, just in-case they had to make an unannounced stop.

Leonhardt sat in the corner with her back to the wall, hugging her knees. Hoover came over and squatted beside her. No one really sat with him apart from Braun, at meals, and Hoover had been the one to initiate that friendship anyway. If Leonhardt didn't wish to be bothered she'd be the first to make herself clear; Braun had learnt that lesson several times over. It wasn't right that she should be cast aside from the group just because she was aloof or competitive. They were stronger as a collective.

"Did they tell you what you've been selected as?" she asked without looking at him directly.

Braun was placed as an Armoured. He and P. Galliard got into a row about it. Galliard said a lot of terrible stuff about his father and his family, and Braun just took it on the chin, because only one of them was going to be on reserve. The Jaw went to M. Galliard, while Porco would spend the next three years with boys his age until they were conscripted. With his father's connections and the title of Honorary Marleyan, he could get into whichever military academy he desired, or reapply for the Warrior Unit.

Hoover hadn't told anyone what his selection was. Leonhardt was pretty good at keeping secrets. "Colossi are slow-moving and difficult to destroy. On the battlefield, they're often targeted by enemy artillery and aircrafts. And they have the shortest terms of any Titan Shifter." He swallowed and looked forward. "It's uncommon for a Warrior to be selected as a Colossus. Maybe I'll just be placed on reserve like Porco. That's not so bad."

"There's probably a good reason," said Leonhardt. The flashes of light through the slats in the boxcar caught her pale blue eyes. She was looking ahead at the end of the car, but it was like she was somewhere else. Too tense to be deep in thought.

Hoover edged closer, close enough to brush her shoulder. His palms were clammy inside the pockets of his chinos. "If something happens to me, you—you have to stick with Reiner."

"We don't know what's going to happen," Leonhardt said, squaring her shoulders. "Don't talk yourself out of this."

She was smaller than Pieck, but he'd seen her unarmed combat techniques. She'd make a great Attack Titan, no question there, a compliment to Braun's Armoured. And here he was in the middle of it all, just a runt of a Colossus that didn't make it into one of the Walls. If he'd been apart of Fritz's armistice, he’d be of some use. It was useless to sit here and mope, but he couldn’t help the way he felt.

"Sometimes, I feel like you're the only one I can really talk to. Everyone else just tries to make me feel better or says I should be grateful I was chosen."

Leonhardt said nothing. Hoover's exhale was barely audible over the clacking of the wheels.

"If it were so serious," Braun was saying, "why were we allowed to say good-bye?"

"They could have attacked right afterwards," M. Galliard said. "We don't have enough information to go on. It's useless to expend our time worrying about what could have happened."

"He'll be safer away from the front-lines," Finger added, "I'll work twice as hard for the both of us."

"I don't need you to fight for my brother's sake," M. Galliard snapped. "He's going to be in Mer, right by Lago. If there's another bombing, like the one three months ago—"

"—just because he isn't a Subject of Ymir," Finger said, "it doesn't make him less important to Marley."

"Easy for you to say. Your parents are in the Titan Society."

"That doesn't mean I'd think less of someone who isn't a Warrior," said Finger. "I'm sure Porco will be fine."

…

By the time they’d gotten to base camp, it was a little after sunset. The officer that opened the door of the boxcar raised the gas-lamp to get a better look at them. He asked for their names, then split Finger and Leonhardt away from the rest of the group. Just a physical, the officer explained, which was routine for all selected candidates. Nothing to worry about.

Besides the mountain range to the north, the camp was secluded by trees on all other sides. A pair of barracks, an infirmary and stables. During the Mid-Eastern Conflict this used to be a training camp for Eldian ground troops. Given the Marleyan High Command’s preference towards Titan Shifters and naval warfare, the materials and weaponry weren’t up-to-par.

The bunks were clean and sparely decorated. At least, the officer said, they wouldn’t be bivouacking whilst they lived here, outside of mock expeditions.

The infirmary, too, was a lot nicer than the one in Liberio. The officer turned to the pair of them. “Since you’re older than Leonhardt, you’ll go first,” he said, motioning to Finger. “You,” he glowered at Leonhardt, “sit there and wait until you’re called.” He motioned to a row of leather chairs.

Finger shot her a worried glance, but said nothing. Leonhardt sat and didn't make eye contact with anyone. The only other people wearing red armbands were kids. Not all of them were from her graduating class. She didn't see Finger's father or Dr. Xaver.

In Liberio, the Marleyans doctors were indifferent and handled them like livestock. Physicals for girls set them apart by muscle mass and phisiology; once a month, as soon as they reached puberty. Outside of venereal disease and pregnancy, discussions by the nurses were perfunctory at best. Warriors weren't encouraged to settle down and start families of their own. The non-Warrior kids her age were less scandalized than the adults, or at least sympathetic.

Male candidates had less to worry about on that front. Leonhardt's smaller stature made her look younger than she was. Finger was just a year older and dreaded physicals. There weren't any female doctors. Not that it would make a difference, as long as the patient was Eldian.

Doors opened and closed, and sometimes an officer would lead a child with red armband through a door and twenty minutes later, he'd come out clutching his wrist and sweating, or accompanied by a nurse. None of them addressed Leonhardt, sitting by herself, counting the minutes in her head.

After forty, Finger hadn't come back. Leonhardt was getting antsy. Finger was probably at the mess hall with the other candidates. She glanced down the hall for the hundredth time but nothing changed. Maybe this was just another test. The doctors would probably ask a lot of tedious and embarrassing questions but Leonhardt only cared about getting in and out as efficiently as possible.

When the aide called her name, Leonhardt followed down the hall to a non-descript room. The aide made her wait while she knocked on the door. "I've brought the recruit."

"Thank you." Dr. Jaeger, dressed in a different threadbare suit. He caught Leonhardt's eye and smiled. "Come in and have a seat."

Leonhardt did so. There were no windows in the room, only a gas-lamp. Elongated shadows played over the walls and table as the doctor moved. "I'll need you to take off your ring." Leonhardt hesitated. "I'll give it back to you once we're finished." Leonhardt slipped it off and placed it on the table as he sat adjacent to her. "Before we begin, I'd like to ask you a few questions. You are Annie Leonhardt, born 22nd March, 1898?"

"Yes, sir."

He retained eye contact. "You've been selected as an Attack variant."

"Yes, sir."

"How do you feel about your selection as a Warrior?"

Leonhardt paused. "It's a promotion."

"Do you miss your old life, back home?"

Leonhardt stiffened her shoulders. "Not really."

The doctor glanced at the ring on the table. He picked it up, studying it closely. His thumb hovered over the switch but didn't press it.

"Who gave this to you?"

"My father." She forced herself to relax in the chair. Glanced at her knuckles.

He clicked the switch. "It's not just for decoration."

Leonhardt studied his bag, then his face. The same webbed scarring she'd seen on Grice's face. Dr. Jaeger’s eyes were grey. He wasn’t as old as her father. Titan Shifters didn’t serve terms longer than thirteen unless they rarely transformed, which was counterproductive. It wasn’t likely he’d be one of the volunteers, or else he would have gone to hospice with the rest of them years ago. But she’d never actually talked to a Warrior that wasn’t Colt Grice or training to-be.

"Is something on your mind?"

Leonhardt blinked. It was rude to stare. “Are all of the doctors here Warriors?”

"Some of them have children who served the Warrior Unit. It's uncommon." The doctor chuckled. "I'm much too old." He opened the bag. "This is a perfectly safe procedure. You will enter into a state of increased relaxation and focus, but you will be in control the entire time."

"Raise your left hand, please." Leonhardt raised her hand. "Very good." He produced a syringe from his coat and filled it with a translucent liquid. "Lay your arm on the table for me," he said. The needle pierced skin. "You will activate this ring, and pierce your skin with the blade. You must concentrate on your goal clearly." He placed the ring against her open palm. "Each time you activate this ring, it is for your protection. Only in a situation where unarmed combat will not work."

He put the syringe away. "How do you feel?"

Her skin tingling at the point of contact. Perspiration gathering on her nape. Leonhardt swallowed dryly. "Fine." Doctor Jaeger was looking at her carefully. "Can I go back?"

"We're nearly finished." He bandaged her arm. "You'll be staying overnight in the infirmary. If you feel anything is wrong, don't hesitate to find one of the doctors."

The aide took her down the hall. A different aide, talking to Braun, sitting and staring blankly ahead. He was holding his forearm. When Leonhardt walked past he didn't acknowledge her at all. Hoover came out of a different room, his skin shiny with sweat.

"Annie?"

At the sound of Hoover's voice, Braun raised his head in that general direction. The officer gripped Leonhardt's shoulder and said, "Keep walking." As they rounded the corner, a different aide was saying, "Why don't you have a seat and wait for Braun?"

…

Finger was already in her bed. She barely reacted to Leonhardt. On the floor, near the head of her bunk was an apple, uneaten. Bruised where it had hit the ground. Leonhardt picked it up. There were dozens of red apples in different flavors and families. If she were to tear into it it’d be pale white, like whalebone. These ones tasted sweet.

Leonhardt spat it out immediately. Her mouth flooded with saliva and the taste of salt and iron. She felt around her mouth for any lacerations or chipped teeth and came back slick with saliva. She wiped her hands on her chinos. Not supposed to do that, but she’d clean them anyway and she didn’t want to dirty the freshly laid sheets.

Finger’s body shifted upright, shrinking into herself. Her eyes, wide and grey and filmed over, found Leonhardt’s. “I couldn’t eat,” she whispered. “I thought of you.”

“All I can taste is—blood.”

“Spinal fluid,” Finger mumbled. “It’s just spinal fluid. It’s a phantom memory.”

Leonhardt flopped on the bed without changing. The room spun around, even though she was laying in place. That shouldn’t be happening. Maybe Finger could tell her if this was part of the adjustment process. Sweat accumulated under her clothing. A flush spread down her forearms and legs like sunburn. Her throat tightened.

“Annie?”

Leonhardt stumbled out of bed. Her skin felt tight and flaky, as if straining against muscle and bone. Like throwing your body over a pyre until it blackened. Holding her hand to the metal until it started to smoke. If she tried to speak she would throw up, and she didn’t want to bring a nurse or doctor over. He’d see the apple and Finger would get in trouble for stealing from the mess hall.

If she could get outside, all the way to the river, she could throw herself in. She stumbled and collapsed to all fours, emptying the contents of her stomach onto her knees and the polished wooden floor. Someone was shouting but the words weren’t distinguishable. She could barely concentrate on keeping herself upright. She didn’t want to fall into her own vomit.

A pair of calloused hands materialized under her armpits, pulling her back to surface. Sitting hunched on the bed, the nurse was barking at her to breathe through her nose and out through her mouth, keep her head down. Someone was rucking up her shirt. Cool, damp pressure on her back. Leonhardt sucked in air, thick into her lungs like steam.

The needle pierced her and her groan stuck in her throat. She laid there, wide-eyed and still, watching Finger on the other bed. Involuntary tears tracked down her face. Leonhardt’s pain slowly abated into a dull nausea. Her legs would occasionally twitch.

Laid on her side, in case she had to throw up, the bedpan just out of reach. If only she were a little bigger.

…

"She's awake, sir."

The sheets discarded. Her arms contacting linen. Cotton shirt and trousers.

Hoover sat next to her bed. She touched her own face. Smooth, unblemished skin.

"You were thrashing around a lot," said Hoover. "How are you feeling?"

Leonhardt shook her head. Her tongue felt like cotton. She gesticulated to her throat. Grice flagged down one of the nurses for a glass of water. "Don't drink it all at once," he said.

Leonhardt had already drained it. "How long have I been out for?"

"Twenty hours," said Grice. "A lot of recruits don't make it this far."

She sat up abruptly. "The shot," she said. "He gave me, it—" Rolling up her sleeve, nothing but unbroken flesh. Her chest tightened.

"You shouldn't have any bruises," said Colt. "Or evidence of the shot. That means the serum is in your spinal fluid." 

Her stomach twisted. The first dredges of nausea working up her throat. She let her hands fall on her lap. "What happens now?"

"Once you get your strength back, you'll be reincorporating your techniques, and the skills you've learnt in basic training. Then you'll be deployed." Leonhardt started patting down her shins, hips. Nothing but cotton. "What's the matter?"

"My ring," she muttered. "Where is it?"

"Do you usually wear it to bed?" Hoover asked.

Leonhardt glowered at him.

"Well," said Hoover, "it's probably still there, so I wouldn't worry." The longer she glared, the quicker Hoover's expression hovered into a place between sympathy and fear. As if he had any right to sit there and dither. "You should rest. I'll tell Reiner you're OK."

Grice stayed by her bedside. "As Warriors, it's our duty to atone for the sins of our Eldian forefathers. We have the blood of the devil, we cannot change that. To use this power takes a great deal of responsibility and discipline. It can be overwhelming at first." His gaze went someplace else. "My mother had Falco when I was ten. By that time, I was already a Warrior. I never got to see him as a baby, but they’d write to me, each year. One day, I stopped getting letters back. Commander Magrath took me aside and told me that they'd been feeding information to a defector in the Marleyan military." He swallowed. "Last time I spoke to mum and dad was before my coronation. Falco's been living with Reiner's mum ever since."

Leonhardt clenched, unclenched her hands.

"They told him his parents died in an air raid. In four years he'll be old enough to join the Warrior program. He's going to grow up in a world where he's just a subject on a clipboard. He's got Ms. Braun, and Gabi. Eventually my term will end. Every time I think of him ending up here, I can't sit by idly. If we can get the Progenitor and end this war, he won't ever have to face what you and I will."

“Which Titan are you?”

Grice hesitated. "The candidate's term ended prematurely. Dr. Xaver took that chance when no one else would." He shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't mean to talk as much as I have. I'll let you rest."

As he got up, his hand flexed. He patted her forearm lightly and walked away.

…

Leonhardt had never seen a Titan outside of history books. The artist's depiction of an androgynous, humanoid shape, fifteen metres tall. Not all of them were bipedal.

"The process is linked to the subconscious," Mr. Finger explained. "The doctor implants a suggestion, so you'll be able to focus on your goal clearly while you're transformed. It's not as if you are being controlled. It won't work unless you, yourself, believe it will."

In death the Titan dissolved, and the Warrior was reborn from the sinew and hemic tissue. The Titan's shell was just an extension of the Warrior's body. With each transformation, her mind grew a little clearer. Scars etched across her cheeks, down her chin in parallel lines, from the corners of her mouth, the only indicator of the devil in her blood outside of medical tests. Within a couple hours they were gone.

The Warrior Unit—Braun, Finger, Leonhardt, Hoover, M. Galliard and Grice—was deployed four weeks after initial injection. A year spent on the front lines crossed over into two. The situation between Marley and the Mid-Eastern Alliance was too dangerous and important to leave their defenses up to chance.

During an operation outside of Fort Slava, Leonhardt crushed a group of Mid-East soldiers huddling against the trench. At fifteen metres tall, an enemy soldier was really no different than a bug. Clear a path efficiently. She started kicking them around, making up a game in her head. By aiming for the tanks, hardening her shin, she could cleave through without damaging herself. Her implementation of techniques was impeccable, but she would always go on ahead, backing up her allies implicitly.

Colt's Titan, a gargoyle-like beast with deep red eyes and rows of teeth inside its beak. He could fly for a limited time, but the lack of defense made him easy target for artillery at close-range. He could command Pure Titans and alert Titan Shifters by screaming—a psychic command.

Leonhardt got reprimanded for recklessness. She ought to consider Braun as an example.

Galliard was the fastest. The Jaw Titan could rip through Leonhardt or Braun's hardened skin with its teeth. A burst of artillery fire or a well-timed grenade could disable him before he could heal, and he couldn't harden his flesh.

Finger was second fastest, and could remain in her Titan for a week before feeling nauseous or disoriented.

Braun was used much like a tank. He threw himself into the battlefield with as much fervor as those tracts. Unlike Leonhardt and Galliard, he followed orders faultlessly. He would jump at the chance to protect his comrades from shellfire, given his hardening abilities.

Due to the Colossi's enormous size and low mobility, Hoover didn't transform except for special cases. They were dropped out of planes over Fort Slava and Hoover made the drop without a parachute. When the dust cleared, there wasn't anything left to capture.

Out of Marley's finest Warriors, only four of them were chosen. Leonhardt, Braun, Hoover and M. Galliard joined their Commander and Colt Grice. This mission would determine not only the fate of Marley, but Paradis as a viable country. 

The Progenitor Titan, if it fell into the hands of the Mid-Eastern Alliance, could easily turn the Warriors upon their Marleyan homeland. If the Walls were compromised, Paradis would have to be destroyed.

The map of Paradis Island depicted a set of three walls, each set with four pocket towns like the points of a compass, intended to draw the Pure Titans attention. The closest was Shiganshina, on the southern coast of Wall Maria.

As Fritz had cut off all contact with the outside world after Wall Maria was erected, there was no quick and immediate way to confirm the Progenitor's location. Currently, it was suspected that the bearer must be within the centre of Paradis, or living undercover. It could be in a vial, or in the spinal fluid of an Eldian. If Paradis was destroyed in the long-term, it was an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence for the good of humanity.

"The four of you," said Commander Magrath, "will clear a path through the Walls, starting with Shiganshina. You'll assimilate as civilians during the aftermath. There are three major military branches—you'll focus on the Garrison, who have widespread access throughout the colony, and the Military Police, whom are allowed into the capital, Mitras. All of your efforts must go to locating and retrieving the Progenitor. Grice will join up with you separately. He'll be your source of communication between Paradis and Marley, but once you set foot on the island, you're on your own."

Leonhardt glanced over to Hoover and Braun. M. Galliard seemed uneasy. The only limitation, besides the military's budget, was Marley High Command's indifference towards human life.

"In Paradis," Commander Magrath said, "there are no second chances. Should the enemy become aware of your nature, you will kill him before he does."

…

In the past, Marley set up anti-aircraft units to keep the Titans from getting close. Operations outside of Wall Maria could only take place at night, or during cloudy weather. Three to five metre Titans wandered the beaches and plains, unopposed. They never attacked each other, but sometimes, they would stop and watch the boats passing by. A soldier could be forgiven, if he mistook that concentration for something profound. A passing recollection of life lost, where there was only latent hunger.

A disproportionate number of Pure Titans roamed Paradis's southern cape. Without a propensity for sunlight, or need for sleep, they would cluster within the massive wealds.

On horseback, they shouldn't have to resort to transformation until they were in-range. The Titans had no interest in any creature besides humans. At dusk, the four Warriors secured their horses and gathered brush for a fire, picking over their rations. No one spoke much.

"I've got a cousin back home," Braun said, "Gabi. She's only six. You met her, didn't you, Leonhardt?" Leonhardt glanced at him. "She reminds me of you." Leonhardt raised her eyebrows. "She's always running around and trying to climb things. When she grows up she'll probably want to become a Warrior." He nudged Leonhardt's shoulder.

Leonhardt scowled. "So, I just… will a horde of Titans to run towards Shiganshina by screaming?"

"Once they hear the sound, they'll come running," said M. Galliard. "With the breach to the wall, they won't be able to resist."

"Can't they tell the difference between a Titan Shifter and a regular human?"

"They're happy to eat whatever is in front of them," said Hoover with a slight shiver. "The Colossi are unique, because they don't seem to eat anything."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group.

"If the Progenitor is so important," Leonhardt stressed, "why did Marley allow Paradis to hold it for so long?"

"Who knows? When the Eldians had it, they just lorded over the rest of humanity," said M. Galliard, prodding at the fire. "Fritz was just too powerful to oppose with modern weapons. The Eldians in Paradis are too stupid to realise they're imprisoned. We're doing them a favor."

Hoover glanced at the horses. "I'll take first watch."

…

Daybreak.

Braun's scream cut through the silence.

The horses whinnied, secured at the post, left untouched.

The report would say M. Galliard died an honorable death, protecting his fellow Warriors. When Marcel transformed, Braun would tell her, his body was already ripped open from the chest up. As long as the spine was connected to the brain, a Warrior could transform, but usually the Titan would be malformed and weaker. So the Pure Titan could simply leap onto his half-formed body and dig its teeth into the Titan's nape, and that was the end of M. Galliard.

Hoover grabbed her by the arm and ran. Braun outstripped them both.

Leonhardt considered her options. She could let Braun go, banking on the fact that he would draw the Titan's attention. Dishonorable, but practical. It left them stranded in enemy territory. She’d be stuck either with Hoover, too cowed to do anything but plead her to reconsider, or Braun, the hard-headed idiot who’d just made his problem into a collective one.

The Pure Titan didn’t follow them. 

Braun stumbled, prostrating himself in the shade of a beech tree. It was the only one of its kind for metres. There were no settlements or people beyond the white strip of Wall Maria in the distance.

Braun was mumbling to himself.

"Get up," Leonhardt said hoarsely. "M. Galliard gave his life to save yours. This is how you thank him?"

"How can you talk like that?" Braun pushed himself up. "You never gave a damn about this mission. The only reason you're here is your father."

Leonhardt stiffened. A sneer worked itself onto her mouth. "You're never going to make a good soldier, groveling to Marley like that."

Instead of losing his cool, as Leonhardt expected, Braun's lip trembled. He started blathering on about the sum of his pathetic life, as if he were a Restorationist under interrogation. How he couldn't go home empty handed. How his mother and Gabi were counting on him more than ever and his father—

Leonhardt kicked him in the stomach to snap him out of it. "You're not the only one with something to lose!" It was not authoritative, the way her father or Commander Magrath would bark, but tinged with the same elevated pitch in Braun's voice. She kicked him in the face, as if violence could erase the truth in her tightening throat. "You think I'm going to throw my life away for your sake? Well, you're right, I don't give a shit about Marley or Paradis."

Braun didn't fight back. He just curled into himself. She kicked a bruise into his clavicle.

"If you don't get up," she spat, "all you'll be an Eldian bastard."

"Stop it!" Hoover cried, "both of you, stop."

Leonhardt stepped away. Breathing hard. "I'm going back," she said hoarsely. "I'll get Galliard, and then we can go to the Titan Society."

Braun was spitting up blood. His mouth steamed.

"Annie," said Hoover in a controlled voice, "I don't think that's possible anymore."

"Of course, you're taking his side—"

"—by the time we track down this Titan, if we can even find it, it might be too late. The Titan could have already transformed back into a human. We'll never find it then."

Leonhardt simpered. "If you and Braun showed an ounce of consideration back there, we would be at Wall Maria by now."

"Your only solution is just going back empty-handed?" Hoover's tone sharper than before. "The Marleyan High Command won't just punish you. It'll be our families too. We have to keep going, we can still turn this around. I—" he swallowed dryly, his eyes on hers "—I'll do whatever I have to. Braun will, as well."

Leonhardt had no other argument. "We've wasted enough time already. Braun will transform first. I’ll make the next leg of the journey, since I’ll be the one luring all of these Titans to—"

Hoover's eyes moved past her shoulder. Braun got her on the ground, in a chokehold. Shouldn't have turned her back. He squeezed so tightly her vision flashed black. Hoover was shouting something. The pressure let up, enough for her to wheeze. She clawed at his arm but couldn't get any words out.

"Galliard's been decommissioned. Which makes me the commanding officer," he said in a low, flat voice. "Raise your hand against your fellow soldier again, it'll be the last time."

Wheezing, Leonhardt didn't touch her throat. Braun spat a mouthful of blood, his eyes glazed over and emotionless.

Hoover was still looking at her. She looked away.

"Get back," Braun snapped, "by the tree. Leonhardt will draw the Titans out first. I'll run the rest of the way and you'll break through Shiganshina."

…

Towering high above the ground, her Titan was still dwarfed by the inordinately-sized coniferous. Hoover and Braun made a nest of her hair. Pure Titans in the forest. Leonhardt kept running.

The sun was reaching its lowest point in the sky. A white stripe stretched across the horizon, blazing in the sun.

Inside the Titan, Leonhardt caught her breath. A low, guttural screech that could not have come from the throat of a human or animal. The sound reverberated across the grassy plain.

The earth rumbled. She did not turn her head to look. Hoover's breath picked up. His grip tightened on her hair.

Leonhardt didn't stop running until the breadth of Wall Maria took up her vision. Only then did she remove herself from her Titan. Hoover had to climb down and excavate her from the crumbling shell.

The Colossus Titan was too short to peer over the wall. A giant, skinless doll. Blunt feet, like a horse's hooves.

…

"Where's Galliard?" Braun muttered. "He should've met up with us by now."

"Marcel isn't coming," said Hoover. "He didn't make it, Reiner."

Braun blinked. His posture almost imperceptible. He licked his lips and said, "He must've been trampled tryin' to get to one of the boats."

Leonhardt stood up just to disperse herself from the situation.

A row down from them, a boy and girl were huddled together.

The girl put an arm around the blond boy. "Eren wouldn't just wander off."

The boy shook his head. "He was with me on the boat."

The girl squeezed his hand. "We'll ask the Garrison as soon as possible."

"This operation is overseen by Military Police. They won't do anything about it."

"Don't think like that," the girl said sharply. "Eren is counting on us as much as we are."

Her patriotic duty to Marley became living in poorhouses as Braun's little sister. Hoover became a lay brother for the Wallist church. No one asked why her brother slept closer to his childhood friend, or why they never talked about their hometown in detail. She was shy, Braun explained, and they only had each other to rely on.

Braun was not sick, he just had a condition. A splintering of constancy between his life on Paradis as an orphaned refugee of Ragako, and the Honorary Marleyan with a family back home. Whenever he woke up, lost and adrift, it was Hoover who anchored him back to the present. Leonhardt had to pick up the slack in Galliard's stead.

Stabilizing Braun the Warrior was easy, because he just had to prove himself as a capable soldier. In the midst of devastation, there was no shortage of need for work. After the operation to reclaim Wall Maria, there were even more vacancies.

There were so many bodies the first year, they had to start leaving them behind or throwing them over Wall Rose.

Hoover became more familiar with the Wallists. A religious cult who sprang up throughout Wall Maria and Rose, worshiping each division as a Goddess. They fiercely sanctioned the preservation of the Walls and the mindless Pure Titans as Subjects of Ymir. The current royal family, Hoover said, were rumoured to be descendants of Karl Fritz.

During the Mid-Eastern Conflict, some of them began to sympathize with their Eldian brethren trapped within the Walls. They denounced their royal lineage, adopted the surname Reiss, choosing to lead a simpler life in the country. The Reiss family still had direct contact with the interior by way of King, who was little more than a proxy for the government in Mitras.

Fritz had worked closely with the nations of Hizuru and Marley up until the Walls were erected. All contact with the interior stopped, and no reports came to or from Paradis. All the while, Marley and the Mid-Eastern Alliance remained locked in a cold war for Paradis's reserves of iron ore and aluminum, untapped. Nickel and cobalt to the south; sapphires and gold to the east. Paradis's population went on unknowing.

…

The first spring, coming off the height of the famine, the government had concluded its operation to retake Wall Maria. A steep decline in Paradis's population necessitated an increase in soldiers for the Garrison and Scouting Legion. The age of conscription was temporarily lowered to twelve rather than fifteen.

Braun paid for a couple horses with the money they'd scraped together working in the fields, and the three of them set off towards Trost. Fields frozen over, the sun's rays did nothing to thaw the vegetation beneath. There were few normal trees left in Wall Rose, as the majority of them had been cut down decades ago and the majority of the fauna lay to the northern regions of Paradis within Wall Maria.

They'd been riding since morning, and they weren't close to any village. "There's a light in that house," Hoover said. "Maybe we can stay for the night."

The man who took them in had family, in Ragako. He was away, on business, when he got the letter a few weeks after Maria fell. He'd been living off the land ever since. He cleared out the loft in the barn for them to sleep in, and hot meal in return for keeping the house clean and horses fed. Hoover thanked their boarder while Leonhardt followed Braun's lead.

"Where are you kids from?"

"We're from Ragako," Braun said. "My sister and I were trying to get back home when the wall was breached."

The man frowned. "That's a ways from Shiganshina. What were you doing there?"

"We have family there," Braun said.

"Most families in Rose don't travel outside of that circle."

Leonhardt caught Hoover's eye. His hands drawn tight on his knees. "My brother is just confused," said Leonhardt, "sometimes he gets confused."

Braun held his tongue. His shoulders stiffened. Sitting upright.

"That's a damn shame," the man said, "he'd make a fine soldier."

…

One morning, Hoover woke up and tended to the horses and checked the firewood as usual. Braun and Leonhardt fixed breakfast but the old man never sat down to eat. He didn't leave a note, so he couldn't have gone into town.

Trost was hours away on horseback. Most villages would just elect to amputate a frostbitten limb. One of them could transform and cover the same distance in a quarter of the time, if the Pure Titans or Scouting Legion didn't catch on to the lightning first.

Braun moved slower, putting his weight on his left leg. He'd snap at Hoover if he asked about it too much, that he didn't need to be mothered. Warriors were supposed to be able to heal quickly from injuries.

"You're limping," she said.

"Just my foot," he said. "It's probably nothing that won't fix itself."

"It'll rot."

Braun's grip flexed on the edge of the counter. "Why don't you ask Hoover to come in and help us," Braun said curtly. "I'm sure he's hungry."

She found Hoover by the barn.

"Something's wrong with Reiner," she said.

Hoover snorted. "That's new." Immediately he cringed into himself, resting his forehead against the shed door. "I didn't mean it like." He shook his head, pushing himself upright and exhaling. "I don't know what to do, Annie. I wish there was something concrete and straightforward towards the Progenitor."

"Reiner thought you'd be hungry."

Hoover swallowed. He looked paler. "I don't think so."

"You've been working here since morning. Tell the old man to hurry up."

Hoover's expression hardened. "There's something you need to see."

The old man dangled from the oak tree. "I found him like this," Hoover muttered. "He didn't seem different. I didn't want to tell Reiner in case something about it set him off, or..."

"I'll be damned," said Braun. "He ain't been dead long."

Hoover and Leonhardt both startled. Braun shook his head, averting his eyes. "We should--check the house. He might have money, or--"

"Reiner, he's dead."

"Then he ain't going to be using it," Reiner said shortly, "we're the ones begging for scraps like all the other refugees."

The ground was too stiff to dig a shallow grave. Braun took his clothes from the chest at the foot of his bed, because Hoover was growing tall enough to wear them, and took what money was left over.

As Leonhardt and Hoover walked back outside, Braun limped after them. His boots were caked with mud, you couldn't even see the leather anymore. He took another step and almost dropped to his knee.

"Goddam," he hissed. "I got to--" his eyes darted to the shed. "Bertholdt, come with me a minute." Braun threw the old man's coat over Leonhardt's shoulders and told her to wait outside, but she could hear them arguing through the crack in the door.

Hoover kept insisting it wasn't for Leonhardt to do. Braun said Hoover was strong enough to do what was necessary. He'd been chosen as a Warrior.

They stopped talking. Leonhardt pushed the door open.

Braun had taken his pants and underwear off and was sitting on a stool meant for milking cows. His leg blackened halfway up to the calf. Hoover knelt beside him with the old hacksaw, trembling and splattered with blood. 

Braun looked up at the sound of the door. His jaw set. "Shut it behind you."

Hoover put enough distance between himself and Braun and doubled over, vomiting. Leonhardt stared at the tough, shredded mess of Braun's leg. Braun, paler than usual and splotched with blood, picked up the hacksaw and kept cutting. The cloying, sweet stench of blood and rotting flesh filled her senses. Leonhardt couldn't bring herself to throw up.

"Get a rope," Braun grit out, "need to stop the bleeding."

Leonhardt looked around in a daze. Hoover sprang to his feet and sprinted towards the rack, grabbing the rope, back to Braun, who tied a knot around the amputation. He was breathing through his teeth. 

Hoover staggered back.

A thick plume of steam billowed in the air between them, opaque. Braun's breathing evened out.

Hoover wiped his mouth on his tattered sleeve. "Once his leg heals, we'll keep moving. If a Titan comes after us..." Hoover's breath wavered, exhumed in front of him, "well, let's hope that doesn't happen."

Leonhardt balled her hands in her pockets to retain a little warmth. "Won't someone notice the lightning?"

"Could wait for a thunderstorm," Braun said through ragged breaths. He was already trying to get his pants and underwear back on. "Or a hailstorm."

Hoover's teeth were chattering. Braun pushed himself to stand and limped over on a leg raw and flaky and still growing into its toes. He threw his arm across Hoover's shoulder and grabbed Leonhardt by the scruff of her ratty jacket and pulled them close.

…

After two winters of Braun showing himself to be capable and hard-working, Hoover and Leonhardt on his heels, they were old enough to enlist in the 104th Trainee Corps Southern division. That first night in the girl's barracks, Leonhardt didn't make a lot of friends. She was quiet and standoffish and would rather stand by the wall and pick out a bunk herself. She'd picked a couple out, but no one seemed interested in sharing a bunk with her.

"Need someone to bunk with?" A fresh-faced girl with pigtails extended her hand. "I'm Mina Carolina."

"Annie." Leonhardt glanced at the beds. "Which bunk do you want?"

"It's all the same to me. I grew up with siblings, so it's nice to have a bed all to myself." Carolina climbed up the ladder. "I can take the top bunk, if that's all right with you."

Leonhardt hummed in compliance.

"My sister's already in the Garrison," Carolina added, climbing back down, "which is what I'm aiming for."

"That's smart."

The other girl shrugged. "It's just common sense. Not everyone is going to be a prodigy. My mum said it was either join the Training Corps or wait until I was old enough to marry. I don't think I'd have minded a less exciting life, to be honest. I'm no good with ODM gear." She peered over the side of the bunk. "Which division do you want to go into? When you graduate, I mean?"

"Military Police."

"I see," said Carolina. "You're very serious about it." She chuckled and looked down. "Me, I'm definitely not cut out for the Military Police. But even if I'm not that strong or sharp, there's always some use for the soldiers who get caught in the middle."

"You talk a lot."

Carolina blinked. "Oh, am I making you uncomfortable? You're just—easy to talk to, I guess."

The lights cut.

[emmybeearts]

Day 16: Origin

It's been a while since my last log. I'm trying to save as much energy as I can here, but this was too important to not document. The cave has gotten pretty sparse in terms of life as we delve deeper every day. I'm not sure how deep we are or how far we've gone anymore, I'm just blindly trusting the wisp. How that will ultimately pan out, I'm still unsure, however, it did lead us to something breathtaking.

The cave began to become more and more open the further we went down this path. As it did, the temperature seemed to fall deeper and deeper accordingly until the walls of the cave itself were composed of pure ice, who knows how many meters thick. It felt more like we were walking through a glacier than a cold, stone cave. Off in the distance, I saw an unnatural shape jutting out of the caves icy walls. My first assumption had me believing it was a hard, crystalline growth that remained after all the stone around it eroded away. As we got closer, however, it became more and more apparent what it was we were seeing. 

From the wall of the cave jutted out a colossal  fossilized skeleton. It was bigger than a whale, and perfectly preserved in these dry and thermally consistent conditions. Seeing how deep it’s been buried underground and the stratigraphic layers in the ice,  it's safe to say this animal hasn’t walked Atria for a very long time. It's very possible that Atria had its own version of the age of the dinosaur. Despite being long extinct, there’s a good chance that this animal, like the dinosaur, is an origin species to something that still lives on Atria today. 

While the bones of Earth's animals are primarily comprised a framework of calcium phosphate, the bones of animals here on Atria are made of a complex crystalline web of silicon dioxide mixed with various other elements and impurities to strengthen the skeletal scaffolding. This makes Atrian bones incredibly hard and durable as they are relatively the same hardness as quartz. Once all the organic matter has been stripped off from the bones, all that is left is the solid crystalline structure. What this means is that, while fossils on Earth have the calcium slowly dissolved while the void they left behind gets replaced with harder elements to produce a fossil, the bone on Atria can’t dissolve meaning what is left behind is the animal's genuine skeleton.

There are several animals we’ve already come across on our journey that make use of fallen skeletons. It's primarily the various crab-bugs species that use the larger bones to strengthen their shells. seeing how isolated we are this deep in the caves, and how little life can thrive in these dark and cold conditions, nothing was able to break down these bones leaving them perfectly preserved for eons. 

Our wisp guide seems just as excited to explore these old bones as we are. It keeps diving into the skeletal structure and lighting up the translucent bones from deep within. I’ve already set up camp under its occipital bone as it seems like the most structurally sound part of this skeleton. While it would have been safer to set up camp away from it, there was no way I could bring myself to pass up on the opportunity. As stunning as this find is, we can't stay forever. We head out bright and early tomorrow and, sadly, have to leave this magnificent fossil behind. If it comes to it, I should be able to find my way back here once we get out. Maybe one day.

[End Transcription]

[bug-the-chicken-nug]

okay, the CliffNotes version of a longer thing that Tumblr won't actually let me fucking post all at once for some reason: AU where there is no bullshit about humanity "re-evolving". -Part of humanity instead survives the Extinction Blast in gigantic magically-warded bunker-cities called Refugia, successfully anticipating Doomsday. -However, lingering dark energy still slowly seeps in and erodes their magic and the magic of the residents, over the course of centuries and generations -Outside, the combination of massive "blooms" of negativity created by gigantic die-offs, and the dark energy itself, create a sort of Golden Age of Grimm, making it too dangerous to leave any of the Refugia. -All of this magical energy "bleeding out" of each Refugia, along with the lingering dark energy of the Blast and the residual Aura traces of all remaining life on Earth, eventually reaches equilibrium by "coalescing" and "reacting" together, building up within the earth as Dust. -As Refugia slowly decay, weaken, and fall out of equilibrium, and comms start to fail, people mine out extensions of them to try and locate more resources. -Dust is discovered in this way -Finding that it is able to augment the waning magical potential of humanity, humans use it to revitalize their communications systems, and from there research lost and dying branches of magic that were previously becoming impossible. -This leads to experiments to create Faunus, permanently transfiguring humans with these rituals in order to create people who can do a wide variety of specialized tasks by taking on animalistic traits, made possible because Dust is partly made up of the residual Aura of living things. -Faunus are more powerful, animalistic, and magically capable at this point, but still an "imperfect" art. So, they are almost always made from society's poor and undesirable, so as to let others avoid the risks of anything going wrong during transfiguration. They are divisive from the start, despite being strong, and excellent at their various duties. -For these reasons, humanity becomes regretful of their own creation, and a mix of fear and jealousy towards Faunus abounds -Many Faunus are exiled from Refugia en-masse over the slightest provocations blown out of proportion -Faunus manage to brave the wilderness, although they become weaker and their animal traits become more subtle as a result of being exposed to the lingering effects of the Extinction Blast, on top of it being diluted by interbreeding with human exiles and sympathizers. -Humans want to invade their new lands AFTER the Faunus have gone to the painstaking trouble of making it semi-hospitable -Humans in turn don't want to let any of them back into the Refugia -The Faunus decide this is INCREDIBLY unfair, and try to fight back. -This creates a domino effect that eventually leads to all Refguia being reduced to ruins, but the Faunus badly losing the broader conflict, as they do not have the numbers or any Refugia to back themselves up, even with a good chunk of human sympathizers, exiles, and traitors on their side.