#myth dices make fanfics

[lunarsands]

ALSMP Fanfic: Hellbent Ch 1

Characters: Scott Major, MythicalSausage

Tags: Canon divergent, We’re way off the canon origin list now, featuring derivatives such as werewolf!Scott, guardian!Sausage, enderian!Scott, vampire!Sausage, wither!Scott, merling!Sausage, floran!Scott and including the return of blazeborn!Myth and gravital!Smajor

WARNINGS: Blood, Violence, Injury, Body Horror, Character Death, So Much Death that I’ll be here for days listing warnings for them all. We got water, we got fire, we got neuro-toxins, we got stabbing. Nothing is portrayed in graphic detail, but consider yourself warned! No Fluff Only Murder.

Summary: The cycle that started with a hungry vampire and an imprisoned angel comes full circle.

Scott and Sausage – now going by Smajor and Myth – have broken the cosmic respawn system with their continuous murder of each other, and more than ten lives later they are still at it. Even an encounter with peaceful versions of themselves in a limbo dimension doesn't deter them for long, but Myth at long last gains the upper hand. He has a choice: end the feud, or… Well, that’s it, that’s his only choice. But he’ll do it one way or another…

Sequel to Bloodfall, Witherrise, Fatemirrored, and Heavensent, with references to (and later picking up after) the crossover Mirror Mirror Break Our Fall.

Part Five of the Soul Liminality Series.

(Also available on Ao3! )

[A/N: Scratch what I said about Mirror Mirror not being canon to either fic universe, it’s now canon to this one. I’ve had this sitting in my pocket for a while and it finally came together, once again with brainstorming help from @cynthrey! You know you might have too many origins/types of death of those origins to keep track of in one fic when your friend goes and makes a spreadsheet.]

---

Chapter One

Fox blood wasn’t as good as angel blood, but as Smajor clamped his wolfish jaws down on Myth’s red-furred throat, he was just as happy to swallow down another of his nemesis’ lives. Both happening to be creatures of the forest – relatively speaking, for a werewolf -- had done little to deter Scott from sniffing him out once again and hunting him down. Myth usually tried to hide and strike when the opportunity presented itself; Smajor just actively killed on sight most of the time. He admitted to admiring Myth’s newfound skill – regardless of what he became – to remain quiet, but it rarely saved him for long.

Scott had come to resent first the loss of his lovely, delicious prisoner, and then at the betrayal when vampire became angel and Myth’s own reaction had been unyielding vengeance. It seemed like they had managed to be allies for all of five minutes, and the rest of the time it was just sheer hatred for each other. Even when they came back as something that had similar traits – although the cosmic roll of the dice proclaimed them never to be the same thing at the same time – there was instant animosity. The battle of back-and-forth murder had been going on for so long that they had started losing track of some of what they had been – except for the ones that had precipitated everything. It was even hard to remember how many times they had died, so they settled on keeping count of how many times they had killed the other.

Sausage – after reluctantly accepting the moniker of ‘Myth’ because Smajor wouldn’t call him anything else now, swearing to obliterate him until he was nothing but some legend in a forgotten story – had been scratching tally marks into the metal arm guard he somehow always regenerated with whether he was humanoid or animal. Scott, meanwhile, dubbed himself ‘Smajor’ after one time when Myth had tried to call him a ‘major pain in the ass’ with his dying breath and slurred the first word instead.

Smajor had a scrap of leather that he kept on him, and currently added a new tally mark with a claw before licking the blood from his chops. Well, that was a nice even twenty in number of kills. He left Myth’s body alone for the moment, trotting away behind some trees, amused by the thought of letting him regenerate and try to escape again, then maybe he would howl and chase him through the forest for a while until biting into him again. He did very much enjoy whenever he turned into something with a good set of sharp teeth.

A few moments later he heard Myth begin to cough, then gasp. He smiled. Sounded like maybe he had become a merling and was having a little trouble breathing. There was a lake nearby… Maybe he would make it. Smajor decided to wait, and then he followed the sounds. As much as he liked killing Myth with his own hands, an unfortunate roll of the dice that led to side effects was just as fun to see, and hear, play out.

Myth turned out to be faster than he expected, however, and he heard the splash before he himself was near to the lake. He also underestimated how fast his nemesis could now swim, because as Smajor stepped out from the trees onto the lake shore, a figure was darting from the opposite shore into that tree line. Ah. Myth knew these woods, too. He would know where the next body of water was. He wouldn’t allow himself to be limited to one little puddle to be picked off when he surfaced.

Smajor smiled again and began loping around the edge of the lake. He could pick up the fishy trail and simply sniff him out no matter how many bodies of water he tried to cross. This would be a nice game. There was nowhere for Myth to go – neither of them had any place they really called home anymore, just a few hidden caches set up here and there when time permitted. Yet even that was difficult to do when one of them was destroying the landscape with their powers in pursuit of the other.

Nowhere and no one was safe at this point. The others had long since learned that if they saw either of them coming it was time to also run and hide. The few exceptions were when someone else more powerful got involved and tried to stop them, but that tended to result in double death, and another new start of the chase with different powers.

Meanwhile, Myth’d had it in his head for a while that if he could just get the right combination of abilities, he might be able to keep Smajor on a metaphorical chain long enough to take the fight out of him – or put him where he would be forced to do nothing but think about how pointless this unending feud was.

Turning into a Temple Guardian-type mer this round gave him an idea: he knew he could gain additional abilities by slaying an Elder Guardian, so he was now making a beeline for the nearest ocean via every source of water he could think of that could sustain him on the way. It would be a wondrous miracle if he could get his hands on a bucket of water and some Aqua Affinity gear along the way, but he knew he wouldn’t have much chance of finding a place to make them himself and spend precious minutes trying to roll for them in an enchanting table.

Smajor would catch up to him, as was inevitable, so he might as well go straight for an ocean monument to be prepared ahead of time with as much of an arsenal as he could get from one. It was harrowing a few times when he almost came up short between the abrupt end of a river and the next small lake, but he kept pushing himself. Eventually he would find a river that led out into the ocean, and he could get a reprieve out in deeper waters.

It did cross his mind to try to live out his life in the possible safety of a remote biome with abilities that Smajor couldn’t interfere with, but in all honesty, Myth wouldn’t put it past his nemesis to pick a way to end himself just to get new powers that would allow him to continue the chase. With the other, actual Temple Guardians and the Elder Guardians, Myth might possibly have some additional protection… However, he would prefer to not have the constant threat hanging over his head altogether.

One of these times things would have to work out in his favor for longer than a few hours.

And so, after wresting a trident from a Drowned, he made his way into a monument, unbothered by the effects of his current brethren, and slew the Elder Guardian. Once he absorbed its powers, he started making plans for how to deal with Smajor. There was the obvious: hit him with fatigue, then drag him down to the monument and secure him there, where a horrible process could be repeated until Smajor gained an aquatic-based body. Then Myth would have to think of something else, because there was every chance Smajor could have some ability that allowed him to escape, and of course he would kill Myth on the way out – or turn the tables on him, and trap him in the exact same spot.

Well, Myth needed to start somewhere, anyway, and this was at least one opportunity. As he was collecting some extra blocks from the monument itself to build a holding cell, he saw the sponges and realized a better option might be to actually keep Smajor alive down here, without risk of him becoming something that could survive in water. Myth then worked to create an extra area clear of water as a backup plan.

Soon, however, it dawned on him that he could even rest here. Smajor was currently limited to land, and if he did find a way through the water, he would first have to figure out where Myth had gone, and then have to get past the other Guardians. He allowed himself a smile and made a sweep of the monument, checking the locations of the cyclopean fish. He sonar-pinged a warning to them of a possible invader, telling them to stay on alert, then he returned to the center and burrowed into the sand to sleep. If Smajor made it through all that, Myth could still attempt to stay hidden.

~*~

Later on, he was awoken by agitated pinging from the Temple Guardians that hit his own sonar-like senses. They hadn’t noticed an intruder, but some type of ruckus on the surface was setting them off. Myth warily swam toward the outer rows of columns to make sure nothing was directly above him. He could tell that it was now nighttime from the extra darkness, although he could see through the water just fine. The sound itself wasn’t in the water, but was enough to be heard through it.

Howling.

Ah, there was a very frustrated werewolf nearby.

Myth gave a tired smile and began a careful ascent. He would have to creep through the shallows if Smajor was on shore, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he had gotten ahold of a boat just to keep pursuing his prey. Myth rather hoped for the latter so he could come up directly underneath and overturn it.

The words were muffled but the rage came through just fine. “Myth!! Show yourself, you coward!! Come and face me!!”

The noise bounced off his sonar as well, and that made it easier to find which direction it was coming from. And Smajor actually had been foolish enough – or overconfident enough – to row a boat out here. Myth sped upward and shoved both hands against one side of the bottom of the boat, nearly flipping it in one go. But it was enough to knock Smajor into the water. The wolfish menace attempted to grab for the boat; Myth was quicker and wrapped his scaly arms around him, immediately pulling him down. “If you decide not to struggle, I have a nice place for you to stay! You’ll like it, I promise. You can even yell at me all day there!”

Unable to speak lest he end up with a lungful of water all the faster, Smajor instead began thrashing his whole body. Myth used the pointy spines on both arms to dig into him to try to discourage this, but Smajor didn’t seem to care about the extra pain and kicked his legs next.  Myth’s hold was secure and they only sank deeper. Finally, Smajor snarled, releasing a rush of air bubbles as he tried to twist around and snap at his captor’s face. Myth responded with a tight squeeze of his arms, forcing out more of that precious air.

Smajor stopped struggling soon after that. Well, that works, too, Myth thought as he carried his nemesis down toward the monument. At least that makes this part easier. Yet before he got much closer, Smajor’s body vanished. Myth blinked. That had never happened so quickly after a death.  Usually there was more time before one of them regenerated as something new and then revived.

Then Myth spotted a flicker of purple particles, and he chuckled darkly to himself. Oh, huh. He’s Enderian now. That was like an automatic teleport. So he’ll die even faster if he’s pulled into water...

He turned to swim toward the nearest land mass this time. An enderman who accidentally ended up in a body of water always teleported to the first bit of sand and soil within range.

Even though he attempted to be cautious again and was ready to grab Smajor right away, as soon as his head cleared the water he could hear the sound of an aggroed enderman. A lanky, obsidian-skinned version of Smajor rushed at him, jaw unhinged as he screeched horribly and slashed at Myth’s face despite the water running off of him.

Myth sank back into the ocean’s surface but Smajor pursued, spitting and flinching as the water injured him, but was not deterred. One of his strikes finally landed and Myth yelled in pain. The Enderian grabbed him and started to haul him out of the water. Myth clutched at the gashes across his face, beginning to lose sight in his right eye. He then extended the sharp fin on his left arm and sliced Smajor across the chest, deep enough to expose the enderpearl at his heart.

Myth took hold of the pearl and yanked it out, throwing it in the next motion to teleport away and gain time to recover. However, being half-blinded as he was, he judged the direction incorrectly. He teleported out of the dying Smajor’s hold straight inland.

At least the pearl landed under a tree instead of on it. Not that it mattered all that much; Myth was in too much shock to try to make it back to water. He knew he would die there, laying gasping on the ground while he clutched his face with both hands. But at least he had gotten Smajor an extra time, as well. He used his last few breaths to pull a shaky left hand away from his eye and scratch two new tally marks into his arm guard with a sharp spine.

.

Myth revived sometime later relieved to find sight had returned to his right eye, but a touch revealed new, horizontal scars. He had suspected for a while that his body wasn’t regenerating one hundred percent, and this proved it, but at least he hadn’t lost the eye.

This time.

He decided the next thing he would do was to find a pond or something to check for certain how he looked. He wasn’t sure yet what he even was now, but it wasn’t aquatic fortunately, and he felt rather strong. It was also still nighttime, so he had the cover of darkness to sneak around in, although he did hope Smajor was nowhere nearby.

He found his steps moved faster than average, and it was reassuring to be able to dart past Creepers and skeletal archers. There might be a reason they didn’t seem to mind him, because nary an arrow was shot his way, but he chose not to worry about it.

Then it turned out he had much bigger concerns, when he finally reached a small stream and leaned over to have a look.

He had no reflection.

“Oh, gods. No. No… Anything but this…” His stomach churned at the revelation and he turned away to be sick behind the cover of a tall fern. He could feel his fangs as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He returned to the stream and made an attempt to clean up even without being able to see himself, pretending he was just washing off his own blood from the new scars.

Blood blood blood. The thought pounded through his head. He should go find some fresh blood, from someone with a lovely, beating heart…

No. Absolutely not.

He couldn’t cross the stream from ground level but he didn’t have the strength of will to try leaping yet. He would follow alongside it for now, and just eat raw beef or fish when he found some. He would have to contend with sunrise soon enough… and yet, he was also tempted to let the sun do its own work so he could become something else. Gods forbid he come across Smajor as this, too… but at least the other would be extremely unlikely to be an angel again. He didn’t need that kind of parallelism in his life ever again, nor did he have any interest in tasting his nemesis’ blood.

Myth felt lucky when he stumbled upon a small cave just as the sky began to lighten. Maybe it was a sign to tough this one out for a little longer. There was no evidence of it being an animal den, so he slipped inside and was able to move some large rocks over to the entrance to block it off so no one could stumble across him. He slept through the day, and instinctively woke at nightfall.

Unfortunately, hunger also awoke around the same time. His new senses were telling him that all sorts of warm, pulsing veins were out there beyond the cave. He began to clear away the rocks. He couldn’t fight it… He would have to do something. No people. He would not bite any people. Livestock were fair game; he could keep telling himself that, and everything would be fine.

The thought worked up until he saw lights from a village, and he soon heard the sound of a zombie beating on a door. He swallowed after his mouth reflexively salivated and he turned to dart off in a different direction to avoid the temptation, but a different flash of bluish-white light and an explosion drew his attention, and instead he crept closer. Someone else with supernatural powers was around, although he wasn’t sensing a living heartbeat to go along with it.

The light flashed again, and he recognized it. Wither. Was someone trying to make themself useful and was taking out the zombies to save the village? That seemed vaguely noble, and better than he had done as one.

His assessment changed as soon as he caught a glimpse of the sunken eyes and bitter expression of the perpetrator, then he let out a loud laugh and stepped forward, baring the fangs he had desperately been trying to ignore. “So, it looks like irony is still on the cosmic table. We’re both back on the dark side at the same time. Do you want to put the warring behind us and team up again, Scott?” He purposely used the other’s former name.

Smajor gave a raspy laugh of his own, refraining from attacking right away. “Oh, that will go well, sure. Tell me, how many people have you bitten so far? I haven’t seen a trail of bodies anywhere, unless I managed to miss it completely. Not thirsty right now, are you? I was just doing this because I was bored, but if you want to have a snack before I raze this place, help yourself. Go ahead.” He smirked. “You ate plenty of souls before, now you can appreciate the taste of blood. Go on.” He gestured to one of the doors that were shut tight against the roaming undead. “You don’t have to worry about being invited in, I’ll blast it open for you.”

Myth refused to be baited into looking away from Smajor, although he could hear the heartbeat behind the door, speeding up with fear from realizing there were now additional dangers outside. He swallowed again but played it off with a shrug. “Nah. I’m good right now.”

“Fine. I’ll get back to what I was doing.” Smajor conjured a skull in one hand and threw it toward a blacksmith, exploding the wall and causing lava to start flowing onto the path. He raised his hand again to conjure another, then conjured a second one in the other hand.

He grinned to himself, then spun and flung both of them toward Myth before turning it into a repeating volley of thrown skulls.

The reluctant vampire was ready for him. Myth’s red eyes flashed as he marked Smajor, waiting, waiting… He switched places right before the first two skulls hit, leaving Smajor to be pummeled by his own explosions. For extra measure, Myth ran to the spilled lava, standing one step away before triggering the mark again after the volley ended, leaving a battered Smajor standing – just barely standing, that is – in the spot. He followed up by rushing over and shoving the wither backward into the lava pool.

Myth hoped it would be enough, but he wasn’t going to stick around to risk getting set on fire just to make sure the other stayed in the lava. He bounded away to the hill that overlooked the area and instead waited there to keep an eye on things. He would see if Smajor emerged as something different, then act afterward.

It wasn’t long before a figure that was decidedly on the green side stumbled out of the wreckage that he himself had caused. With his keen eyesight, Myth could see Smajor had flowers all over his hair, which seemed to be causing the newly created floran some distress. He chuckled and decided to go back down to confront him again, although he more so wanted to laugh at Smajor’s burgeoning temper tantrum to his face.

The floran was currently trying to rip all of the flowers out of his hair, but he stopped when he saw Myth approaching. “Of course this would be the one time you don’t run away. Go ahead, laugh your big, bad vampiric head off, then suck out whatever passes for blood that I have. Not like I can do anything to you with some pathetic little flowers. Just get it over with!” There wasn’t any less vitriol in his tone, despite the harmless-looking flowery exterior.

“Still not hungry,” Myth proclaimed blithely. “Maybe this is a sign for you to stop and smell the roses for a bit, maybe take some time to reflect and realize this cycle we’re stuck in doesn’t have to continue. You could settle down, raise a garden, maybe actually start caring about the land around you instead of treating it like an obstacle in the way of getting to me.”

“Oh, and you’ll just waltz off and claim a dark castle somewhere, feeding off the rest of the mere mortals around you? Remember, that eventually made someone come for me – if you want me to bring up more of the past. Maybe if you hadn’t come after my wings, none of this would have happened!”

“Oh, no, don’t you try to turn this around on me. You’re the one who won’t let it go. I will definitely find something better to do with my time than run around watching my back every second because you’re set on some unending vendetta.”

Smajor spread his green-dappled hands to indicate himself. “Look at me. This is useless. Do you want me to say ‘Congratulations, Sausage, you win!’ Because I won’t.”

“I know you won’t. And I don’t want you to. I just want you to bug off and not hurt anyone ever again.”

Smajor now held out one arm, where a smattering of pink tea roses had started to bloom. “Really? You think I can harm anyone with this happening to me?” He began brushing off the small flowers, only for more to blossom on the other arm. “Nether blast it, I can’t even control these things!”

Myth chuckled. “So, you literally have to stop and smell them. Look at that, a new hobby for you.”

“Yeah, and the other things that come with roses…” Smajor stopped fussing over his own arms and abruptly lunged at him. Myth felt a sharp pain in his chest and looked down, seeing the palm of the floran’s hand held outward and a giant thorn sticking out of it, piercing into the vampire’s heart.

Smajor smirked. “I can’t believe you fell for that and let your guard down so stupidly. As if I would ever be weak around you. Goodbye again, Myth. The most pathetic excuse for a vampire ever. You could have gloated after biting me, but I knew you wouldn’t. Wouldn’t want to experience all that trauma again by your own fangs, would you, dear angel? Off to dust you go. I’ll catch up to you later.”

Myth hated that the last thing he saw was that smug face as his body crumbled away beneath him. Now he wished he’d had the courage to bite him, just so Smajor would know how it felt to have the life and spirit drained out of him.

 [ Chapter Two ]

[lunaekalenda]

Hello. I saw you have the dice game for drabbles. Could you do one for Soft!Naked!Eren (can be in a flower meadow or any setting in the Drabble, but I’m open minded on where this goes)? Thanks! - 🌼

hi! sure, i'll see what the dices roll and how i can make it!

the dices said: Olympus - Icarus - Hermes for Eren

Mount Olympus could be seen from every point of Greece, and Eren loved to see it from the flower field behind his home, where he lived with his dad, a known inventor that made incredible works as Creta's labyrinth. Sitting outside with the breeze, using anything more but the white, almost transparent tunic he loves, he imagined how the god's home would look as he waits for you.

Sooner than he thinks, you're descending from the sky, using those cute winged sandals that let you move fast and return to the Olympus with ease. His lips outline a smile as you stand gracefully in front of him, before walking to his arms, keeling near his body to cross your arms behind his neck.

"I missed you."

His hug thightens aroubd your body as he inhales the sweet scent of your neck. You don't like this, to see him once in a while, to hide from the gods. Why would them say you're not allowed to fall in love with humans?

Do they even know what love is?

"I missed you too." his words are soft, whispered between you hair, as he presses his lips in the exact place where your neck and your jaw unite. The hug is long, before he stands up. Checking twice the little building before him, he takes you hand, guiding you through lilacs and roses, to the workshop. You've been there a couple times, helping him to make tons of human weapons and, maybe, making out on the working bench because no one could see you there. He opens the workshop for you to enter. "I wanna show you something."

He closes behind him before walking in front of you. "I've found something between all my dad's older creations, and I just made a little arragnment to them." he explains, as he looks back from time to time, checking you're still following him. "You said you don't wanna hide anymore, and Armin said recently that to be a demi-god, you just have to impress the gods." It's not how it works, but you let him speak as he searches between all those boxes. "I want to ask for your hand in marriage." you gasp and feel ypur legs becoming jelly. "And, for that, I need to reach the Olympus." taking the box out, he smiles. He opens it slowly. "So, I made wings." the wings are identical to the ones you wear on your sandal: white, with little gold details, and extremely soft to touch. You feel your eyes teary. "Today, I'll go eith you to the Olympus. And I'll make sure they accept our love."

Even when you love that plan, there are still a couple things you think he should revise.

"I'm sorry to say this, but they won't give you the demigod state just for wings, not even hero...." He takes both your hands between his.

"We won't know without trying." he whispers now, hands tangled on your waist as he grabs you closer. "And I don't want to hide my love for you anymore. I want to take your hand, to kiss you and to hug you freely." His lips leave a sweet kiss on your lips, before ordering softly and taking the wings. He smiles, with that smile full of happiness, of love, those ones you could easily see on kids. He offers you his hand.

"Should we go?" he puts his wings in his back. You arrange them for him, before leaving a chaste kiss on his back, right on the spot the wings leave free. You take his hand before looking at him, a smile he can't resist to kiss.

"Let's go."

[myfanfictiongarden]

Storm- Descendants fanfic

The clouds are dark and heavy, a menacing presence over the Isle, the winds throwing the rain manically through the dirty narrow streets. Shops are closing down for the day and the market stands are being deserted, everyone surprised by the force in this recent storm. To have bad weather on the Isle is not unusual, more the norm, having cold winds chill your bones or constant showers of rain drenching your raged cloths. Yet once in a while the winds decide to show no mercy on those who would despise such act anyway and one is only left to creep into any kind of shelter that he considereds home.

Skipping over the slippery rocks along the beach, the steep cliffs already far behind, Uma curses under her breath as heavy rain rolls down her face, her hair already dripping wet, her clothes a mere joke in this weather. A tiny hope arises in her that maybe now at least the rain may finally wash out the everlasting smell of shrimps out of her braids that has caused her such misery throughout the last three years, but this hope is thin as not even stolen Aurodonian soap could do such miracles. In front of her Harry easily aclimbs the last rocky obstacle and she follows him her feet finally having wooden planks under them, the path along the Wharft being uncomfortably slippery too. They had just met up after school at the rocks on the beach, only waiting for Gil to arrive so they could start their “treasure hunt” (as in “stealing”) in the market, but the weather has turned abruptly even before their companion could join them.

She has been following Harry through the rain without even asking where he was leading them, sure he would know some good place to take shelter, which was the reason why she now for the first time stopped realizing where he was taking them and wondering if that was truly their only option.

“This is the best you could cone up with? Isn’t your dad, like, at home or something?” She asks standing one foot on the plank that is leading on the famous Jolly Roger.

“Nah, he is still at the shop by now, and surely won’t consider coming home in this weather.” Harry says just slightly turning in her direction before disappearing through the double doors leading inside the ship, and she is left to simply follow too. Everyone knows the Jolly Roger and her famous captain, and Uma has often been standing at the harbour admiring that mighty ship, impressive still after long past it’s glorious days. To set foot on it was not an option. On the Isle you are usually not friendly with your neighbours, especially if they want to enter your property. Being wet to the bone as she was there was not left much to think about.

Passing through the entrance door she climbs slowly the stairs down to the living quarters, a grin on her face as she has the unexpected honour of entering that ship. Coming down to the first level she scans her surroundings, on the one end having a door leading to the mass with a stow and pans and long table being visible, another door indicating the shared bedroom of Harry’s sisters (the roughly engraved name of Harriet and the more joyful one of CJ declaring it as such) and the stairs behind her leading further down to the quarters of the crew that doesn’t live there anymore and the storage level that only storages dust and rats these days. 

What catches her attention the most though is the open door at the end of the hall at the far end of the ship: the Captain’s quarters. Her curiosity getting the better of her she lets her feet lead her there with a ever broader grin on her face, not noticing that Harry was about to lead her in the opposite direction. Her eyes are firmly fixed on what is in front of her, not ready to let this chance slip. How often can one wander Captain Hook’s ship anyway? The door is quite wide open, good, she would be able to take a look without touching anything. 

As she finally arrives at the doorframe she suddenly stops. The room in front of her is exactly how one would imagine it to be. Great windows on the far end cover the whole back of the ship, fine red curtains that look splendid even with the moth holes, a huge table in the middle with countless maps spread on it, a great piano in one corner and a small stowe to keep the room warm in winter in the other end, a curtain hiding what must be the sleeping place. But this are not the things that made her stop so abruptly. Sitting in a chair by the table is a woman of middle age, dark blond hair falling messy around her face to her shoulders, streaks of grey mixing with the blond, a dirty white blouse and a black and green long skirt being her attire, a round golden earring visible on the left ear. It is the manner in which she sits that makes the scene eerie, the thin hands holding needle and thread and a piece of fabric like about to sew, but all they do is move through the air in small movements, the lips twitching from time to time, the eyes holding a stare lost somewhere in the distance.

Uma didn’t even notice she had been holding her breath, until a gentle touch on her shoulder made her nearly jump, and turning around she can see Harry gesturing with his head she should follow him. Feeling suddenly incredibly awkward she looks down to her feet where a puddle of water has formed by now before silently following him.

He leads her to another door at the other end of the hall she realizes must lead to his bedroom. The door squeaks a bit as he opens it and steps in, not even turning around to see if she had been following him. 

His room is messy and not really big. He takes of his drenched red fake leather jacket (his biggest pride at the moment, he managed to bring a goblin to sell it to him for half the price) his black hoodie under it not looking much better, and ruffles his wet hair with his free hand, water dripping all around. Throwing the jacket over the only chair in the room he lets himself down on the floor under the round window opposite the door, stretching his legs and leaning his head on the wooden planks of the wall. Her hair still dripping (but not too much anymore, and she considers if she should start braiding it all the way around and not just in parts, that way her locks wouldn’t be an complete disaster in rain) she is a bit unsure what to do with herself and crossing her arms she starts to pace the room a bit. 

On the wall right from the door hangs a collection of various pocket watches and clocks, most of them already having a chipped glass, none of them working. She knows Harry likes his weird collection. There is a bookshelf with a bunch of rolled up papers, most of them probably sea maps one can not use on the Isle, and two actual books, one on the history of piracy and the other on sea monsters and myths. Opposite there is no bed but a simple hammock with a pillow and blanket. On the left from the door a chest stands, but judging by the look of it it doesn’t hold any treasures and more like dirty laundry. She can see the sleeve of Harry’s old shirt peaking out, the deep cuts in it telling her some sword fighting didn’t end too well for him. The middle of the room is taken by an table and chair, the chair not looking all too safe to sit on she decides to stroll to the wall where Harry still sits motionless on the floor.

Crossing her legs she lets herself down, lightning striking outside, followed by a deep rumble of thunder not far off. Waves rock the ship as they both sit in silence, she suddenly feeling itchy to talk.

“Was that your mom?” she asks as casually as possible, not sure if he would reply.

“Ay, the one and only one. Didn’t think I had one, right? Thought some dirty glowing fairy raised me, isn’t it?” His laugh, as he says that, seeming weirdly out of place.

“Of course I knew you had one, dumbhead.” She scoffs turning her head away, faking insult while actually still wondering about the sewing woman. On her right stands a wardrobe and the cutting marks tell her the doors must have stood in for quite a few of Harry’s angry outbursts. She can hear his pose shift, like he is reaching out for something on his left and soon enough he punches her arm a bit, a cup in his hand and dice on the other. She smiles slightly at the good idea and they spend the rest of the afternoon playing a game of dice.

Even though none of the clocks in his room work she knows a lot of time has passed, the sound of rain having calmed down, the sound of thunder dying away. Knowing her mom would throw her tentacles after her if she came to late to her shift again, she decides it’s time to face the ever present wrath called mother, and laying down the dice she makes her way about to leave, Harry following her suite. She walks into the hallway, dark and empty, wooden planks squeaking with every movement of the ship. On the far end she can still see the door to the Captain’s quarters being open and her feet stop at the stairs, her head turning slightly in that mysterious direction.

“She gets such fits once in a while.” Harry’s voice is nothing more than a whisper, nearly lost in the howling sound of the wind outside. Without another word he makes his way up and she follows him.

The clouds aren’t that heavy anymore, the evening sky already dark. Her steps are quite quick, yet she can still hear his steps being nearly as quick, him walking only slightly behind her. She isn’t sure why he decided to follow her to the shop, she doesn’t need any protection in the dark (although it does feel better) and it’s not like she has to expect every day to have a bucket of old fish been thrown over her head (she believes it would now happen even less often since she broke that dumb boys nose last week in school). The harbour is nearly deserted when her mom’s shop appears in eyesight and Harry stops to give her arm a slight punch before turning on his heals and starting to head back in the direction they came from. Some barrels standing by the side he decides to make a jump over them, getting hand of some rope hanging down and swinging on it a few feet through the air before landing on his feet again. He’s crazy Uma thinks. 

As she watches his silhouette disappear in the thick evening mist she notices he has neither his jacket nor hook with him.

[notagarroter]

The Eternal Problem: A Meditation on Mortality in Sherlock S4

When asked about S4 during the promotional lead-up, Moftiss repeatedly said this new series would be about one thing: consequences.  Now that we stand on the other side of S4, what do we think they meant?  It obviously wasn't legal consequences for shooting Magnussen, or physical consequences of overdosing on drugs.   

In this meta, I argue that TAB and S4 are above all about the moral, metaphysical, and narrative consequences of Sherlock faking his death during the Reichenbach Fall—an act which continues to reverberate through the story two series later, both for the characters and, significantly, for the writers.

Reichenbach Revisited

First, a little review session: What exactly was the "final problem"? 

Ah. Here we are at last—you and me, Sherlock, and our problem—the final problem. Stayin’ alive! It’s so boring, isn’t it?  It’s just ... staying.

We got an answer, but it was hard to grasp without a larger context.  How is staying alive a problem?  It is only in the context of Series 4 that the full meaning and extent of Moriarty's final problem starts to become apparent. 

Moriarty was sick of staying alive, and he wanted Sherlock to feel the same way.  It wasn't enough for Moriarty merely to kill Sherlock (which he could have done at any point on that rooftop)—he needed Sherlock to welcome death, just as he did. 

Moriarty tried to give Sherlock the perfect motivation and opportunity to kill himself.  He went to great pains to threaten Sherlock's best friends, so Sherlock could honorably sacrifice himself for their safety.  Moriarty even stepped first into the breach, hopeful that Sherlock would follow him.  But Sherlock refused his offer, and wiggled his way out of this pre-ordained death. He survived the fall and persisted in staying alive.

Appointment in Samarra

When does the path we walk on lock around our feet? When does the road become a river with only one destination?

 The sinister story of The Appointment in Samarra is introduced early in Series 4, and referenced repeatedly in the first episode.  Some found this heavy-handed, but it was vital to underline the significance of this fable, because this is the heart of our story -- not just The Six Thatchers, not just Series 4, but the entirety of Sherlock since The Reichenbach Fall. 

What happens when someone misses their appointment with Death?  Does Death show up at some other moment to claim what it is owed?  Or does it pass them by completely?

When Sherlock returns from his faked death, he seems to be at least considering the latter possibility.

 You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible.

As time passes, Sherlock appears to be testing his hypothesis by actively courting death. Mary threatens to shoot him if he steps forward, and he does.  He accepts Mycroft's promise of a "certain death" assignment in lieu of a prison sentence.  He overdoses on the plane in TAB, enough to potentially kill him.  

It is during this drug-fueled fantasy that Sherlock starts to wonder why Moriarty was drawn to kill himself, and he himself flirts briefly with the temptations of death.

Dead is the new sexy.  

 But in the end, Sherlock doesn't die.

Between you and me, John, I always survive a fall.

 He can fall and fall and fall, and he will never land.

Arthur Conan Doyle and the Fandom Problem

The meta-story about Sherlock Holmes's death and rebirth is so often repeated that it has taken on the quality of myth: Doyle hated Sherlock Holmes, he was sick of writing him, so he decided to kill him off once and for all.  He even titled his story The Final Problem, for good measure.  

We all know what happened next: the fans, to put it mildly, objected.  The stories of people dressing in mourning clothes over a fictional character's death may well be apocryphal, but they are nevertheless an important part of how we understand Sherlock Holmes.  The fans wouldn't let him die, so Doyle was forced to bring him back from the dead.  

Doyle never tried to kill Holmes again, and when he died, other writers took on the project, and in the past hundred years, Sherlock has never stopped being revived.  

"There can be no grave for Sherlock Holmes," Vincent Starrett tells us in that famous quotation.  It's meant to be reassuring, heart-warming even, but looked at a certain way, it takes on the aura of a threat. 

The Final Problem

This, then, becomes The Final Problem, both for Sherlock and for Moftiss.  How do you end Sherlock?  How do you make him mortal again?  Now we see how right Moriarty was: the problem is, in merely "staying alive", Sherlock Holmes becomes inert, stagnant, boring.  We don't need him to die, but the audience needs to feel at least that he can die, or all the tension and drama go out of the narrative. 

As S4 opens, Sherlock has now walked away from three certain-death situations, and he's a bit giddy.  

I’m just glad to be alive!!!

But even as Sherlock is gleefully tweeting and solving crimes and petting dogs, living life to the fullest, there's a pall over the episode.  He doesn't quite trust his good luck—surely Samarra can't be avoided forever.  So when will it catch up to him?  

At last, it seems like it's going to.

But Mary gets in the way, sacrificing herself to save Sherlock, and thus perhaps fulfilling her own missed appointment.  

At this point, Sherlock starts to realize the downsides to his invulnerability: it only protects him, not those he loves.  Nothing he did could protect Mary, because she was destined to die before him.  

Premonition and Predestination

What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics.

As TST highlights, Appointment in Samarra isn't just about death, it's also about destiny.  According to the story, no matter how far you run, you're always exactly where you were meant to be. 

Series 4 takes up the idea of predestination repeatedly.  In TST, Sherlock appears to be having premonitions—a dalliance with the supernatural almost unheard of in the entire Sherlock Holmes mythos.  Sherlock claims to Mary that, given enough information, he can even predict the roll of a dice.  This thread is taken up again in The Lying Detective, in which Sherlock is suddenly able to predict (with plausibility-defying accuracy) exactly where everyone will be and what they will do at any given moment.  

Really? I correctly anticipated the responses of people I know well to scenarios I devised? Can’t everyone do that?

This preoccupation with predestination serves the narrative, while simultaneously serving as a commentary on the narrative itself.  Predestination is a handy metaphor for what it feels like to rewrite someone else's story. BBC Sherlock is fanfic, and in theory it can go wherever it wants, make any changes the writers desire.  But even as they make the story their own, we know there are some things Moftiss won't change: the Big Plot Points from ACD they feel obligated to respect.  So yes, in a very literal sense, it was predetermined over a hundred years ago that Mary had to die.  

Nothing’s certain; nothing’s written.

But Mary is wrong—her death was indeed written before, and so it had to be written again.  Nothing Sherlock did was going to change that.  He doesn't need to attenuate to a zillion strands of data, he only needs to follow one to its inevitable conclusion: the narrative. The path that has locked around his feet.  Watson in TAB says he always knows when he's in a story; Sherlock is starting to notice the signs as well. 

If this is the case, nothing Sherlock does can seriously put his own life at risk.  He's the hero, so the narrative will always protect him.  But while at the beginning of S4, this idea seemed to thrill him, in TLD he has become much more ambivalent. He cautions "Faith" against suicide, but he also thinks admiringly about Mary sacrificing herself to save him. He goes on a life-threatening drug binge, but doesn't take the idea of his death seriously, despite Molly's chiding. He tells Smith that he doesn't want to die, but he does want Smith to kill him. It's not that he wants to die—he wants to be mortal.  

“Taking your own life.” Interesting expression. Taking it from who? Oh, once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. Your life is not your own.

This is an anti-suicide speech, but in this context it's also kind of a lament.  Sherlock does not own his life.  Nor do Moftiss.  Nor even does Doyle.  The fans do—he can only die at their behest, and they will never let that happen.

Meanwhile, Moftiss are expressing the same anxieties about the fate of the narrative.  If Sherlock can't die, how do you build to a satisfying, meaningful ending?  The show can't go on forever, but its narrative can't be killed, either.  The twists get twistier, the cliff-hangers ever more dramatic, the stakes grow higher and higher, but how can any of it ever be resolved? 

Samarra, Revisited

The Final Problem is their answer to this question. In interviews since the airing, Moftiss have claimed the key word for the episode was "transgression":  TFP goes out of its way to break all the rules of Sherlock.  There are no loving shots of London, no text messages floating on the screen.  221b gets blown up, and the rest of the episode takes place in a very blank, artificial, alien environment—more like a stage set than the lived-in world we've come to know.  There's no case, no client.  Even the Belstaff is missing for much of the episode. 

As a result, many fans thought that with TFP, the show had finally gone off the rails—that somehow the writers forgot how to write an episode of Sherlock.  But this shift in aesthetic and narrative mode was entirely by design. The writers were deliberately upending everything we know and love about Sherlock in an attempt to convince us  that anything was possible, that anyone might die.  Even Mycroft.  Maybe even Sherlock. 

And so, it is in this context that Sherlock makes one last attempt to find Samarra.

As is only appropriate, it is Moriarty who (from beyond the grave) once again suggests this option.  

And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes. This is where I get off.

Up until this point, it seems like Sherlock is planning to kill Mycroft, but here he changes course. It's probably not the locomotive double-entendres that spark his epiphany, so it must be the line "Holmes killing Holmes." Eurus tells us that Jim Moriarty thought Sherlock would make this choice, meaning kill Mycroft.  But that doesn't really make sense.  When he was alive, Jim never said anything about wanting Sherlock to kill his brother. What Moriarty always wanted was for Sherlock to kill himself.

Of course. That’s the point of this.

Suddenly Sherlock realizes that Moriarty's original plan for him is the only way out of his current situation. 

And so he "remembers the Governor", who did the one thing Sherlock couldn't do: he killed himself to save someone he loves.  Never mind that it doesn't work—that was his appointment in Samarra, and in doing it he atoned for his earlier misdeeds and became a good man.  Sherlock missed his appointment, but thanks to Moriarty's hints, he realizes he has a chance to do it over, make it right this time.  He must fulfill his destiny and sacrifice himself to save his friends.

Except he can't.  It's what Moriarty wanted, his final gift to Sherlock, the solution to their "problem".  But Eurus/the narrative/the fans won't let it happen, and Sherlock is saved once again.  

The Eternal Problem

And so the Final Problem remains unsolved, as it always will.  The episode wraps up with a kind of coda—not so much an ending as a promise/threat of endless repetition.  Again and again, we see Sherlock walk the path to his sister's cell. The flat at 221b Baker Street, which was so dramatically exploded earlier in the episode, is recreated with finicky, almost neurotic precision. 

And a montage accompanied by Mary's voice-over reassures us that all our favorite characters will continue on ad infinitum.  The idea is comforting and horrifying all at once. 

Fans have made much of Lestrade's full-circle assertion that Sherlock is now a "good man", and Moffat has confirmed that the point of the show was to humanize Sherlock.

But this isn't really accurate. From the very first episode, Sherlock was always a deeply human character—that is to say, he was flawed. He was complex. He did good things for bad reasons, and bad things for good reasons.  He tried and failed. He was vulnerable and sensitive. He was vain and petty and occasionally cruel, but he was also at times unfathomably kind and empathetic.  He inspired loathing in some, but great loyalty and devotion in those who knew him best.  He was playful, funny, unpredictable.  If he hadn't been all those things—if he had truly been a cold, emotionless machine—he would have been a horrible bore to watch. 

The progress of Sherlock Holmes, then, is not from great man to good man, but from a man—a mortal man with weaknesses and flaws—to a mythic hero who is perfectly strong, perfectly wise, perfectly compassionate. 

Who you really are, it doesn’t matter. It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures.  When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they’ve always been there and they always will.

Sherlock Holmes will go on forever, in fanfic and pastiche, in other adaptations, and maybe even under Moftiss's pen. This is how the story is ended, how the "final" problem is solved.  Not by killing Sherlock, but by at last submitting to his true, unalterable destiny: Sherlock is fated (or doomed?) to spend all eternity "in a romantic chamber of the heart: in a nostalgic country of the mind: where it is always 1895."

[lunaekalenda]

the dices said: Zeus - Lyre - Charon for @followthecherryblossoms

Gojo was a hundred percent sure the Lyre was down in the Hades, and he, as the Supreme God, asked the King of the Dead to concert him a travel down with his trusted boat-person, as it was the only way to enter Hell. Despite all the looks from Suguru as he let his friend enter the boat, Gojo sit next to Charon, as the oar kept the boat quiet in the silent Acheron. The warning in Suguru's voice was clear to hear. "It doesn't matter how pretty or beautiful the souls are down here. You touch one, you drown with one." Satoru was ready to speak, but the King of the Dead interrupted him. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all that you're the most powerful and strongest god up there. Here, the dead have their own rules, and you should follow them, before we have to prepare your heir way sooner than expected."

Satoru nodded a couple times, before rolling his eyes out of Suguru's gaze. Who did he think he was? He might have flirted with way too many people out there - nymphs, heroes, demigods and humans. - but he won't be that dumb to get starstruck by a spirit that could kill him.

It was all his fault, for once, he was able to admit it. He took Megumi's lyre to try to impress a human near the river, and it got lost in the middle of the intense makeout. He sighs, hands messing his hair. The oar started to make the boat move, slowly, as Gojo looked down to the water under him. It seemed infinite, so calm and warming. His blue eyes reflected on the surface and he turned the head back to Charon, trying to localize the shore of the Hades where they were supposed to arrive. Charon was silent, and Satoru thought they had a long way there. He heard a single note.

It was soft, and came from far the boat. Looking to the sides, he saw nothing. Until he saw you.

Sitting on a rock, middle distance from the shore. Your white draped tunic and the bright aura around your body made him look at you, even from the distance. Between your hands, the golden lyre was resting, as your fingers touch the chords quietly, making soft sounds.

"Charon." Satoru called the person in front of him. "Take me to that rock. The spirit has the lyre." Charon looked at you, still in the same position.

"I can't leave you there, my lord. What if they try to coax and drown you? There's no shore nearby..."

"It won't happen." Satoru's words were firm, so Charon changed the way, asking the God of the Dead clemency if this goes wrong.

As closer as they get, Satoru was more and more surprised by you. You were beautiful, so ethereal. The tunic made you look pure, and the curiosity on your gaze when they arrived made his heart flutter. You seemed like the type he likes, what a shame you're just a spirit of the river. When Caronte stopped by your side, Satoru was unable to take his eyes away from you. How could Suguru and Charon make this way hundreds of times a day without getting distracted?

"You have something you must return." his voice was firm, without room to a single doubt. The faster, the better. He just needed the lyre.

"My Lord, I... I think you're confusing me... I have nothing more than my tunic and my lyre." Satoru's brows moved, but it was almost imperceptible. Charon took air, but the God's voice was sharp.

"That lyre belongs to the Olympus." you looked at the lyre surprised, before looking at him again. "You must return it, as it was my only duty getting down here."

You pull the lyre closer to your chest as one of your feet gets on the boat with grace.

"Please, keep the body out..." Charon gets interrupted again.

"It will be just a moment, just to return it and give my apologies." Charon sighs under your gaze as you return it to the most blue eyes you've ever seen, specially, since you're trapped here. It seems like you both get stuck on the other's eyes, gazes mixing and the world around getting - even more - silent than before. The lyre is still pressed to your chest, before you stretch it to him. Your fingers touch his as he exhales. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I... I didn't knew this was an immortal belonging." Quietly, your other feet gets on the boat. Charon seems too occupied insulting and mumbling for himself. Good.

"Your error is forgotten, and you apologies accepted." he says. It wasn't the reaction you were expecting from him. Specially, after his fame. You look at him back in the eyes, gaze a little teary.

"I've treasured that Lyre for some time... And you're just immortal gods, you can get an exact copy just with snapping your fingers." Gojo raises a brow quietly, putting the lyre on the seat behind him. "Are you gonna leave a pure soul without a mere instrument? It harms no one down here." Your voice turned deeper, as his face got a little closer.

"I know it's unfair, but I have to return it." his voice is also softer, way deeper and warmer. He seems to be following your story. You only need Charon out of the way, but the old person is still cursing, and you remember the last time he hit you with the oar after trying to scape in the place of Eurydice. You can't get down to that plan again. You need the supreme god to take you out with him or, in the worst of cases, to die with you. Your body is already on the boat, you only need to sit, make him touch you, try to get him enchanted and, if it works, Charon can't disobey the Supreme God's orders. This time, it seems like it will work. You put your hands close to the end of his tunic, making the contact with his easier, as you sit down. "I... I don't want to be here anymore." Your cry sounds, at least for you, decent. His expression softens as you feel something hot around your hands. His own ones. "I just hear the souls screaming, the spirits going inside this damn boat tp never see their families again. I wasn't able to spend the last weeks with them. I... don't deserve this. Isn't there any way to save my soul from entering the Hades?"

He heard Suguru's recommendation as a voice far, without really caring about what he said. Something so cute, and beautiful, and pure like you did not deserve to be down here, on this river and alone, while waiting to enter a prison you will never leave. He can save you, can't him? He's the Supreme God.

"Charon, back to Olympus." the entity turns around. It looks angry, probably because of all the waiting. Still, you're amazed by how useful the powers you inherited from your mother work, even when you're nothing more than a soul. He seems irremediably attracted now, and probably nothing will make him enter in sense again.

"The soul stays." it says, simply.

"Back to Olympus." the words are spitted one by one, and Charon looks at Gojo in the eyes.

"The soul can't leave the Hades. Here is where it belongs and here is where it will stay." the words of the entity are sharp as well, but your eyes, already full of tears, look at the God again.

"You're taking us both back, or you're taking no one." Charon sighs. "I know there's a way, and this poor soul did nothing to be here." Of course he knows the way, You wanted Orpheus to tell everyone how he almost saves his loved Eurydice, his own trust betraying him. Seems like their story has also reached immortal ears. The entity sighs again, defeated.

"One side look to the soul and you're drowning here. I can't help if you decide your own destiny."

Gojo looks to you, then to the lyre, then to Charon. He nods once. Charon starts to move the boat slow, making the way back to the shore, and you stood near the entity, observing Satoru's back as he kept his eyes to the front. He's gonna take you out from here. Who would think that a God would so easily fall for you.

His eyes remember you to something, to the ocean from the temple, or to the lilacs on the camps. But still, you're sure you've seen his gaze elsewhere.

"May I ask you something before landing, sweet soul?" he asks. His tone has changed a little. "You know, us immortals have pretty strict laws, and, of course, being a mortal and robbing a belonging to a God is more than punished. Then, spirit, why did you take the lyre with you even when I let you sleep on my palace?"

His eyes. He was the man you've fall in love with. He's the one that promised you the moon and more before sleeping with you and asking you to forget. You wanted revenge, so you took the lyre with you. The story seems clear as close as you get to the shore.

"When I told you to wait for me as I reunited with my siblings? Why did you disappear with my covers and the lyre?" He was hurt. Of course he was. You thought he left you alone, when he really was going to come back to you. "Why did you doubt about my word?"

He knew what you were doing all the time and, still, made you believe that he was just a dumb god. You were tricked by the Supreme God, and still, he turns around to look at you as soon as his feet touch the shore, but you weren't fast enough to stand by his side. The Hades calls you, attracting you inside again, as your memories fade away slowly as they did the day Charon took you to the opposite shore. Satoru's smile looks sad when he looks back at you.

"You didn't believe in my word and promise that time, why did you believe now?"