#narrator: and so morrigan did

[slytherhys]

SJM writes stories about women overcoming their fears and finding other female characters and building a better world - and yet, I see an alarming amount of people being misogynistic and sexist towards the very same characters they read about.

Claiming Feyre is a bad painter when there's literally no evidence for it, calling her boring for choosing motherhood, calling her weak for having a human heart (something she is PRAISED for by everyone else), trying to blame her for everything her abuser did; Discrediting Morrigan and claiming she lied, giving Eris the benefit of the doubt therefore making Mor into the bad guy; Claiming Elain is a wh*re, a b*tch because she has a mate she doesn't care about but for some reason she has to be faithful to him, she has to reject him, ACCEPT him when all we've seen is her discomfort around him. Claiming she isn't good enough for a man because, supposedly, she can't have his babies; calling her useless because she doesn't want to use violence; Unfortunately, there are many other examples I could name.

Please note that the male characters are NEVER the object of such criticism - in fact, people will doubt the women who told showed us men are abusers and do everything in their power to believe them instead, ignoring the very canon content the author wrote herself ("there's definitely more to it!"; "feyre is an unreliable narrator!"; "why should we believe mor?")

And now, with HOFAS nearly out, I keep seeing people wanting Bryce to hate Elain? To be a bitch to Mor and Feyre? Where in the books did you ever get the impression any of these female characters would hate each other?

I genuinely never expected to see so much misoginy when I first joined a book fandom where female characters are literally the focus of everything. What saddens me the most is how much these ideas seem to be growing instead of disappearing.

You all need to grow up.

[starborn15]

Before the Dreamers:

*I had been curious about writing a story from an alternate perspective. Outside of the IC/main characters, from the perspective of an oppressed group — the Illyrians or the Court of Nightmares, I wrote this short Prologue for a young Illyrian named Valan who lives in a small steel clan. Disclosure: if I decide to continue this, I do plan on presenting Morrigan, Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand and they may not always been in a favorable light because this is a first person perspective narration and if you don’t like that, that’s okay.*

⚠️ TW: depictions of violence ⚠️

Prologue:

I wrapped my feet around a large pine tree that creaked and groaned with the gusts of the eastern winds. I could see so far from the top, nearly to the flatlands of the steeps shrouded in mist. I’d sometimes imagine soaring there, the sun glowing between my wings casting an irresidecent orange hue to the ground below. I’d imagine my mother dipping and twisting next to me as we sail across the sparkling sea, to the continent. I know it’s no better there, even here in my unnamed steel village clan we know of the horrors of the Queen of the Black lands, the suffrage of mortals. They are simply mortals, just as I am simply an Illyrian. We all have our place in this world and theirs is below ours, and ours is below that of the High Fae. I jump down, spreading my short wings letting the wind rush to my ears as they lighten my fall. The crunch of leaves sounds beneath my feet as colors of red, orange and yellow fly all around me. Living in the shadow of Ramiel is not so bad, it keeps the bitter winds at bay and masks our village from the deep and harsh winters like those suffered in Windhaven. Our clan is responsible for forging the steel used in battle, our females responsible for learning the arts of healing and when fully trained sent off to distant villages and clans to heal warriors.

My Father had been called to war, summoned by royal decree on word of the High Lord of the Night Court; Rheon. He’d gathered his leathers out of a small silver trunk tucked away into the corner of our one room home and pulled a long sword over his shoulder, it shimmered and sang in the sunlight. Walking through the forest back to the village I thought of his words as a tear ran down my cheek.

‘Valan, do not fear. We have the blood of Enalius, a great warrior. We were chosen by the Gods, it is a great honor to be chosen for war and battle, I’ll return.’ He’d never returned, that was six years ago.

All the males did not return, our entire village, our entire clan had been lost to the magic of the dark lands. I’d one day vowed to become the greatest Illyrian warrior, greater than Enalius himself and avenge my father, but my mother had wept and wept for days. My brother Avrid had begun his training with a group of young males and I had tended to mother and the home. Our village had suffered after the loss of the males, with the older young males training, small males such as myself took up the duties of forging the steel and caring for the females and their training of healing. The Lord who ruled among our small village, who had been chosen to stay and lead, had thankfully ruled with a soft hand in comparison to the majority of Illyria. My older brother Avrid had not been called into battles by the High Lord of the Night Court, our Lord in the Steel-Born Clan had stated the males needed to remain, else the entire clan would collapse. This facade lasted for sometime, and peace remained in our small shadow of Ramiel, until the stars shone and the moon glowed and the peace stopped, and winter came.

My hammer crashed down on the heated blade, I flipped it, and crashed down again sending sparks flaring into the small stone room where I worked. Sweat trickled down my neck and spine, it had to be near solstice and the temperature near freezing by the stone small building proved to be a near oven in even the deepest of winter.

“Valan!” A faint voice called. My hammer crashed again, curving the blade. A curved blade was better for battle, better for war.

“Valan!” The voice came again, louder this time. I set the blade down as it glistened against the flames before moving onto the next. As I raised the molten hammer a hand grabbed my wrist. Startled, I spun around wings flaring, heart beating rapidly.

“Woah!” Avrid said hands raised, my brother always surprised me with how large he’d grown. At six and ten he had nearly doubled his height since father left and doubled in width as well. His curled black hair was tied into a delicate braid between his shoulders and the fire gave his hazel eyes a burning orange tint to match his wings.

“You startled me.” I said, setting down my hammer. I was only ten and two, but strong. Working as a smith; a maker of steel had made my muscles hard and firm, but I was confined. I couldn’t remember the last pine I climbed, or the last sky I soared.

“Brother, you need fresh air, you’re ragged.” Avrid said, pulling at my clothes and giving my hair a good yank, loosening it from its tie. We shared our mothers dark curls, but our fathers hazel eyes and orange tinted wings, burning embers of the earth he’d once said. Whatever that meant.

“I am working,” I said, setting the hammer down and settling the flames, “the steel will not make itself and there is talk of war.”

A smile spread across Avrid’s face, “it is not talk brother, they speak true. I am called to Windhaven to begin my training and hope to join the bloodrite in four years' time.”

My mothers inconsolable sobbing filled my head as the thought of my brother joining the blood rite coursed through me.

“An honor that would be.” I untied my apron and hung it, Avrid slammed his hand around my shoulder and gave a loud and joyous laugh.

“Brother, one day we shall all be called to fight in the royal arms. The treachery of the Queen of the Black lands and the King of Hybern shall not go unpunished.”

My brow furrowed, was the High Lord truly meaning to gather arms against them? To fight alongside humans? The Night Court did not have human slaves to be sure, at least not in Illyria but he’d never known the High Lord to be a caring man, or a man who fought for freedom.

“Does the High Lord truly mean to fight on the side of the slaves? On the side of humans?”

Avrid blinked, “but of course! Lord Devlon has commanded it so! We may even get to see the warriors of Prince Drakon and his armies.”

I looked to the ground, the crunching snow beneath my feet, all of this talk of war, of violence, it was grand and an honor to be sure, but as I look ahead and up at the glistened onyx stone monolith of Ramiel, I cannot help but wonder what it truly is?

“Why are you thrilled if there is talk of war now? You’re not a soldier, you’re not a warrior.” Avrid had not even competed in the bloodrite, hundreds of Illyrians lost their lives every year, perhaps even more than were lost to battle. Seemed foolish, killing and slaughtering one another to prove that you’re the greatest warrior; a Carythian.

“War is a long way out, first the Lords, Kings and Queens will talk and discuss,” he grabbed a large turkey leg from the local stand flipping the male a silver coin and winking, biting into it and continuing with his mouth full, “we know how the Lords love to hear themselves talk brother. There is no worry, war will wait and I will train.”

I took the leg when he offered it and handed it back to him, watching as the children laughed before us playing with their sticks as if they were battle swords. The young females even joined in jumping from the trees and landing on the shoulders of the males; good idea. I thought to myself, chuckling.

“Brother,” Avrid said opening the door, a plain broth smell of turkey and carrots, celery hit us with a pinch of salt mother had rationed for winter, “The High Lord’s heir is everything the stories say; he’s lethal, frightening, those by his left and right even more so, one they say is a shadowsinger —.”

Their mother gasped, her breath catching in her throat as the wooden spoon splashed into the broth. She had her back turned but I could tell that she was cupping her hand to her mouth, tense.

“Mother?” I asked, standing I walked over placing a hand on her back, “is everything —,”

“Everything’s fine sweetheart,” she turned, smiling, “sit, dinner is ready.”

Pouring the steaming broth into wooden bowls their mother sat, her long limp dark hair curled pinned half up behind her ears, her hazel eyes did not look up from the bowl and I had never asked about the long scar that went from her hairline to her chin.

Avrid began scooping at his soup, slurping and ignoring the tension in the room, but not me. I lived here, caring for my mother and something had upset her.

“Mother, is everything alright?”

Her eyes met mine, so warm and bright like the sun peaking over the crest of the mountain. She smiled softly and brought her spoon to her lips.

“Yes.” She said simply.

‘Why are you lying?’ I thought, ‘why are you frightened?’

Dinner continued in silence, Mother collected our bowls and brought them out to the washing well in the center of the three homes that surrounded us. Avrid had dozed off after indulging in three bowls of soup letting his arm and wing hang over his small cot in the corner of the room, snoring so loudly there was no way sleep would find me tonight. I rubbed my hands together and opened the door, the small flames still hung around the homes casting a light against my mother’s wings as she set down the dishes in the snow. Unusual for her to clean the dishes at dusk; they’ll freeze and shatter! She’d yelled once when she caught me doing it, iron pots and cutlery was expensive, and yet here she was knelt down in the snow scrubbing dishes.

I kneel down beside her and lift the dishes into my lap, she quickly inhales through her nose and chuckles slightly.

“You’re so quiet for a young male,” her rough hands graze my cheek, “spending too much time with your soft footed mother.”

I smile at her and place her hand on my own, barely out of childhood myself. Her hands are small as I cup them, they’re freezing, but she doesn’t shiver.

“Mother…please,” I say, “what is it, what’s got you out here at night scrubbing the pots?”

Her eyes close as tears fall, her exhaled breath clouding in front of her. She pulls her hands away and wraps her arms around herself, “there are some stories that do not need to be heard my sweet.”

She gathered the dishes, some had frozen to the ground so I grabbed hold of them and pulled a solid piece of snow with the iron pot. I did not appreciate the answer I’d received from my mother, but I knew she had not always lived in this village, that she’d lived far away before, that she had been sent here as a healer, that was all Father had said.

‘If your mother wishes for you to know the rest she will tell you. It is not my story to tell.’ He’d told Avrid and I one night when mother had taken off to the skies, she hadn’t returned for several days, Father had paced around our small home, fists clenched, tapping his foot until she returned. She was covered in ash, and smelled of smoke and iron.

Setting the pots on the small pine table she kissed the top of my head brushing the strands of my hair from my eyes and went to her side of the room curling herself against the wall.

*****

Avrid and Mother were still sleeping when the orange light of morning caused my eyes to drift open. Stretching my arms, wings and legs I roll out of bed and head for the stone shop. Our small village is so beautiful in the early mornings, the orange, pink and yellow sky divided in two by Ramiel, the quiet except for the babbling stream several miles through the woods.

It has been weeks, months even since you took a proper flight. And the wind was singing, I could feel it as my simple parka drifted slowly as my hair blew behind my ears as my face smiled up at the sky.

War can wait.

With a burst of wind beneath my wings I bend my knees bursting myself into a mighty flight. The rattling of pots and rocking chairs in my wake makes me chuckle. The sun greets me as I rise and tears stream from my face. I should have woken Avrid or Mother, but perhaps this moment was a gift from The Mother just for me I think as I let myself fall before soaring back into the sky higher than before. The higher I fly the farther I see, the grass and misty cliffs of the steppes and the deep dark forest dividing the two regions. Twisting and gaining speed I know I should turn back, get to work making blades, axes, daggers and other weapons but is that truly what I am meant to do? I can’t help but think that as I soar beside the sun and look down at the earth, and yet I find my feet crunching back into the snow and I am still just a young male making weapons, weapons that one day I’ll hold.

Catching my breath from flying I don’t notice it at first, at least not from sight, instead I smell and hear it. The scent of smoke, and screaming. My wings flare, along with my nostrils and I charge towards the village. I am still just a young male, but I am an Illyrian.

Branches from trees slice through the thin flesh of my wings, but I don’t feel it not as my heart is pounding, not as the smoke darkens, not as the screams grow louder.

Snow flies in front of me as I rush out of the forest to see the females crawling to the feet of their Fathers, backs covered in blood, flesh hanging in strands from their wings. Clipping.

Their fathers do not respond to their pleading, not even if tears fill their eyes, not as blood drips onto their cloth shoes. My eyes widened , I’d heard of the practice, but our village had been spared, our Lord did not believe in the practice and did not enforce it. I had not understood, the maiming, the mutilation, my own wings ached in response as a tear fell down my right cheek.

I am still just a young male, but I am Illyrian.

My head jerks when familiar sobbing and screaming echoes through my ears as my mother is dragged forward. A tall male with two whispering shadows coiling around him like venomous snakes pulls her forward tossing her into the center to the feet of a pale light haired male.

He clicks his tongue in a distasteful way and jerks his chin to the Illyrian male controlling the shadows, more swarm to him like hornets returning to the hive as he tucks himself into the cover of the pine trees.

“This is a pity,” the male says, he’s dressed in a fine black suit while the males surrounding him wear the fighting leathers of warriors, survivors of the blood rite, “unfortunately there can be no loose ends, you understand don’t you darling?”

My eyes meet my mothers and she smiles, I step forward and the snow crunches slightly but it’s enough to draw the male's attention. He turns and then shadows coil around my ankles pulling me forward. Snow flies around me as I desperately clutch at the frozen ground for anything to grip.

“And who is this?” The male says, his violet eyes giving him away immediately. The High Lord of the Night Court brushes the snow from my face and I snap at him, which earns a chuckle even as the shadows tighten around my ankles causing me to cry out.

“Azriel,” The High Lord holds up a hand, “release the child.”

The shadows recoil back to the dark, and the High Lord grins a beautiful cruel smile as he extends a hand.

“Is this your son?” He asks my Mother who shakes her head.

“Yes my Lord.” I’ve never heard her sound so weak.

“Get up Mother.” I say rising from my back to my knees.

‘Where is Avrid?’ My eyes scan the crowd and my brother is nowhere to be found, the door to my home is burst, I look to my mother again desperate for anything.

“Your brother is dead,” The High Lord says, as if he’s read my thoughts, “too bad really, he would have made a valiant soldier, but he could not follow orders.”

I dig my hands into the earth, through the ice to the frozen ground beneath cracking my fingernails, as tears stream down my face.

“Now,” The High Lord says, turning back to my Mother, “as for you Petra darling, you know why I am here don't you?” He asks so kindly.

“Yes my Lord.”

My ears won’t stop ringing long enough to hear what is said, the smell of smoke is overwhelming, the females are still screaming although it’s turned into a more of a full groaning now.

“If one rebel survives then it can grow anywhere,” my eyes flicker to my mother.

Rebellion?

Without a word, without a blade, without so much as a flick of his wrist the High Lord of the Night Court snaps his fingers and my mothers neck snaps.

I don’t know when I started screaming, or when I lunged, or how I managed to drag a single fingernail across the High Lord's face drawing a drop of red blood.

The other Illyrians got to work setting the homes ablaze, taking off with the females who remained as I beat my fists against the cursed Illyrian; Azriel.

“Let me go, demon!” I scream, “let me go! Avrid!” I scream, not believing the High Lord, hoping, dreaming that he’s lied, that my brother will stumble out of our home and drive his blade into his spine and tear off Azriel’s wings and free me from this hell.

“Enough.” Azriel says.

“I’ll kill you!” I scream, I search for the High Lord, but he’s gone, like smoke.

“I’ll kill you all!” I scream as tears stream down my face as my Mothers body is left is the snow, left to the burning village.

Then the world disappears, time disappears and I have the feeling I’m falling. Even as thousands of voices whisper around me in the spinning darkness.

I am a young male, but I was still just an Illyrian.

[jon-snows-man-bun]

By Turns

Chapter One

Masterlist

The closer Eris gets to his goals the harder he has to work to keep all plates spinning. Tensions simmer underneath his new alliances, pulling him into the Hewn City where the impact of Rhysand’s rule shapes the future.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x OC. Other pairings to be added.

Other featured characters: Elain Archeron, Lucien Vanserra, Azriel. Variable POV

Rating: E for Explicit. Minors DNI.

Warnings: misogyny, violence, torture and domestic abuse both on and off screen, sex, sexual violence, dubious consent, drug use, character death, no reliable narrators to be found. Further warnings to be added.

Find this fic on AO3

A/N: The first full length fic I’ve ever written, and entirely on the notes app too. I think everybody in this fandom resents the lack of detail and world-building, so let’s get to fixing it via fanfic.

Total number of chapters TBC, additional warnings will be added as they occur but please note, explicit content occurs at the outset and throughout.

About the fic… the Hewn City really gets a rotten deal in canon, don’t they? This is my attempt to sort it out. Please note that involves Rhysand being a real “ends justify the means” sort of guy, so if that clashes with your vision of him perhaps this isn’t the fic for you. Keir and Morrigan are Irish names, so I’ve run with that since the Hewn City doesn’t get much detail in the books.

My characterisation of Azriel also seems to be against type for the fandom - he tortures people explicitly in this fic, and I’ve tried to line him up more with his angry, horny, fucked up in the head attitude that I got from his POV chapter. I don’t think he’s an emo softboi, so if you only like him in that sort of characterisation, this also probably isn’t the fic for you.

Thanks for reading! This is my first fic as I said, so I’d be delighted to have a beta reader if anyone is willing.

———————

The pit monsters were active that night. They didn’t make much noise but Azriel could feel them, waiting there beneath his feet. His shadows didn’t like going in the pits but were skating over the top of the grates and twining with the bars, telling him that the creatures were alert, waiting for him, for his gifts to them.

Some males had hounds waiting at their doors for their return. He had the Hewn City beasts.

Azriel had grabbed the fae from the throne room, dragging him through shadows down and down to the lowest levels of the dungeons. The assembled courtiers and citizens had stepped back from him when Rhysand called him forward, scattering like insects under the light of the High Lord’s displeasure. Azriel hadn’t followed what the fae’s transgression was, merely centring himself for what was to come.

He was a Darkbringer. This would not be easy.

Azriel shoved him through the doorway, turning to close it behind him. When he turned back, the male calmly went to the chair in the centre of the room and looked at him with flat dark eyes, so like Keir’s, which meant they were like Mor’s, too. Azriel could hate him for that, so he did. There was a dull acceptance there, which made everything in Azriel sour, turning to stone, turning to dust. He was blonde, as well; his hair looked grey in the ugly, dank light of the cells. Everything was grey and ugly here.

Rhys dipped into his mind briefly. I want to know who he was meeting with, he instructed. Names. I’ll return to you in a few hours.

This will take longer than a few hours, Azriel sent to him. Rhys’ only answer was the silken slip of his familiar darkness as it left Azriel’s mind.

Azriel began his work.

He thought of nothing at all as Truth Teller danced, by turns fast and sprightly, others slow and aching. It was only when he had the tip of the blade lodged under the fae’s broken third rib, carefully turned to keep the bone from healing, that he began to fade from consciousness. He knew his fate was death regardless; Rhysand had no clemency for Darkbringers who whispered of discontent and mutiny. Azriel paused with his finger in the knife wound as he mulled over how best to motivate the fae for information when his life was forfeit regardless of whether or not he provided it. His blonde hair had stained with blood, dark brown and congealed.

Azriel grabbed the fae by his dislocated arm and dragged him to the grate on the floor. Beneath, the beasts twined, appetites whetted from the blood dripping to them. The fae thrashed as he was pulled, swearing and snarling, but Azriel merely slammed his face against the grate, hard enough that he knew his eye socket would be shattered. The fae fought him, flailing like a trapped animal, but Azriel merely chained him down by his neck and retreated to wait.

This was why the beasts loved him, he mused as the fae started to scream. The only living things in the Hewn City that did.

In the morning Azriel was had no new information to give to Rhys. The fae was done - Azriel had been aggressive, hoping to coax the fae to speak by making death seem sweeter, but if the Darkbringer had any secrets he was taking them to his grave.

Not that he was getting a grave. Azriel merely cut his throat and rolled the body to the waiting beasts.

He opted not to winnow from this low, dank cell, choosing instead to walk upwards and see who might be waiting, see if anyone showed unusual interest in a traitor’s fate. The watery enchanted light pulled him up, and as he stepped through the door of the dungeons he parsed through what his shadows were telling him. They moved without fear here despite the light; even with the enchantment, the Hewn City was shadowed and dim.

Three children are walking to school. A blonde female is baking a rhubarb pastry for breakfast and brewing mushroom tea. A teenager with blue eyes is arguing with her mother over porridge because she wants to attend a dance but her father said no. The fire prince is here.

Fucking Eris. Azriel followed the last one, ignoring the whispers of his shadows about the Hewn City waking up; life happened here despite it all. He had meant to take in those around the entrance to the dungeons, but all whose paths he crossed ducked their heads and turned away. The acrid tinge of fear followed him everywhere in here.

It was a short walk from the dungeons to the court rooms along one of the wider boulevards. The stone fences of some of the grander mansions hemmed him in on either side; behind them he knew the occupants often kept small reflecting pools carved into the rock, little places to sit and take tea. The wooden gates through the tall fences were carved and painted with the crests of the families within: a luminescent moth, a gold seven-pointed star, two bats of rust and grey. He didn’t bother spying on most of these families - his time and energy was limited, far better spent outside of the Court. The Hewn City hadn’t necessitated it in a long time, but perhaps, with discontented soldiers…

He shouldered his way into the room without preamble. Eris Vanserra’s hair was so red in the half-light it was nearly luminous; brilliant, flaming colour after all of the anaemic imitations of life.

“And just when I thought my reception was too welcoming. I’m pleased Rhysand has sent one of his bats to brood in the corner. Tell me, which of the bastards are you?”

Was there ever a day when Eris didn’t antagonise everyone he came across? Azriel curled his lip at him, half a snarl and half a sneer. Eris merely smirked.

“I remember now, you’re not the one who fucked Morrigan. You’re the one who wishes he did,” Eris drawled, turning back to Lord Thanatos dismissively. Azriel only realised he was clenching his fists when his shadows started writhing around him, and he worked hard to master the hot flush of anger that grabbed his lungs and squeezed whenever Mor’s name fell from Eris’ lips.

“And this meeting has been approved with your High Lord, Thanatos?” Azriel ground out. Keir’s second gazed darkly at him, quickly rearranging his face into something neutral.

“Yes, as always, this falls under Lord Eris’ permissions to enter the Hewn City,” Thanatos grumbled. “Now, unless you’d like anything else? Perhaps to execute another one of my soldiers?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Azriel warned, pinning him with a stare. Thanatos didn’t flinch, as usual - Keir was the one who oozed through life like oil, bending away from the slightest pressure but impossible to be grasped with both hands.

By the time he winnowed back and reported to Rhys, he was ready to wash the Hewn City off of him. As he scrubbed the fae’s blood from his hair, he remembered how it had been matted into the blonde fae’s, how the rust brown bat on the gate he passed was the same colour. He let those thoughts flow down the drain, too.

———————

The ceiling of the Hewn City was spelled to emit light during the day and fade to blackness at night, but the light it mustered was watery and grey. It tended to give Eris a headache and was why he largely preferred to visit at night. Unfortunately, Keir and Thanatos preferred meeting at first light. Eris suspected this was to vex him.

“Tell me news of your dealings with Rhysand,” Keir said, gazing at him imperiously from across the black onyx table in the meeting chamber, not even deigning to add pleasantries. He had slunk into the chamber after Azriel had slunk out, the timing too exact to be coincidental.

Eris stuffed his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual insolence that he knew twisted screws into a certain breed of male.

Rhysand referred to this place - rather obnoxiously - as the Court of Nightmares, but he always thought of it as the Court of Masks. A web, a game of chess, a dance; the metaphors were endless, but they engaged in the same behaviour courtiers everywhere engaged in. But Eris had worn a mask all his life. It wasn’t any more frightening for him here than anywhere else, barring the monsters below the dungeons. He knew this dance well and could turn about the floor better than most.

Better than Lord Keir, certainly. His nonchalance was grating on the male, Eris could see in the twist of his mouth, and he smirked. Thanatos merely looked stone-faced and surly.

“My dalliance with Rhysand is as rewarding as ever,” Eris remarked smoothly, an utter lie. Rhysand was as withholding and miserly as ever. It also wasn’t why he was here with the lords of the City today, but he supposed when you had a boot on your neck it was all you thought about. All the same, Keir’s obsession with Rhysand grated.

The rest of the meeting continued in the same fashion. They were all too happy to further codify their alliance by allowing for the purchase of Hewn City diamonds by the Autumn Court - to be celebrated with a diplomatic dinner that evening - and Keir pushed again for access to Velaris. Eris had enquired about the executed soldier Thanatos had mentioned but they stayed mute, protesting that they had no idea he was disloyal.

Unlikely, given that you couldn’t so much as take a breath in the Hewn City without Keir’s permission and Thanatos knew the whereabouts of any Darkbringer at any given point. He set the matter aside for now, mulling it over and deciding to speak with the captains he knew at the dinner later.

———————

It was her eyes Eris noticed first.

In the reception room adjoining to the dining hall, Eris had sauntered in among the crowd. He had chosen a charcoal grey jacket for the occasion, blending himself into the Night Court fashion. The assembled courtiers were the usual blend of schemers and liars, and as he made his rounds, his eyes snagged on hers.

They were dark blue like a moonlit ocean, framed by thick lashes. Deep and fathomless and the blue of a silent midnight.

She was surrounded by the court of the Hewn City, the Darkbringer captains and low lords of shadow and ladies who wove webs of secrets and lies against each other. She wore dove grey silk overlaid with black lace, draped around her like gossamer webs, revealing skin in elegant swaths. Her skin was as pale as marble and, as fashionable here, had been dusted with something that made it look silver and luminous. Half her black hair was twisted back in a silver comb and adorned with a dove feather, while moonstones and diamonds glinted at her throat and fingers like many of the females in the Hewn City.

A daughter of Night. He met those sapphire eyes impassively, glancing over the high cheekbones, the full lips.

He knew his face was the picture of bored indifference, but his fire burned hot all the time, raging to consume, to destroy. It was constant effort to keep it tame within him, something he had refined through centuries. But as his eyes met hers his ribs ached to contain the pressure within him, his fire pressed up under his skin in a sudden rush that hit him like a blow to the chest.

Eris knew Keir was keen to curry favour and preserve the alliance - anything that might open the wards of the City and unleash him upon Prythian. If he wanted to, he could ask for the female; depending on who she was, he could go as far as asking for her to be brought to his chambers and find her waiting there in his bed for him. Females were tools here, chattel to be traded amongst the men.

He reminded himself that weapons were a type of tool, too. Instead, as he took his seat for the court dinner, he was gratified to find her diagonal to him. Was it intentional? A beautiful maiden dangled before him over a meal, to whet both his appetites? Keir sat to his right, Thanatos two down to his left. He was buffeted by the scheming males of this court, so was careful to keep his eyes from devouring her before he knew her measure. Most of the females in Night would go to his bed to pry something of value from his mouth; while females in Autumn clamoured for his attention for the social cache, here they desired his secrets to leverage over their keepers and each other. To tip his hand to anyone was to be taken advantage of - in chess, in politics, in pursuing women; this had been one of the first lessons he learned violently at Beron’s feet.

He didn’t bother speaking to her.

[bookofmirth]

okay so all of my own ship preferences aside, and what I think is going to happen aside, if I were just to accept the argument that Elain is next and that her LI is Azriel, then

(before you continue, this is not an anti anything post! If anything, this is a pro-Elain post)

I would be upset that Azriel keeps getting featured, and Elain is nowhere to be seen.

Not only has Elain been nowhere in terms of the plot (she essentially hasn't been present in the plot in a clear, substantial way for months in book time) but the narration did not give us her thoughts or feelings when she appeared in the Azriel chapter. She was spoken about and for several times in acosf, including the feysand chapter. The narrative, when she appears, continues to sideline and walk around her, but never truly involve her or give her agency.

Elain is consistently being sidelined, and not only that, she is currently voiceless. We have a few lines from her acosf that were really powerful, but the narration has still never, not once, allowed us to get inside her head.

Literally every major character in acotar has gotten a pov chapter. Feyre obviously, and Nesta, but also Rhys, Cassian, Azriel, and Morrigan. Amren no, but I don't think anyone expects her to be an MC any time soon.

If I were to accept the argument that Elain were next, I'd be really disappointed that she still not had a chapter focusing just on her in her own right, unrelated to what other characters think about her. I'd be tired of her character being framed by other people, rather than by her or a narrator who could tell me what she is thinking and feeling.

[animatedamerican]

[Tag Game] Writing Patterns

I was tagged by @astriiformes ! Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern.

I actually did something very like this in 2018, and I also did a similar one with last lines just about a month ago. In reverse chronological order, most recent first:

I have a destiny with the Whispered One. (forgive us the days forgotten to fear, Critical Role Campaign 1)

The word holy isn’t spoken much, in young Bren’s house. (Letters, Critical Role Campaign 2)

“Friends” is a spell, so far as Essek knows. (Cantrip: Friends, Critical Role Campaign 2)

The Emprise is locked in snow and ice, cold even by daylight. (black on white, crow in snow, Dragon Age: Inquisition)

Isabela stretches her bare arms overhead and smiles like one of her knives, bright and sharp and promising trouble. (fly away you dainty dish, Dragon Age II)

It's been years since you've thought much about the rosewood ring Morrigan gave you, during that tumultuous time you knew each other. (roam away my raven girl, Dragon Age: Origins)

When Bren is three years old, his mother cuts his hair for the first time. (Candles, Critical Role Campaign 2)

When she moves again, she shoves the flower into a pocket without really thinking. (un peu, beaucoup, Critical Role Campaign 2)

When their reflections step out of the mirrors, each fixed on a single target, the fight begins before anyone can do more than cry out in shock -- certainly before anyone can study them closely. (till you face the looking-glass, Critical Role Campaign 2)

The theory goes: in a sufficiently infinite universe -- for there are many different sizes of infinity, as the mathematicians know -- in a universe, as they say, of sufficient infiniteness, every being who has ever lived will somehow, somewhere, eventually meet every other. (a line to yourself or a place on the shelf, Tanakh / Hebrew Bible)

Let's see, patterns. I am amused to see that three of these in a row begin with "When," but I'm not sure that's much of a pattern ... I think all of these are in present tense, which certainly is. A good few are in media res, and the ones that aren't tend to be strong narrator voice setting the scene. That last one is actually the first line of an introductory section, while the story itself starts in media res with dialogue.

Can't think of anyone to tag, so please consider yourself tagged if we're mutuals and you want a reason to do this for yourself!

[sparkiekong]

Running with the Tide 7/7

“Mama Kevari sat on the beach; her vision, usually akin to blurry blobs, marveled as her sight suddenly became clear. She believed that the spirits had meant for her to see this with clarity. That this one instance, was to be marked forever on the tapestry of Fate. She marveled as Morrigan’s body floated above the ground and her body began to glow as brilliant as a bioluminescent creature from the deep oceans. Then her eyes strayed downward towards the ground where a spirit appeared and began mimicking Morrigan’s movements. Mama Kevari could see the power transferring from Amphitrite to Morrigan as something akin to thin ice formed in a bubble around Sulani.”

The narrator replied, “While Mama Kevari was witness to all these things. Morrigan was nearly overwhelmed by the amount of power she could feel in the water, in the air, and the very minute particles of electricity in the clouds. She could feel all of it! She felt the currents, the very heat from the impact miles away. She could feel the whole of the waters and they were hers and she knew what to do. She reached out and made a giant hand in the waters and as she moved her hands the giant water formed hand moved in kind.

“Morrigan pushed her arms forward, moving it forward with such a force that the tidal wave nearly split in half, like the biblical stories of old, the wave was parted. The wave now broken; the two halves turn in the direction of their new course set by the hand. The two sections swirl with so much force that the action nearly canceled the whole event out. With that last rush of power, Morrigan collapsed onto the ground in a heap. Rain began to pour from the sky and the seas returned to normal, albeit a bit angrier than they were before the impact. Whatever Morrigan had done, had conjured a storm instead. It was better than the alternative, she thought. Sulani could always weather a storm.”

---

“The boy be doing his part perfectly and you be doing your part beautifully as well! Praise be, my Paragon. It be a beautiful remarkable sight, that power ya be having. That grandmother be proud of you, surely. Ya be saving that sister of yours and the whole world!” Mama Kevari smiled wide at her. Morrigan was too exhausted, the sounds of the rain and ocean had grown too loud to really hear what she said.

Mama Kevari looked from the girl to the spirit that had sat down next to her. The two watched Morrigan who was sprawled out on the ground, panting and breathing heavily. Morrigan smiled weakly at her before passing out. She rarely spoke of the day, but she did once mention that she might have seen her grandmother beside Mama Kevari but dismissed that as something imagined from using the tremendous amount of force she used. Mama Kevari however knew exactly who was sitting beside her even as her eyes started to return to her regular blindness. The two shared silent words while Morrigan recovered, and the King returned.”

[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

I kept forgetting to make a post about it, but I finished the novel Taltos - and therefore The Lives of the Mayfair Witches series - last week.

I’ve been meaning to post it, so, full comment under the cut for spoilers for this book and for the whole series.

In some ways, Taltos was easier to read than the others, and in other ways it was harder. The themes are not so dense on this one. It’s less dark and disturbing, although these elements are still very much present in the narrative.

You know, the first time I read Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis it seemed to me that Anne was shoving two very different stories together in the same book (and later on she confirmed that she did, in fact, very much did this); Taltos sort of feelis like that, too.

And to be fair, yeah, Lasher was a taltos and therefore the Taltos lore is present through this book series since the beginning but. While I do think the lore about this species is interesting, I still think they’re an odd fit with the witches, and this doesn’t always work together.

Mona and her pregnancy... damn, all her family ok with this thirteen year old getting pregnant from her 50-year old cousin’s husbands and ‘blaming’ her for it made me so, so mad but I was not surprised since it’s the Mayfairs were speaking about so, very typical for them.

I was a bit disappointed that the whole Talamasca thing ended up being like three rogue dudes. But I have to say that Marklin and Tommy’s executions were terrifying. They commited crimes and yes, they should have payed for these crimes, but what the Talamasca members decided to do with them... the humans in this series really can be so much worse than any of the supernatural creatures.

Ash’s story was interesting, the whole Taltos canon too, but at this time I was already a bit weary of it all lmao so maybe I didn’t appreciate it as much as a I could have.

I have said before that is hard to root for Michael these days and I still stand by it but I think it’s interesting how packed with sadness both his and Rowan’s narration are. I couldn’t find the quotation I was looking for from Michael, but Rowan is all but suicidal at the end of the book:

I liked that this book deals with the things that bothered me in the Lasher novel - that it didn’t feel fair that their whole species was wiped out and considered unworthy of existence. And of course after seeing Ash with her own eyes and therefore realizing that she killed her own daughter, her innocent daughter who came back to save her only to be shot to death, of course it would shatter Rowan. The book actually doesn’t really gives closure to her grief and depression, and I don’t remember enough of her arc in Blood Canticle to judge if this gets dealt it at some time.

I do like how, as soon as Mona realized she was pregnant with a Taltos, she started to see Rowan and Michael as enemies because she would not allow her daughter to be killed, the way Rowan killed her own child.

Morrigan is interesting too, and her escaping with Ash feels inevitable as an ending. It feels hopeful, despite everything else.

I missed the witches lore in this book. Hardly anything about the ancestors, hardly anything even about the current ones except for Mona/Mary Jane/Rowan, and it was sorely missed.

Overall I’m glad to have read these books. I’m even glad it took this long since these are such heavy books, so it’s better I didn’t read them as a teen. The first book remains the best of all the bunch, but the whole series is better than what people have told me over the years lol

[timptoe]

When Genocide Is the Best Option

I played the Mass Effect trilogy for the first time during the summer of 2022, and it broke my brain. So I played it again over the last six months, trying to figure out why it did what it did to me, and after finishing it again last week, I’ve had the same reaction of intense grief I did the first time. I know I’m a newbie and a decade late to this game, but I’ve tried to piece together what it is about the ending that’s so brilliant and so terrible. And in true English major form, I’ve written 3000 words to try and exorcise it from my head.

It starts with the ending of Stranger Than Fiction.

In Stranger Than Fiction, a boring accountant named Harold Crick (played by Will Ferrell in the best performance of his career) one day starts hearing a voice in his head (Emma Thompson, my love), narrating his life. It’s annoying, but bearable, up until the day he adjusts the time on his wristwatch and the Author says, “Little did he know this simple, seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death.”

Understandably perturbed, Harold seeks to prevent this, ultimately by seeking the Author out and trying to convince her not to finish typing out the book and, presumably, his death. (The unexplained magical realism in this movie is absurdity on par with Samuel Beckett, I can’t tell you how much I love it.) She handwrites the ending for him to see, and Harold shows it to a Professor friend (Dustin Hoffman!) who tells him, “Even if you avoid this death, another will find you and I guarantee that it won't be nearly as poetic or meaningful as what she's written.” And Harold agrees once he reads it too, because in it, he saves a little boy. Isn’t that what we all want, for the end of our stories to have meaning?

But the Author ends up changing the ending. When the Professor reads the finished story with the new, happier ending where both the boy and Harold live, he’s clearly disappointed. They have this exchange:

Professor: It's okay. It's not bad. It's not the most amazing piece of English literature in several years. But it's okay. Author: I think I’m fine with okay. Professor: Why did you change the book? Author: Lots of reasons. I realized I just couldn't do it. Professor: Because he's real? Author: Because it's a book about a man who doesn't know he's about to die and then dies. But if the man does know he's going to die and dies anyway, dies willingly, knowing he could stop it, then...I mean, isn't that the type of man you want to keep alive?

Shepard is the type of person you want to keep alive.

The series does a good job of getting us attached to Shepard, so it’s natural that we want a happy ending for them. We want The Good Ending. And we’ve been trained by the last century-or-so of western fiction heroes’ journies to expect The Good Ending, too. We expect Frodo and Sam to be rescued from Mount Doom by the eagles. We expect Cloud to beat Sephiroth and come out the other side, whole. And even when the protagonist does die—think the Hero of Fereldan choosing not to sleep with Morrigan, or the wipeout of the team in Rogue One, or the dad dying in Life Is Beautiful—it’s usually a sacrifice ultimately in service of The Good Ending. The world is left better because of the hero’s death—a choice that isn’t really a choice, because we expect The Good Ending. 

But instead, at the very last moment, Mass Effect throws us into the cruelest version of the Trolley Problem imaginable.

On track one, if you choose to keep the trolley on its original path, you Destroy all AI. Which means you kill a valued member of your crew and an entire race of sentient synthetics in cold blood. Sure, Shepard (probably) lives at the very end, but this is definitionally Not The Good Ending. The hero can’t commit genocide and still be the hero. And the idea that Shepard could live with themselves after making that choice isn’t consistent with Paragon morality. Maybe if your Shepard is a Renegade, they become an antihero in this moment, but it’s still not The Good Ending as we understand it.

So jump to track two, and choose to Control the trolley and drive it away from death toward new purpose. Which is fine, except that a) the whole arc of the third game shows that Control isn’t possible and is actually evil, embodied in the mission of Cerberus and the person of the Illusive Man; and b) Shepard is then no longer Shepard at the end of the story—they’ve lost the humanity they’ve been fighting so desperately to preserve, stripped away to become the closest thing the galaxy has to a god. Maybe they’re a good god for a hundred years, or even a thousand, but maybe the Leviathans’ Intelligence was, too. Can we expect Shepard-without-humanity not to eventually turn into the Catalyst? To say that the only way to save humanity is to “preserve” it? Renegade Shepard even says in the epilogue, “I will destroy those who threaten the future of the many”; Paragon Shepard’s version, “I will act as guardian for the many,” isn’t much better. Who decides who’s the many? Autocracy can’t be The Good Ending.

Track three’s gotta be The Good Ending then, right? The game certainly presents it as such: Synthesis, the ultimate bridge of understanding between organics and synthetics. The only way to truly achieve peace, argues the Catalyst. It’s the central option in that final chamber, it’s the shortest path to walk to, it’s literally colored lifestream!green. And it’s a completely violation of the bodily autonomy of every living creature in the entire galaxy. The body horror’s real on this one, y’all. I actually picked Synthesis on my first playthrough because of how clearly it was presented as The Good Ending, but watching the epilogue…I mean, it’s great for EDI. Probably great for Joker too. But then I saw the little green circuitry flash across James’s face during Shepard’s memorial and I thought, This guy? The body-as-a-temple guy? No way he’s okay with any of this. Imposing your will on an entire galaxy full of sentient beings feels inconsistent with The Good Ending.

Those are our choices in the final moments of the game. And honestly, the most nearly moral choice is probably track one. Control, at best, pauses the cycle until AI Shepard decides to start the cycle of reaping again. Synthesis takes away the freedom of all sentient creatures—even those who aren’t spacefaring yet, which: imagine if we today suddenly got Synthesized, the chaos that that would bring—to be themselves. So we’re left with Destroy. Think about that. From a certain point of view, genocide is the most nearly moral decision. Which means there is no moral decision.

There is no Good Ending.

In trying to come to terms with the ending, I’ve read a lot of takes about how the writing is bad. I just don’t think that’s the case. I rather think it’s some of the most brilliant writing in Bioware’s canon, precisely because it’s so uncomfortable. Maybe the Choice comes a little bit out of nowhere, though it’s vaguely hinted at in certain descriptions of the Crucible War Assets, like how the Crucible “tunes into the mass relays' command switches” for “the safe discharge of tremendous amounts of energy”, producing “some kind of energetic pulse that might pass through the magnetosphere of a planet unimpeded.” But even if the Choice is a swerve, the choices aren’t. Destroy has been Shepard’s mission from day one. Control is set up as an alternate option starting at Mars. And Synthesis is hinted at as The Good Ending by EDI, the Leviathan, and Legion.

And let’s talk about Legion for a minute, and why the Geth/Quarian peace doesn’t affect the conversation with the Catalyst. My first playthrough, I was aghast that silver-tongued Shepard wasn’t able to argue with the Catalyst that none of the options were necessary, that the Geth/Quarian peace proves all three choices are unnecessary, that everything’ll be alright with a little grit and empathy. Shepard’s able to argue (and convince) damn near everyone else in the series of almost anything; it feels like bad writing not to let them do that with the Catalyst, too.

Except for two things. First, Shepard is actively bleeding out. They’re barely conscious when the platform takes them up into the Crucible, not exactly up for a rigorous Lincoln-Douglass debate. But second, and more importantly, the Catalyst is an unreliable actor. The Leviathians’ Intelligence that becomes the Catalyst has one—and only one—purpose: to stop the chaos of organic/synthetic antagonism. The cycle of reaping works for millenia until, finally, a creature actually makes it through the Citadel and onto the precipice of firing the Crucible. That’s never happened before. And more to the point, the Catalyst can’t stop the creature; it has no corporeal form. So the Catalyst has to come up with a new plan: rather than allow the creature to Destroy its solution or, worse, supplant it as the new source of Control, the Catalyst needs to convince the creature to go through with Synthesis. I’m willing to bet the Catalyst would rather just kill Shepard and continue the cycle of reaping, but it knows that that’s no longer possible, so Synthesis is its best remaining option. It has every reason to lie to Shepard, to cajole Shepard into making that choice. It is utterly consistent in its motivations.

In other words, it’s good writing, even if it’s terribly inconsistent with The Good Ending we’ve come to expect.

(As an aside, I know from bad writing: I’m a refugee from Final Fantasy. FFVI was my first—and still my favorite—RPG; FFVII and its followups are brilliant, FFVIII has some of my favorite characters, FFX is a theological treatise better than anything I read in seminary. But FFXIII and especially FFXV are complete and utter garbage. Hollow characters. Unearned conflicts. Absurd twists with no basis in the narrative. A storytelling mode that’s so rigid as to be unbearable. And FFXV’s ending! No pathos, no resolution, the barest connection to anything else in the story, just a huge timejump and then “kill the bad guy.” Uuuuuugh.)

In teasing out the deep grief I felt after beating Mass Effect the first time, I was surprised at the type of grief it is. It’s not the sharp grief of the loss of love, like I felt when my mother-in-law died or when my wife miscarried twice. It’s not the dull grief of the loss of innocence, like when I left home for the last time or when I watched the towers fall on TV. It took a while to process, but I think it’s the grief of the loss of purpose, the same lingering malaise I felt when I finally realized my career of twenty years was actively bad and I had to leave it behind. Mass Effect’s ending is so hard because we want Shepard either to live, or at least to have a “poetic and meaningful” death, and they don’t. They live, they become a mass murderer; they die, they become everything they’ve fought against. That single choice has the effect of making everything before the Crucible feel purposeless. 

And yet.

There’s a quote I like from Beckett that goes:

You must go on.

I can’t go on.

I’ll go on.

Art is not always meant to comfort us. Sometimes, it’s meant to break us and then, a la Hemingway, help us become “stronger in the broken places.” Beckett and the absurdists and the existentialists get that on a deep level: there’s always An Ending, rarely is it a Good Ending, and sometimes what you do before and after the ending matters more than the ending itself. And I think that’s where I finally get to with Mass Effect: yeah, the ending is absurd and purposeless. And that’s the point.

I want desperately for Shepard to get The Good Ending because Shepard is the type of person you want to keep alive. I want Mass Effect 3 to end like Mass Effect 1, with Shepard’s companions wondering where they are, and then they run up a piece of debris like a conquering hero for all to see. I want to see my Shepard reunite with Kaidan, to run across the scorched battlefield of London into a fierce embrace and say, “I would never leave you behind, not really, not forever. Not again. Never again.” And he doesn’t. And that sucks.

And there is a deep beauty in fighting until you can’t anymore, in making the only choice you can because it’s still your choice, in finding new purpose after The Good Ending, or The Not-So-Good Ending, because if Mass Effect is about anything it’s about endurance. We will endure this war because we have to. I will endure this pain because I have no choice. Life keeps going because life keeps going with no reason or rhyme so it’s our job to make a reason, to invent purpose where none exists, because that’s what we do.

Existence is absurd. Doubly so in a universe like Mass Effect’s, filled with aliens who wield feckless power and technology that is indecipherable and an enemy who is fundamentally Other. For Beckett, the response to that absurdity is a happy, mighty “fuck you.” Maybe you can get The Good Ending if you try hard enough. Maybe there’s never any such thing as The Good Ending. None of that’s the point anyway because, again, existence is absurd—so fuck you, my life has meaning because I say it does. My choices have meaning because I say they do. We have purpose because we say we do. 

As Shepard says, “However insignificant we may be, we will fight. We will sacrifice. And we will find a way. That’s what humans do.”

I’m left conflicted about the next game. A huge part of me—the part that loves the twist in Stranger Than Fiction, the part that’s all about redemption and grace and simplicity—wants the game to be “The Search for Shep.” And I think if it is, it’ll negate the purposelessness and terrible beauty of the ending to Mass Effect 3, which would be an absolute shame. The ending of the Mass Effect trilogy is so powerful because it forces you to find meaning in the journey, not in the ending itself. It turned the whole series on its head for me at least because, honestly, I didn’t really like it during my first playthrough. I mean, it was…fine? Some good characters, some good lines, but kind of a mundane military FPS. Halo with space wizards. But it’s that ending, that existentially absurd ending, that lifts the rest of the series into high literature. (Not that I’m down on fix-it fics, mind you. There’s no work of literature that isn’t elevated by fanfiction. Hell, I’m writing my own fix-it fic from Joker’s POV! I’m just…conflicted about what to do with canon, which is another thing that makes me think it’s good writing after all.)

So that’s where I am. Never thought Mass Effect would jump into my top five favorite games ever, but here we are. It helped me come to terms with some pretty deep feelings I didn’t know were still in me, in the way good literature does. I’ll be chewing on this one for a long, long time. And lucky for me, the state of the fandom ten years after the trilogy ended is so robust that I’m in good company. Got a lot more thoughts, but I’ll stop there. Thanks, friends.

Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true.  - Kay Eiffel, The Author, Stranger Than Fiction

[lairofdragonagelore]

Flemeth’s Fade – Part 2

Quest:The Final Piece

When heading to the room with the eluvian near the Skyhold garden, we meet Leliana who tells us that Morrigan has entered the mirror in pursuit of her son. As the Inquisitor enters the Eluvian, they realise that it leads to the Fade instead of the Crossroad. A part of the Fade that seems to reflect part of the "personal" story of Flemeth.

[This is part of the series “Playing DA like an archaeologist”]

[Index page of Dragon Age Lore]

The next corridor has a small library and more Keepers of Fear.

This corridor displays an Avvar version of a Keepers of Fear clipped with a skull, and a battering ram hanging along the corridor. I honestly can’t say all these elements are telling a story, because their configuration in such a lack of context allows them to be interpreted in any way we want to fit our theories, so I will refrain to go there, but this last part of this Fade seems to show elements that are put together to mean something.  Problem is, we were not given any context to frame them. 

Below the battering ram, there is a rug in a piece of terrain that shows trilobites and shells, in what I think it means “a piece of the past”. The rug is the same one we can see in Skyhold when picked Chasind decoration, so I assume this is a “chasind rug”. Flanking the corridor, we find a pair of Tevinter golems and keepers of fear. I think we can suspect some narration of the kind: Chasind people attacked by Tevinter and Blight alike, based on historical context [Close to the Kocari Wild, this is the story around the construction of Ostagar]. I don’t want to abuse the lack of context to interpret this.

Then, we reach to the end of this part of Fade, finding the most polemical configuration.

The entrance to this clearing is flanked by two keepers of fear, and the statue of what has been speculated as Dirthamen’s humanoid form [which I keep calling Humanoid Dirthamen/Falon'Din] is central in this place. It has a sword in his back, potentially speaking of betrayal, and blood coming from his chest and face.

On the ground there is this typical glyph of the snake eating its own tail. Again, I don’t think we need to overthink this glyph. They are really few in the game [check General glyphs and magical symbols], and they are used in many different ways. They seem to be interpreted only as “magic”, and when they are drawn in red, it is “blood magic”. Going beyond that seems to be an excess. 

The blood from the statue falls and soaks an Eroded dragon skull flanked by two clean Ferelden braziers. There are a lot of skulls and ferelden/elven urns below the blood waterfall. For a detailed analysis of this statue, read Analysis and speculation of Statues: “Humanoid Dirthamen”.

Now, I feel that all this interpretation in the linked post makes little justice to the framed scene given in the game: we see Kieran, with Urthemiel inside his body, giving energy to Myhtal, who is kneeling before him.  Scenes like this make me believe that maybe the Old Gods were entities that represented the original Gods of the Evanuris until the Elvhenan discovered the secret of godhood [which is related to the Dragon shape so far we can infer with the Ancient Elven codices, Temple of Mythal]. However, there are only two elements that one can use to sustain this idea that Mythal is respecting an Old God: 

Mythal has been shown to be proud and enjoying some manners of respect towards her. Therefore, this gesture of humbleness from her speaks of deep respect for a piece of “what was once”: Urthemiel. 

The way Morrigan speaks to Mythal in the Altar of Myhtal, if she drank from the well and did not have Kieran, makes us suspect that Mythal was a servant or follower from a higher entity. She says “From high priest to high priest” when she calls for Mythal, which is something that the Inquisitor doesn’t say if it is them who call for Mythal [for more details read the post about Altar of Mythal]. This could potentially be interpreted that Mythal was a high priest of a higher entity, and Morrigan, who can understand the whispers much better, knows this from them. 

However, this interpretation falls apart when you check Gaider’s confirmation that the Elvhenan pantheon predates the cult of the Old Gods, but this could be a red herring too, since Gaider writes this stuff like a “Chantry scholar” and not like a dev. Or it could mean that the Old Gods worshipped by Tevinter are a bound version from the original ancient entities. We don’t know. The hint that a god stops speaking in dreams to other dreamers once it is bound to a physical form has been recently added to the lore with the DLC of Jaws of Hakkon.

The curious thing about this idea is that, if it were true, it would make sense for Flemeth, as Mythal, to kneel in front of a “God” that the Evanuris worshipped before becoming gods themselves. 

Flemeth and her daughter Yavana have a particular interest in dragons, and Yavana herself says that “The blood of dragons is the blood of the world.”  So, if Yavana knows as much as Flemeth, as it seems to show, it could imply that the original Gods/Creators of Thedas were a higher version of dragons. Flemeth kneeling before Urthemiel’s piece seems to go along with this interpretation. This concept is vastly helped by the lack of real knowledge about the Old Gods in any game, book, or comic. To this day, the Old Gods are a mystery to the player. 

Finally, a last interpretation of this scene, based exactly on what we see, it could be simply that Myhtal was betrayed. And Flemeth is what has been left of Mythal. She is adopting the same position than the statue. The statue represents an event similar to what Mythal suffered; she was betrayed and slain as Abelas told us. Her blood was spread on items of Avvar nature, in particular in a statue that looks like an eroded dragon skull. Still, it’s an odd thing to see this hooded figure in this situation and not Myhtal’s statue, which would make much more sense in order to allow this interpretation. 

Anyways. It’s in this place where we find Flemeth and Kieran. Flemeth kneeling before the child, accepting something from Urthemiel or recharging her power. It’s not clear what’s happening here.

As Morrigan wants to stop this, Flemeth commands the one who has drink from the Well to stop her. When she does it, a blue colour appears in her eyes. Similar effect than an activated eluvian. The power she invokes has the same effect that Kieran had in front of her. This makes us suspect that maybe Urthemiel is the piece of an Evanuris, but I find it hard to believe. That would make the Old Gods represent each of the Evanuris [which we have been told is not the case], but at the same time, I don’t think Flemeth would kneel in front of one of her first executioners when she is so filled with rage of revenge now.

Here some truths are revealed:

Flemeth is Mythal, or at least she has a piece of her. Flemeth and Mythal are something similar to Anders and Justice, so merged that is hard to separate one from the other.

Mythal is something much more complicated than an ancient being for what Flemeth says.

Flemeth can perceive her servants.

The human that was Flemeth was betrayed, and was left alone in the darkness asking for Justice. Mythal came, a wisp of an ancient being, and made her powerful and granted her all what she wanted [Justice?]

Flemeth now seeks justice for Myhtal. One assumes it has to be related to the Evanuris.

An elven Inquisitor can reproach her not to hear them. Flemeth answers that “what was could not be changed” [So far I understand, it implies that the Death of Mythal changed things]. Apparently, asking Mythal now for help is something terrible [”You know not what you ask”, which is an answer that we usually hear from characters that have fallen from grace and their powers are darker. It could also mean that telling the Dalish all the truth about how much they had embraced the symbols of slavery would hurt them more than restore them.]

Mythal came to Flemeth explicitly for Revenge, looking for a “reckoning that will shake the very heavens”.  If we remember that elvhen are partially spirit in nature, all these previous comments from Flemeth make me think that Mythal changed her purpose [from motherly justice and discipline to vengeance], or twisted her nature after her death. It could have been because she was reborn and changed [as the Avvar and Solas explain that happens with spirits] or because something twisted and altered her nature [something like the Blight or Red Lyrium]

Part of these cryptic comments are the reason why I wonder if she is not related to the Blight as a way to kill the Evanuris and have her revenge [given their hard-to-kill nature].

By picking options, we find some extra detail: When the inquisitor asks Flemeth is she has an idea what they are fighting against [Corypheus] she answers as if this would have been an old enemy too.

Then, Morrigan and Flemeth speak:

Flemeth seems to keep supporting the idea of preserving the powers of the past. She taught this into Morrigan, but clearly there is an ulterior reason.

“Things happened that were never meant to happen”. This is a strange way to say things, and considering how flexible the elvhenan magic was, I wonder if this kind of wording does not imply that the elvhenan had, at some point, a degree of control over the passage of time, time travel or vision of the future. Rift magic has been proven to stop and delay time, after all. It could also be a mere manner of speech. 

Flemeth and Mythal, both betrayed in similar way as the world was betrayed, find each other through the ages to look for revenge.

“So long as the music plays, we dance” [once more, Flemeth keeps using these musical wordings that are not by chance random; we know that in DA world, there are songs in archdemons and darkspawn, inside the elves, and inside the blood of the titans. Which music she refers to is hard to say.

There are several versions of the origin of Flemeth. The inquisitor narrates one of them. Flemeth doesn’t seem to correct it.

Flemeth confirms what we have been seeing in books and games: she intervenes in the history of the humanity to change it, because she has a goal to reach: she saved Manric so he could sire Alistair. Alistair will be a Grey Warden she saves, and later, canonically, will be the king of Ferelden in oder to have “old blood” that will allow awakening Great Dragons [comics]. She also saved our Warden in order to ensure the preservation of Urthemiel or maybe she has other reasons for them [we know now that our surviving Wardens are looking for the cure to the Blight]. She saved Hawke close to Lothering so the war between mages and templars would finally escalate all over Thedas. She has always find a way to keep the darkspwan far away from her hut even when the worst of it was in the Kocari Wilds. She is a mastermind who has been arranging the pieces of a big puzzle and pulling the strings along the ages. This is the main reason why the first thing we see in this Fade is a hand with hanged dead bodies over a table. 

She seems to see her servants as something more than slaves. She is surprised of the Inquisitor to ask if they are a servant. Since being bounded to Mythal is not a permission or something forced upon the servants, but something you work for, it seems natural that she doesn’t see this condition as a slave-servant. It seems to be that Mythal’s servants have to earn that position. It’s not only willingly, they have to work hard to get it.

Still, Flemeth seems to imply that she will eventually command the Inquisitor to do things for her. 

The only thing that Flemeth wants is Urthemiel’s soul in Kieran. Here we read once more how darkness can be poetically refer to the Blight.

Seeing how much Morrigan loves her son, Flemeth accepts the piece of Urthemiel from Kieran and frees him. At the end of this scene, when Morrigan returns to Skyhold, she explicitly says that this whole situation has been a test of Flemeth. And I think it was a test of Empathy and motherhood that Mythal did on Morrigan to be sure she is the next “adequate” one where the piece of Mythal will jump into. [Dev’s notes]

It’s implied that Kieran was having particular dreams due to the presence of this piece of Urthemiel in him. This is new lore, because so far we know, all the characters that were possessed by spirits had no particular dreams. This may be a specific Old God attribute.

Here, Flemeth says something very valuable lore-wise: a soul is not forced upon the unwilling. If this applies to all spirit-related situations, to the Evanuris, and the Archdemons, this would explain why demons always need to be “accepted” before possessing, or why an Archdemon, when jumping into the blighted body of a Grey Warden who kills it, dies: the grey warden is not accepting the new soul willingly. This also would explain why a fetus is a good receptor for an ancient soul: there is no soul to ask for permission yet, apparently. Or it’s too weak still.

When Flemeth leaves and they return to Skyhold, we learn that

Kieran is now free of that spirit, and feels lonely. This situation with Kieran seems to be what we learnt in Jaws of Hakkon: how a mage kid can be safe if they are possessed by a good spirit that teaches them magic. Clearly Kieran could manage powerful magic to open the eluvian to the Fade thanks to the spirit inside him that may have taught him. But once the spirit is gone, the mage in question feels lonely [reason why Sigrid did not performed the separation with her spirit, read Stone-Bear Hold Avvars - Part 1]

Certainly, we can see here that the Old Gods were more than mere soul-less dragons. They are powerful spiritual entities. Hence my suspicion about them being the original gods that the Evanuris worshipped before they discovered the secret of godhood. Sadly, this contradicts a bit what Gaider explained in forums, even though the format of that text felt more like a in-game scholar speaking than a dev providing us meta-data.

Morrigan insists that the magic of old must be preserved. And she does this because Mythal taught her to.

Morrigan suspects that what happened in the Temple of Mythal was Flemeth’s doing too. And Abelas’ words, if he dies, seem to confirm this suspicion.

[memento-morri-writes]

I posted 1,448 times in 2022

That's 1,448 more posts than 2021!

743 posts created (51%)

705 posts reblogged (49%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@memento-morri-writes

@cherrybombfangirlwrites

@ink-fireplace-coffee

@italiangothicwriteblr

@careful-pyromancer

I tagged 1,447 of my posts in 2022

#reblog - 552 posts

#morrigan replies - 526 posts

#wip: atqh - 250 posts

#blorbo blursday - 149 posts

#storyteller saturday - 149 posts

#oc asks - 142 posts

#morrigan.txt - 126 posts

#sts - 123 posts

#other's writing - 113 posts

#atqh: kris - 111 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#(everyone at my high school had to read it freshman year although i did not.  i was on a different track and got to read macbeth and hamlet

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

[ID: a neautral-toned picture of an open book, shot from an angle.  Above the book, in a serifed font, are the words “memento-morri-writes: a writeblr (re)intro” /end ID]

Writeblr Intro, Take 2 (+ Nav)

Basics: - Morrigan (aka Morri) - she/her - 18 - student - neurodivergent (autistic + ADHD) - bi ace (also aspec?? maybe??) - ask game and tag game friendly!

My name is Morrigan.  I have an addiction to sci-fi and fantasy, and a deep seated hatred for “insta-love” and melodrama.   I write mostly fantasy at the moment, but there might be some sci-fi popping up eventually.

Some of my favorite tropes / content in media include found family, morally grey characters, LGBTQ+ and POC characters, neurodivergent and mental health representation, hurt/comfort, sarcastic characters (bonus points if they’re the narrator), reluctant allies to friends (basically anything to friends), slow-burn romances, and magic with a cost.

I participate in Worldbuilding Wednesday, Blorbo Blursday, and Storyteller Saturday!

My WIPs:

All the Queen’s Horses:

light fantasy, (probably YA), 3rd person limited POV, slow-ish burn romance with a bi main character, no real magic.

- intro post - wip page (+ story nav) - story tag - content masterlist (not all content is on here!)

Call of Shadows:

YA fantasy / adventure, first person POV with multiple narrators, no romance, lots of magic.

- intro post - wip page (+ more nav) - story tag

General Navigation:

- answered asks - ask games masterlist - oc list - oc asks - storyteller saturday - worldbuilding wednesday - blorbo blursday - non-writing posts - reblogs of other’s stuff

57 notes - Posted July 9, 2022

#4

Underrated Whump Trope: POISON

There's just so much you can do with it!! So many different delivery methods and symptom combos. And if you can't find an existing poison/poisonous substance that fits your needs, just make one up!! But like, the shock, the panic, the potential for betrayal... The diversity of potential symptoms, and of their effect time. The panic of trying to find an antidote. Not knowing how long the character has, because you have no idea what poison was used.

Plus, if your WIP involves magic, you can have all kinds of bonus stuff. Like, a poison that resists magical healing. A poison that turns the victim's magic against them. A poison that renders their magic useless.

Just, poison.

89 notes - Posted September 16, 2022

#3

a concept: ghosts who grow more powerful with age.

ghosts whose essence seeps in to the building they haunt, til they can open doors and close windows with a thought. ghosts who become the building.

ghosts who've haunted ruins since they were new, who do what they can to preserve them, in hopes that someone will remember them, or the place they lived.

ghosts so old, so powerful, they can change the weather. (have you wondered why the weather is so strange by the ruins?)

ghosts who lose their shape, becoming nothing but energy. they are so much more powerful now, without their cage to limit them.

ghosts who are afraid of losing their shape, because how can they exist without a body? alternatively, ghosts who can't wait to lose their form, because they never felt at home in it anyways.

ghosts who slowly spread out, from one house to the next and on and on until they can touch the entire city.

ghosts of lost shipwrecks, trapped under the water until they learn to swim, to fly, to expand. they learn the ocean is not their prison, it is their home.

ghosts

138 notes - Posted August 7, 2022

#2

thinking about self-sacrifice in media, and how we tend to see it as heroic. but what if people self-sacrifice because they don't value themselves? what if they think the best way to give their life meaning is to die to save someone else? thinking about characters who unlearn that ideology and choose to live, choose to find another way to save people. not because they don't want to help, but because maybe, just maybe, they started to see that they are valuable alive.

After all, what is self-sacrifice but self-destruction for a cause?

228 notes - Posted September 28, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Fantasy doesn't just mean magic and monsters and castles or quests and far-away lands. Fantasy means "this is my fantasy, and if I can't live it, I'm going to let my characters live it for me."

361 notes - Posted September 15, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[pinayelf]

zev: stop biting people when you're mad at them

amihan: never

alistair: please find a different way to express that anger

morrigan: i can teach you how to shapeshift into animals with sharp teeth

zev and alistair: not that

[elentiyawhitethorn]

The Bet | Chapter Thirty-Four

Masterlist//Moodboard//Timeline//2698 words

Day 96

Feyre clapped her hands excitedly as Mor read the news. Lucien was a bit quieter, containing his ecstasy as he listened.

“‘Spring was found with multiple counts of insurance fraud, tax evasion, and identity fraud. And this is just after glancing at the surface. Who knows what the FTC will find once they really start digging?’” Mor narrated.

“‘As of now, Spring stubbornly refuses to make a statement, likely afraid of implicating himself further. For years, he has gotten away with illegal activity in his company by bribing and allegedly threatening officials. After his former fiancée, Feyre Archeron, spoke up about his mental and physical abuse, Spring has since no longer been able to use his power and wealth to keep everyone turning a blind eye; not after the public decided a reckoning was in order. Hopefully, this is the turning of a new page for America in how justice is served.

“‘On that note, Hybern Corporation will also be thoroughly investigated after the interview of Rhysand Night, an acquaintance of Miss Archeron. Both of their confessions were backed up by Lucien Vanserra and Morrigan Hewn.

“‘The FTC will continue digging, and in the meantime, all we can do is wait for their next report. Stay tuned for updates.’ And that’s it, guys. Great, right?”

Mor was practicing vibrating with excitement, and Feyre and Lucien were hardly any better.

Lucien wrapped Feyre in a hug. “You did it.”

“No, we did it.”

“Well don’t leave me out. I love hugs, remember?” Mor said, feigning hurt as she wrapped her arms around both of them.

Feyre giggled maniacally. “Fuck, I’m famous.”

Lucien snorted. Then Mor. Before she knew it, all three of them had dissolved into laughter, Mor shaking so hard she slid to the floor. The other two joined her, taking spots on the carpet and trying to stifle their giggles.

“You should call Rhys. He’ll want to know,” Mor suggested, directing this statement at Feyre.

Feyre stopped laughing. “He probably saw it already.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Not everyone checks the news every second of the day like Mor does. Besides, who cares if he already knows? He probably wants to talk to you.”

Feyre frowned. “One of you can tell him.”

“You did something, didn’t you?” Lucien questioned after seeing her expression. “What did you do?”

Feyre looked at the floor, wincing. “I don’t think he’ll ever speak to me again.”

Mor snorted. “I am so done with your drama. Spit it out.”

Feyre groaned, resting her head against her knees. “I told him I love him.”

A moment of silence.

“You did what?”

“What the fuck?”

“What did he say?”

“What did he do?”

“Stop it!” Feyre yelled, trying to silence the pair of them. “It was so awful.”

“Well didn’t he say it back?” Mor asked.

Feyre scowled. “Of course he didn’t say it back. He doesn’t love me. But that’s not the point. I didn’t mean to say it. He gave me an early present for my birthday and I meant to say ‘I love it.’ But I may have accidentally said ‘I love you.’”

Lucien laughed. “You two give me so much entertainment. How is it even possible to attract drama like this?”

Mor frowned. “But what happened after that?”

“I corrected myself, rather awkwardly, and ran out the door. He hasn’t come back to my studio since.”

“So maybe he didn’t have a chance to say it back. Or maybe he didn’t want to because he wasn’t sure whether you meant it or it was just an honest mistake. Or—get this—maybe he was in shock to hear his soulmate tell him how she felt and he needed a minute to process.” Lucien crossed his arms.

Feyre groaned loudly. “I hate you both. That’s not at all what happened and if you ever refer to Rhys as my soulmate again I will strangle you. Even if we don’t talk about it ever again, it will still be awkward.”

“You mean especially if you don’t talk about it?” Mor asked. “You need to clear the air. And by that I mean you need to say, Hey, Rhys, that thing about me loving you? Totally true. Let’s get married now.”

Feyre elbowed Mor, then elbowed Lucien for good measure. “I can’t.” She buried her head in her hands.

Lu sighed. “Gods, you’re hopeless.”

Feyre whined pathetically and said, “Does this mean the bet is over? Because I remember a very clear section saying no love confessions or something.”

Mor looked undecided. “We’ll see. You’re still in it for now.”

Feyre knew better than to argue, even though this was, like, the fifth slip she’d made. They’d sort it out later. Only a few days left in the bet—she’d checked her calendar this morning, shocked to find how close she was. Feyre would probably have to pay up when it was over.

With a mournful sigh, Feyre pushed herself to her feet.

“Where are you going, babe?” Lucien asked.

“It’s Monday, remember? Gym day.”

They both let out sounds of understanding as Feyre collected her bag and pulled on her sneakers. The snow had melted, and the weather forecast didn’t predict any more snow for the next few days. It was only December 14th.

Four days until day 100, a week until Feyre’s birthday, and eleven days until Christmas. And in the midst of all these days would be loads of reporter drama and Tamlin shit going on. Not to mention dealing with Rhys—unless Feyre did manage to avoid him forever.

After she was clad in athletic clothing and standing in the practice room, Cassian greeted her. He also mentioned what was going on with Tamlin and Hybern.

Feyre gave a smile—a genuine smile—and told him she already knew. After a minute of talk, they were ready to kick some ass.

Cassian came at Feyre from the side, with a blow designed to confuse her. She narrowly avoided it, spinning back. Cassian struck again, but Feyre was done dodging. She blocked his fist with her forearm and threw a punch.

He dodged and Feyre punched again. This time, Cassian grinned and grabbed her fist, twisting it and throwing a foot under her leg. This wasn’t the first time he’d used the move on Feyre, so even though she fell to the ground, she was able to quickly roll back to her feet.

An impressed whistle was all Cassian would acknowledge the move with before lunging at her. Feyre spun and lifted her foot, going for a side kick.

The man avoided contact with her foot, albeit barely. Feyre knew he was still going easy on her; after all, if he was using the full extent of his ability, she wouldn’t learn anything other than the taste of the mat. Still, it was encouraging to get this far, to have the pair whirling and striking and dodging and scheming.

Cassian often talked about fighting as a dance, a bewitching and deadly dance. The passion with which he talked about the theory of fighting, the mindset required to become better, and the beauty of the fight honestly made Feyre think he was crazy at first. She hadn’t understood. After all, it wasn’t chess—yeah, there was some thought process, but really it was just beating someone up. Being physically sharp and able was all you needed. But now Feyre did get it.

Feyre spun and threw her arm out, hitting Cass in the gut. She had moved with the chop; she had become a warrior in her head and her body had responded. Mondays were by far the highlight of Feyre’s week. Training gave Feyre an outlet not just to distract herself with, but to tame the roaring fire in her veins and give it life, rather than dousing it. No matter how screwed up the rest of Feyre’s life was, she was here and she was getting stronger and faster and more skilled and no one could take that away from her.

Cassian knocked a blow from Feyre aside and swept her off her feet, effectively ending the match as the breath was knocked from her lungs. Once she managed to regain her sense of respiratory ability, Cass helped pull Feyre to her feet.

“You did good today, kiddo. You’re getting a hell of a lot better.”

Feyre blinked, then glanced at the clock. Sure enough, the full session had passed. “Gods, I didn’t realize how long we’d been in here.”

Cassian a shit-eating grin and said, “You got caught up in the thrill of it, didn’t you?”

Feyre snorted, but nodded. It was so easy to lose herself in the movements.

He gave Feyre a friendly slap on the shoulder and told her, “Happens to me all the time. I blink, and all of a sudden, half the day’s passed. It’s hard not to get caught up it in when you’re so good.”

Feyre laughed. “I’m not that good.”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m the teacher here.”

Feyre smiled with him. “If you say so.”

“Still keeping up with your exercises?” Cass asked, changing the subject. From their very first lesson, he had assigned exercises for Feyre to do in her free time. Among them were push-ups, pull-ups (she could do them on the doorframe), and crunches.

Feyre smiled and said yes.

“Good. I can tell. You’re getting stronger.”

Feyre rolled her eyes at the compliments, but she knew she was blushing. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

Cassian chuckled good-naturedly and started for the door. Feyre followed.

And nearly ran into the doorframe as she noticed Rhys leaning against the wall just outside of the door, likely waiting for Cassian. She thought back to their first session and remembered something about eating lunch together on Mondays. She narrowly avoided the doorframe, though still probably looked like a clumsy, graceless lump, and straightened herself as Cassian sent her a smirk.

Rhys looked up from his phone, blinking in surprise as he noticed Feyre standing beside Cass. “Hey.” His voice was far too light. He was obviously faking pleasantry. Of course he hadn’t forgotten or dismissed Feyre’s slip from last Friday.

Sighing internally, Feyre decided to ignore the curious look Cassian sent her way, noticing the tension. “Hey, Rhys.” Her voice sounded just as fake, if not more.

He gave a thin smile.

“We’re all eating lunch together,” Cassian announced.

“We are?” Feyre and Rhys asked at the same time.

Cassian grinned. Fuck, he was meddling. “Yes, we are.”

“I would love to, but I should get to work,” Feyre said.

“And you plan on not eating lunch at all today?”

“Well I didn’t bring anything.”

“Rhys brings food from Mor’s.” Cassian smiled, daring her to argue more.

Argue more she would. “Not for three people, I’m sure.”

“We can share.”

Feyre crossed her arms. Cassian did the same.

Rhys cleared his throat after several moments, likely braving awkwardness in order to end to staring contest. “I’m sure we can share. I brought plenty.” He didn’t sound at all confident in this assessment. He likely wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Feyre retorted stubbornly. No fucking way was she eating lunch with Rhys and Cassian.

“You wouldn’t be,” Rhys said, somewhat reluctantly.

Feyre was tempted to counter that with Yeah I fucking would be, but she could hardly get into this with Cassian watching amusedly. She probably wouldn’t have even been able to say it to Rhys alone.

“Okay,” Feyre murmured.

Cassian was grinning. “Let’s go.”

Feyre had never eaten lunch with him before, and she could only follow hopelessly as Cass led the pair of them to his office in the back. They entered a cozy space with a small table in the middle, a couple of chairs on either side.

“I’ll get another one,” Cassian said cheerfully. No. Wait.

Feyre was alone with Rhys.

“So, um,” he started. A moment passed and he didn’t seem to have anything to add.

Feyre knew she had to act casual. She was a shitty actor, but she had to at least try. If she pretended nothing was wrong, maybe Rhys would let it go.

“How have you been?” she asked. Uncreative, but she wasn’t sure what else to say.

Rhys smiled widely. The gesture screamed I don’t want to be here. “Great, how about you?”

“I’ve been pretty good,” she replied. The conversation ended there. Neither said anything more, and even though Feyre wanted to make Rhys think nothing was wrong, she couldn’t decide what to say to him.

Under any other circumstances, Feyre would be concerned about the length of time it was taking Cassian to find a chair. But she knew he was interfering, sensing something wasn’t right. If only he knew the disaster that was Feyre and Rhys’ relationship. Maybe then he’d back off.

After another minute of curiously eying the wall (not wanting to look at the other), Cassian returned. He didn’t say anything about his lengthy absence, only setting down the chair and gesturing for the pair to come over.

Screaming inside, Feyre sat down. Every instinct in her body was telling her to run as fast as she could. So much for being a badass ninja.

If Feyre had to describe the lunch with one word, it would probably be miserable. Or perhaps pathetic. Or sordid. Or wretchedly uncomfortable—though that was two words. Whatever.

They had distributed the food as equally as they could. Then Cassian had asked the two questions the whole time. If not for him, there would be silence. Each had given the minimal answer then stuffed food in their mouth so they could stop taking.

Cassian, a permanent smirk fixed on his lips, had actually had the nerve to ask Feyre if she was seeing anyone. He knew damn well she wasn’t.

Feyre had denied this—after she finished choking on her food—and given him her death stare. Cass had merely smiled and asked Rhys, freakishly still, the same question.

Rhys had smiled robotically and said, “No, I’m not. Want another dumpling?”

And that had been the most exciting part of lunch. Once everything was cleaned up, Rhys left hurriedly, Cassian crowing at him for not even working out after coming to a fucking gym and Rhys muttering something about his digestion. Apparently acting casual had been a fail.

Once Feyre was sure he was gone, she whirled on Cassian. “You asshole,” she hissed, slapping his arm. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Cassian replied, an innocent smile on his face.

Feyre had groaned and leaned against the wall, still in his office.

“What’s up with you two? And I don’t need to hear the basics; I do have eyes. I want something juicy.”

“You’re all such vultures,” Feyre spat. “You and Mor and Lu.”

Cassian just grinned. “Is that an okay dear Cass, I’ll tell you everything?”

Feyre sighed. “This is all so screwed up.” She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, struggling with the nervous energy.

“What happened?” Cassian asked.

“I did something incredibly stupid,” was all Feyre could say. She’d told the story once, and thought about it a billion times since it had happened. She didn’t want to go through it again, especially when she hadn’t told Cassian anything about her feelings toward Rhys yet.

Cassian only said, “Want to go punch something?”

“Our lesson’s over.”

“I don’t have anything scheduled after lunch.”

Feyre weighed the sincerity of his statement, as well as her need to beat somebody up. “Yeah, thanks.”

He chuckled and grabbed her wrist pulling her back to their private room.

“I hate you,” Feyre told him.

“No, you love me.”

Despite the horrendous lunch she’d just suffered through, Feyre laughed. “Only a little bit. You’re still an ass.”

Cassian got in position with a punching bag, and Feyre readied herself. Taking her frustrations out on the pad was always so satisfying. And she had a lot to be frustrated with right now. Not just Rhys, but also Tamlin and Hybern.

Feyre checked her stance one last time, then let her fist fly.

———

Tag List:

@a-court-of-milkandhoney

@aelin-bitch-queen

@evolving-dreamer

@feysand-loml

@infernoqueen19

@lemonade-coolattas

@live-the-fangirl-life

@midsizewitch

@rhysandswingspan

@scatterbrainedgirl

@sleeping-and-books

@story-scribbler

@swankii-art-teacher

@thebonecarver

@whythefuckdoiexist

[confused-as-all-hell]

Morrigan

A queen—a queen who bowed to no one, a queen who had faced them all down and triumphed. A queen who owned her body, her life, her destiny, and never apologized for it.

Morrigan; lovely and bright and brilliant as the sun herself. A female who knows hateful abuse by its first name, and can still rise every morning with merriment on her lips. A lethal warrior, a fierce third-in-command, a loyal friend. A good person. So why is she despised?

Mor, from the first page, is depicted as proud and laughing. She loves her family, the Inner Circle, and refuses to tolerate any slander against them. Time and time again, Feyre narrates Mor’s devotion knows no restraints, that she would end the world for those she loves. We loved her for it, applauded her sharp remarks against those who had wronged our sweet Feyre, commented on her unwavering allegiance. 

And yet, when Nesta makes no attempt to hide her distaste for her sister, some of you had the audacity to be shocked when Mor snapped. Mor loves her High Lady, has always stood by her side and protected her fearlessly. It must have hurt her to see Feyre harmed by her own family; don’t forget, Mor herself suffered unforgivable trauma at the hands of her parents. To see Feyre crying over Nesta... that would have pained her beyond belief. It would have struck a chord within her. 

Mor saw a friend in fucking tears, and she was furious. She had every right to dislike who Nesta was pre-ACOSF. Are we actually going to blame her for defending someone who was practically her own sister? Mor may not have understood Nes’ trauma, but she was not wrong for what she did. Neither was she wrong in the case of Cassian. Do none of you understand what it means to love someone? You protect them, worry after them, try and ease the source of their pain the best you can. 

Mor is not a saint. She can’t read minds. When she was cruel to Nesta, though it may have hurt Nes, Mor was defending Cassian. Cassian, who reached out a hand when nobody else did so long ago. Cassian, who she has known for five hundred years. Cassian, who looked after her like a brother. Come on. Since when do we hate characters for watching over each other?

I have, rather amusingly, also seen arguments over Mor’s sexuality. She is closeted and bisexual, with a preference for females, and little interest in sleeping or going out with males. Mor owes it to nobody to come out; she may do so when she feels comfortable and ready to share her news. I cannot believe people are whining “Ohhh, Mor can’t lead Azriel on like that, it’s just not fair to him.” That’s fucking funny.

I will ask, has Mor hinted towards him she might be ready for a relationship? Has she made advances? Has she mentioned by word or deed that she feels anything but sisterly love towards Az? 

If anything, she has done quite the opposite. Mor is not responsible for whatever Azriel has convinced himself of. It is not her job to sit him down and tell him she has no interest in their romantic relationship. She is not leading him on: Azriel is simply pining over a female who feels no attraction for him. It is disgusting that some of you think Mor owes Azriel an explanation. He chose to love her. She is not responsible for un-making that decision.

Mor is allowed to defend her family. She is allowed to live her life. She is allowed to have a wonderful girlfriend who will care for her, and protect her, the very same way Mor has protected so many for all her years.

I am not opposed to her dating Emerie, but I hate the theories Emerie will knock Mor down in defense of Nesta. I myself am actually pro-Nesta, but I will not allow lovely Mor to be slandered. She deserves someone who will understand her, not someone who is only going to berate her. Does she deserve to be held accountable for a few hateful comments? Yes. Does she deserve to be detested herself for it? No.

I also happen to hate the theories Mor and Eris are going to reconcile. Fuck, Eris hurt her unforgivably. He saw her bleeding and shaking and sobbing, nails in her stomach, and did he reach out? No, he curled his lip. And insinuating Mor lied about her abuse... this is so awful. Abuse survivors are already never believed. We do not need to project this further. And we do not need another shitty redemption arc for a brutal male with a sad story. 

I would like to see Mor holding Eris accountable. Not Cassian or Azriel or Feyre or Rhys or Nesta. Mor. Because we see in ACOWAR that Mor is not over her trauma, and being around Eris terrifies her. She can never find her closure if she does not stand up for herself, and she desperately needs closure. Even then, I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive Eris.

Mor is honestly such a lovely, flawed character. She makes her mistakes, but she has good intentions every time. She defends those she cares for without fail, loves her family fiercely, and moreover, she loves herself. I will not tolerate a word of slander against her.

[ladynestaarcheron]

Fears All the Way Down - Chapter One

ao3 - masterpost

back on my bullshit, y'all! as i have chattered about, this is my fix it for acosf. we've established that because acosf ignores canon from the original trilogy and is so poorly edited that emerie has two--count 'em, two--on-page tragic backstories...i am completely at liberty to ignore what I please, and so are you. i'll let you know chapter by chapter what you should keep in mind.

this one's not critically important, but I just want to say it: in acosf, nesta's revealed to be taller than average, and two inches taller than feyre. wrong. nesta's short. feyre's the tallest and she's only 5'6", elain's an inch shorter, and nesta's 5'3" on a good day.

anyway. enjoy!

---

There's nothing quite like stepping into Feyre's beautiful new home to remind Nesta just how truly ugly she is. The literary part of her, dulled by the wine from last night and the downward spiral of the past year, appreciates the contrast. Sometimes she still likes to narrate her life in her head as though it were a book. What would she write here? The woman curves her foot inside her boot, as if that would stop her from dirtying the marble. That's a nice line, isn't it? A good hook. But she isn't a woman anymore, so it wouldn't work.

"This way," Cassian says, unnecessarily waving his hand behind him.

It's probably supposed to be insulting, that Feyre has sent him to fetch her. But she doesn't care. Feyre can do what she likes. Just as Nesta will do what she likes. She'll sit through this scolding, turn down the invitation to stay for lunch, go home and sleep until she wakes up and has another night like last.

Although perhaps she'll spend less this time. If only to avoid this headache again.

"They're waiting in here," he says, stopping in front of one of the doors. How many rooms are there in this mansion, anyway? Feyre might've mentioned it on the tour, but she doesn't remember. Only remembers that decorating the walls are dozens, maybe hundreds of pictures of Feyre and Rhysand and Morrigan and Cassian and Azriel and Amren and Elain and their father, and none of Nesta. Or their mother, for that matter. She remembers that very well.

"Wait," Cassian blurts out as she lays a hand on the doorknob.

Nesta angles her head slightly. Not a full turn, not to look at him.

"Do you want your tea?"

Rolling her eyes, Nesta opens the door and shuts it--pointedly, she hopes--behind her.

Her sisters look up from the couch where they sit, heads close together. Little cakes and sandwiches and tea are arranged prettily on the glass table.

"Nesta!" Elain says, leaping up."You're here early!"

Nesta bites her tongue to keep from answering Five whole minutes. No use snapping at Elain before they've even begun, is there?

"Let me take your coat," Feyre says, standing up too.

Ah. So this would be this sort of meeting, then. These...luncheons, that they sometimes try to have with her. But it's nine in the morning.

It pulls at her heart, that they still try. And makes her sick to her stomach. She winces as she feels it. Too much alcohol and not enough food to add any extra queasiness. This will not be easy for her.

"Heard you had quite the night," Feyre says, voice bright and cheery in a way that does not quite match her eyes. "Sit down, sit down."

She does, opposite them. They take note.

"Do you want to try these macarons, Nesta? Raspberry. I made them."

"We got this new cinnamon tea...from the Continent. I think you'll like it."

Her sisters try again a few times, and eventually she says, "I'll take tea."

"I'll pour it," Feyre says quickly.

Great. Wonderful.

This isn't so bad, though, she thinks as she sipped her tea. She'll get through this...whatever it is. Force herself to make some conversation, say Feyre's newest art project is pretty, force down half a cookie and tell Elain it tastes good. Then she'll agree to see them for lunch in a week. And that will be all.

How long can they possibly keep her for? An hour? Two hours? She can do that.

And then Feyre clears her throat. "Nesta," she begins. "Elain and I...have something we want to say to you."

Here it is. She should've known better. Tea and macarons, at nine in the morning? Of course not.

"And we're only saying this because we care about you," Elain adds quickly.

"Yes. Yes, right. We are. And...well...what we want to say is..." Feyre looks to Elain, who nods encouragingly.

Good grief. Will this never end?

"We know that...all of this...has been...difficult...for you to adjust to."

Nesta's heart stutters. They wouldn't. This--this isn't happening.

She keeps it off her face, though. She is cool, impassive. Blank. Nothing.

It doesn't make Feyre give up, but it does make her duck her head. "We...understand. But we think...we know that because we love you we can't allow this to go on any longer." Feyre clamps her mouth shut as she finishes, appearing to be holding her breath.

Nesta only raises an eyebrow slightly. Inside, she is not nearly as calm.

"All of the...drinking, Nesta," Elain says, lips beginning to tremble. Oh, no, not this. Anything but this. "And the m-males." She cringes as she said the words.

The color leachees from her face. She wants to die. There is no Mother, she knows, because if there were any being with mercy, they would surely split the earth beneath her feet and take her down.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Feyre says, now the one hurrying to add on to the other. Elain nods, but she looks sick. "Just that--you hadn't really...there was Tomas, but other than that--"

Nesta flinches violently when Feyre says his name. She still isn't making eye contact, though, so she doesn't notice, and continues.

"--so the--switch. From not being with anyone, and then...and these males don't care about you. And I wouldn't--I would never judge you, Nesta, really, but it doesn't appear as though you're...enjoying...yourself." She shrinks back.

"So then," Nesta says, proud of herself for keeping her voice even, "you are judging me."

"We're just noting facts," Elain says.

"And...all right, let's take a step back," Feyre says, swallowing. "We're not here to criticize you. We only want to offer a solution."

"A solution," Nesta repeats flatly. To her problem. To her.

"A--not a solution. Help. We want to help."

Elain clenches her hands into fists in front of her. Feyre stills as she visibly holds her breath.

"Well?" Nesta says after half a minute of this, voice still deadly calm. "What is your solution?"

Who will be the one to say it, she wonders? Elain, frightened as a mouse already, or Feyre, ill at the sight of her?

It's Feyre. Perhaps being High Lady makes her feel responsible. But she exhales sharply, picks up her head, and says, "We think it would be beneficial for you to spend some time in the library."

Nesta blinks. A library? That...doesn't sound--

And then she realizes. Not a library. The library. The one off the side of that mountain, where Hybern had attacked...where Bryaxis had lived...where all those priestesses...those priestesses...

"Are you out of your mind?" she blurts out, losing grip on her faux calm completely. "You want me to go to that library? Are you insane? How is that possibly supposed to help?"

"Nesta--"

"With those--those sycophants? Who worship that thing?" The thundering of her heart blocks the sounds from her sisters' protests. "Is that what you want me to be? Some acolyte of that--you want me to pray to that--how can--how dare--"

"Nesta, please!" Feyre cries, hands thrown up in front of her.

"We don't mean that at all!" Elain says, tears in her eyes.

Nesta's chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, her mind too full of that...Cauldron. That thing they all worship--that thing that did this to her--to Elain--to Father--

"Please hear us out," Feyre says. "Sit back down, please."

Nesta falters. She hadn't even realized she had jumped up. She fights to keep her cheeks from reddening in shame. Stupid--she shouldn't have lost control like that--and what if something had happened? Shattered a window, shattered one of her sisters' bones?

"Thank you," Feyre says as she sits. "What we mean is...to spend time at the library during the day...working on entirely secular things. Nothing to do with any worship at all. Not reading those books, not participating in any prayer, not even wearing their robes."

"We would never suggest you do that, Nesta." Elain's voice is tight. Feyre reaches out and holds her hand.

"Just during the day," Feyre continues, "and then at night staying in the House of Wind."

"So you don't even have to share a room with any of them," Elain is quick to clarify. "Or eat with them. And you could go to that private library, too, remember?" She still fights back tears, but her voice takes a hopeful turn upwards.

Nesta latches onto everything inside her and holds it down tightly. "What would I even be doing there?"

Elain and Feyre exchange a look. Was that excitement? They probably take it as her willingness to go. That is not what this is.

"So, day to day, it would involve librarian duties. Reshelving books and such. And over time, if you find something you're interested in, aiding a senior librarian with her research. Or perhaps doing some of your own, if you'd like. But...the real purpose, Nesta..." Feyre sneaks another look at Elain before saying to her, "is for you to heal."

"We're not saying there's anything the matter with you," Elain says, jumping in before she can respond. "Just that...you've been hurt. And w-we take responsibility for not being by your side all this time. That was obviously wrong. We thought...well...we know you've always preferred to be on your own. But you're--you're hurting yourself too much. We can't just let you do that anymore. We love you," she finishes, choking back a sob. Her tears start falling from her eyes, but she does her best to keep quiet.

Feyre squeezes her hand, but doesn't turn to look at her. She keeps her eyes focused on Nesta. "Look, we know...it'd be a big change. But just...give it a few weeks. Get a feel for it. And if it's really not working...and you don't like it..."

"Then what?" Nesta asks, hollow.

"Don't worry about that," Feyre answers, firm. "We'll think of something else."

She's going to be sick right here. She cannot handle this...concern. Their trying. It's too much.

And now she has to say no. And Elain will cry--maybe Feyre, too. And then she'll have the rest of them upon her; Rhysand leading them to storm down her apartment, probably. It'll drive her down further, and perhaps be the last snip needed to finally sever the frayed, sole remaining string tied between herself and her sisters. Goodness knows she has ripped apart the tie between her and Amren, had stomped out the one between her and Cassian before it even had a chance to be something--

"Hey," Feyre says, placing a hand on her knee. "Stay with us, please."

"We know it's not easy." Elain speaks slowly, breathing deeply and fighting back her sobs. "But...don't think of it as a big thing. Just one step. One change. And w-we're not abandoning you to do this alone."

Feyre stands up and moves to sit by Nesta's side. Elain takes her other.

"I know how you feel," Feyre says, quiet and calm, squeezing her knee. "I've felt the same. If you can't do this for yourself...that's fine. Just please, please. Do it for us. Please."

Nesta narrows her eyes on Feyre's hand. She doesn't open her mouth for fear of what might come out. She won't give this voice--can't--

"I killed two innocents," Feyre says in that same voice, and suddenly, Nesta forgets her own thoughts as she turns to face her.

"It was my third trial," she continues, meeting Nesta's gaze, "Under the Mountain. Amarantha made me. I could've killed myself...and I was going to. But then it all ended and she died and Tamlin took me back to Spring. And I..." Only now does a tear slide down Feyre's cheek. But she just wipes it away and musters a small smile. "I promise I know how you feel. Please do this for me."

There are some truths Nesta knows. That she is not worth anyone's effort because of who she is, what she is. Which is defiled. And rotted. And small. And ugly. And these are the reasons why people give up; why she deserves that.

And yet, here her sisters sit, quietly crying, begging, beside her, and they are not giving up.

It's not exactly seeing the chance, rather...knowing it's there. In her periphery. Out of reach from where she is now, but...perhaps she can get there.

And Nesta realizes that there is a small, nearly insignificant--except it's the most important, isn't it?--part of her that throughout this whole drowning tempest, remembers what it is like to breathe. And it wants to breathe.

The girl who gave everything she could against the Cauldron may be buried, but she's not dead yet.

So she nods once.

Elain gasps and throws her palm against her mouth. Feyre squeezes her leg so hard she thinks she might draw blood.

"Thank you," Elain chokes out, crashing her head onto Nesta's shoulder.

Feyre doesn't say anything; only leans onto her other side.

Nesta doesn't relax. She sits there stiff and unmoving. But that distant, minuscule thing inside her flickers and breathes.

[bookofmirth]

ok so this might come off as a bit rambly so please bear with me lol

i've noticed that the acotar fandom has this incessant need to be right when it comes to canon and it really sucks out the funness of fandom. shipping is supposed to be fun but when it comes to this fandom, it's almost like a competition to see who will be more right when the books come out. engaging with theories/predictions about characters and the plot is supposed to be exciting but when it comes to this fandom, some of the theories/predictions are problematic at worst and nonsensical at best. like how can you say with your full chest that you're so confident about where the series is heading in the future because of this or that theory when you're stuck in the past and refuse to see what all of the text is telling you in the present. it doesn't make sense. the selective reading is so strong that it has me looking sideways sometimes lol

i guess my question is why do you think the fandom is so divided when it comes to ships right now? i've seen people say this wasn't the case for feysand and nessian, so what's the difference here?

Oh boy Brielle, I have some thoughts on this. It's complex.

To be clear, I am not saying that this applies to literally every single person who ships a certain way. This is a commentary on the fandom as a whole, and there are always exceptions.

This got really, really long, so I'm putting it under the cut.

I think that one of the main draws of this series, and of sjm's writing in general, is her ships. I think that people get very, very attached to their ships.

I also think that sjm does NOT fully think through some of the choices that she makes when writing. See: the way that she takes from all these different cultures and mashes them together, which could be seen as disrespectful of their origin. She has retconned things, like Mor being queer and Lucien being Helion's son. I think that she thoroughly thinks about some of the aspects of her books, like Rhys's reaction to sleeping with Feyre for the first time, but then really half-asses other aspects of her books, like Mor coming out.

Then, we have your good old misogyny and homophobia - people in the fandom don't like Mor because she hurt the poor bat boy's feelings when she didn't sleep with him, and they don't have a mating bond, but she's never really told Azriel "no", and so every single moment of pain that Azriel has felt in 500 years is Morrigan's fault. And Mor's experience as a closeted queer woman who feels unsafe around the people she should trust the most is completely disregarded by the fandom.

Finally, I think that a combination of these factors has created the monster we know as e*riel, and that the fandom is perpetuating its own mythology.

What all of this comes down to, and the real reason I think that the fandom is behaving this way right now, is that e*riel is dead. It's never happened, it's not going to happen, but because we don't have the clear closure we got with moriel (where people would be accused of homophobia for continuing to ship it), people are still trying to figure out any possible way for e*riel to become canon, though every single sign points to it being a non-issue.

This weird thing where people have to be "right" all the time, and the way that "right" = "canon" is a relatively new development. It's as if everyone in this fandom forgot that they are in fact in a fandom, which inherently diverges from canon.

However, I think that the need to cling to canon is because the alternative would be to admit defeat and say "well, even if it doesn't happen I will still ship e*riel, it's fine, I will live with that." But they don't want to do that. In response, they look at canon so hard that they are reading the white space between the letters to create their theories, which as you noted as largely nonsensical and often fail to take into account who the characters are as individuals, how they are connected to other characters, and why it would or wouldn't be appropriate for them to be involved in various plots.

People could say, as eluciens having been saying since day one, "I really ship this thing but I can see that it might not become canon". But they don't say that. They literally refuse to see any other possibility than e*riel becoming canon.

You pointed out that people are stuck in the past - absolutely. The number of reimaginings I have seen of scenes where either Azriel or Elain has literally zero to do with the scene, but people try to shove one or both of them in there. And this from books ago. People are stuck on the Truthteller scene, and refuse to acknowledge that neither of them have acted on their feelings, whatever those might be, for years. And they ignore the fact that once Elain and Az do act, it goes horribly wrong.

Here are the facts as of right now:

ACOSF is the most recent book. In that book, sans extra chapter, those two had no interaction other than looking at one another.

If we include his POV, then he said it was wrong, we got confirmation that nothing has ever happened between them, she returned his necklace. Elain was aroused, but that does not mean she was ready to even have sex. "Yes" to a kiss is not "yes" to every single sexual act Az can think of. They parted on awkward, bad terms after a scene in which it seemed like they were about to start something. Yikes. Unlike Wings and Embers, they did not end that chapter still thinking of one another. After they part ways, the omniscient narrator does not mention Elain, or Az thinking about Elain, again.

His POV occurs months before the end of the book. They do not interact after that.

Elain has a mate she has not rejected, nor accepted.

So anyway, your question was why are people like this. lol. I think the fandom created a monster, and that monster is clinging to life. It can't accept the idea of morphing into a non-canon ship, though it never was canon in the first place. It had just convinced itself that it was.

There are other aspects to this, that have to do with gwynriel and elucien.

Gwynriel is a new ship, it's almost guaranteed to happen, people are super excited to ship it and give Gwyn all their love. I'm sure they would rather create content for that ship than argue about whether or not it's going to be canon, but they are in constant defense mode. Some people honestly didn't like e*riel before because they don't like Elain, or because they don't like Azriel, and those are valid reasons for not liking it. Why people ship gwynriel doesn't matter. The tone of the discussion is, unfortunately, being shaped elsewhere, which I will mention below.

Elucien is an old ship, older than e*riel. I can speak from this perspective - personally, I have been holding my tongue for 4.5 years. I have been letting people live, and just talking about the things I like. Then when acosf came out, it was like I could finally say all the things I had been thinking about Azriel, because I now had proof that the things I thought about his character (and because of that, about e*riel) now had solid canon foundation. This is 4.5 years of me holding in a lot of shit and finally being able to say it. Sometimes yes, I might take joy in having been right.

I think that a few people are clinging to canon, and that sets the tone for the discourse in the fandom. Someone says "according to page whatever, blah blah blah" and people feel the need to respond, and then it turns into and "I'm right" contest instead of... a fandom... A lot of us like debating. To me, it's fun. But when Person A starts a conversation that's about canon and it actually ignores canon, it's hard to let that conversation go by and just keep creating whatever we want to create. Instead, we respond, and so the tone of the conversation is shaped by what Person A decided to say.

I also think that there is a lack of distinction between theories (what will happen in the future) and meta (analysis of what we have now).

There is also a lack of "I" statements. Opinions are being stated as fact.

idk if there is a way to make it better, other than to just go back to ignoring one another. This whole situation makes me want to throw out every single canon ship I like and create exclusively non-canon content, just for spite. Except I really like doing meta, and so I don't want to. I guess for my point, I'll just keep doing meta, keep creating different content, and keep reminding people that they aren't here to continue perpetuating canon, but to play with it.

[ajaxskingdom]

The amount of Excitement I feel for Dragon Age 4 is immense, I can't fucking wait, man. I watched the Behind The Scenes video they put out with @sunshine-boii75 and we were going absolutely apeshit during it.

There's two characters we know about already and that's Davrin, a warden, and Bellara, who didn't give any hints as to what or who she is. We also get a glimpse of Dorian in the concept art with three characters under water finding treasure. Then we watched the trailer and, obviously, we see Solas and then Varric is the narrator, but I don't think he'll be in the actual game as anything other than the narrator. If he is in the game, he won't be companion again.

Now, I mentioned a concept art with Dorian and two other characters under water, yes? That implies there's going to be underwater sequences in DA4 and that is a thrilling idea. We've never been able to go far into water before, it always kills the player and takes them back to shore, but if that concept art is something they go through with in the game, we'll get to go into the water properly and that's honestly so exciting to think about. That means more monsters and maybe even a new race or two that we'll get to meet.

Dorian being in a concept art is interesting as well because that implies we might have a connection to the faction he and Maevaris put together in the magisterium. I don't think he's going to be a companion again, not after Inquisition, but I think he may be something similar to what Morrigan was in that he joins you only on very specific missions that need him.

We also get a glimpse at a rogue and a qunari in the trailer, though we don't know if they're companions or just npcs we'll meet. A part of me hopes they're companions because, from what we've seen in the trailer, one of them is a rogue who looks like they may be targeting a Magister while the qunari? Her bow looks like a staff and the string appears out of midair, it looks magical. Is it something similar to the prismatic greataxe you can get in inquisition? Or is it something new, something more exciting? I don't know, none of us do, but I'm looking forward to finding out.

We also watched an IGN video about the trailer (neither of us like it much tbh, this is the only thing we actually latched onto from it) and he brought up an interesting idea. While talking about the Qunari in the trailer, he points out her bow and also comments on how it looked/worked like I did up above, and suggests something interesting. What if we get a new class? Or the existing classes begin to get magical aspects to them if that's the route you go with the class? The veil weakened magic when Solas put it up, so it'd make sense if the Breach caused magic to show itself a little more, the veil isn't totally stable anymore, so it'd make sense for magic to become more prominent. So a new class with magic mixed with the other classes or new specializations for the existing classes would be exciting.

Koby and I also talked about possible characters we could come across that we've already met and there's two that we both got very excited about. We know Fenris has gone to Tevinter and we know the game takes place in Tevinter, so? What if he's there? What if the player character gets to meet him and he's a character similar to Morrigan (like I theorized with Dorian) where he helps during specific quests?

We also talked about Zevran. The Inquisitor in DAI ends up helping Zevran flee from the Crows If you accept his help on the war table and what's a better place to hide him than in Tevinter? The Crows are an Antivan organization and while, yes, they travel to other places, would they really go to Tevinter just to hunt down Zevran? They might, they hunted down the Warden in Origins in an attempt to hire them as well as tried to kill Zevran in Origins if you recruit him. They also might not risk going to Tevinter, it's a place not many like to go after all.

But then I remembered something. We see a character with a crow mask and crows flying around them (I can't remember if it was in the BTS or the Trailer) and that got us thinking. A Crow companion? So, if there's a Antivan Crow companion, could the Crows be hunting down Zevran? Who's to say.

We also get to see Solas, as I've stated already, which has me excited. I'm kind of hoping the Inquisitor returns in 4, kinda like what Hawke did in Inquisition, when we confront Solas. They deserve to be there, they trusted Solas with everything (even their heart if you romanced him), and he leaves them, only for them to find out he's a Dalish 'god' that is planning on tearing their world apart. If anyone deserves to be there for the confrontation with him, it's the Inquisitor 100%.

I have more thoughts about the game, but I'll probably talk about that later. I'm replaying DAI and I wanna finish Trespasser.

Anyways, I can't wait to play Dragon Age 4 when it comes out and don't think I won't liveblog my playthrough once it does.

Don't worry, I'll tag it as spoilers, too, so no one has to see it until they're ready.