#no one would ever mourn him :(( he cannot find peace in life and in death. a constant reminder

[loveforsatoru]

Lots of things remind you of Satoru. The color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark. Quite frankly, everything reminds you of him. Wherever you look, he’d always be there. You love him so much it makes you sick.

He deserved it, though. He was a good man, the best you’ve ever known. The least anyone could give him was love– and god did you give him more than enough to satisfy his soul for this lifetime and the ones to come. Because he, for someone who often thought logically and did not put much attention onto what happens after death, always knew that he would be yours and you would be his, everywhere out there in this infinite universe, even if he cannot hold you in all of them.

Just like now as you stand over his grave with an emotionless face and tears running down your cheeks, an umbrella over your head to shield you from the pouring rain which mirrors your tears, reminding you that the world moves on despite your inability to do the same.

Your days have blended together like a never ending loop since his death. You live the same thing over and over and over. Grief, tears, mourning, sadness. You wish you could forget the image of his severed body laying on the ground, covered in blood. It doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just a bad dream and you’ll wake up soon, hopefully.

You’ve been standing here in the empty cemetery for hours. You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept, or uttered a single word. What’s the point? He’s not here to listen anymore.

You discard the umbrella, letting the rain soak you entirely, and sit in front of where he’s buried.

Satoru Gojo; loving teacher and husband. 1989-2018.

You gently trace your fingers over the engraved words, the same way you would over his cheeks when he’d come home from missions and fall right into your embrace– the place he always craved to be, where he should be right now.

During the entire fight, the only thing on his mind was you. You, you, you, you. And how badly he wanted to get it over with just so he could hold you and leave everything else behind.

He planned to retire after this final battle, so he could finally live a life of peace. Move away from Tokyo, perhaps to somewhere up in the countryside where the loudest sound in the morning would be that of chirping birds. He would go wherever the wind could take him as long as you were there, too. Without you, he’d feel like nothing.

It’s ironic, really. You’re the one who has to learn to live without him.

Part of you is expecting him to appear from thin air and wipe your tears away, telling you he’s here and he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

The final conversation with him was one you didn’t want to have. You waited outside the door while he spoke to Yuji, listening to every word before the younger boy left.

“Those kids won’t forget you, you know,” You say as you settle onto his lap and his hands find home on your waist.

“Yeah, but sometimes it feels that way,” He sighs, “Whatever happens, I’ll just have to accept it.”

You hum in response as he holds onto you a little tighter than usual and buries his face in your neck, drowning himself in you.

You let him do as he pleases, knowing you could never push him away even if you tried.

“You’re a little off,” You say softly. “Is everything okay?” You stare into his eyes, hoping to find some sort of warmth and reassurance amidst the clouds that swarm in them.

Of course it’s not. You can sense the little bit of doubt that radiates off of him. He wasn't the type to question his own abilities, but there’s a lot on the line, a lot to lose, a lot of you that he doesn’t want to let go of.

“You think so?” He tries to mask it with his usual tone. You can see right through it. “I’m a-okay. Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. You know me.”

“I do know you and that’s why I know you’re not a-okay. Talk to me, Satoru. Please.”

If this were any other day, he would, but it’s not. He just wants to hold and kiss you for as long as he can. He knows he might not be able to again.

“Let’s just stay here a little while. Forget about everything else for now,” He presses his lips against your temple and they linger for too long.

You huff in defeat and nod, because as much as you want to deny it, the impending feeling of doom won’t allow you.

“Okay.. but promise me you’ll be alright.”

It’s too much to ask for. He can’t make you a promise he can’t keep. You’re his wife, the love of his life. It would kill him even more to die knowing he broke the last promise he ever made you.

Instead, he pulls away to admire every detail of your face without a word.

“Promise me,” You repeat, “Promise me you’ll be okay, Satoru. I need to hear you say it.”

Your desperation is like a knife to his heart, but he can’t do that for you. This is the one thing he has to deny you no matter how badly he wants to bring you closer and say it’ll all be fine.

He hides his forming tears away with a chuckle, but there’s no humor behind it and kisses you like it’s the last time he will. It was. He remembers the way your lips taste even in death.

Sometimes, you can still hear his voice and the sound of his laughter rings in your ears. Nowadays, that’s the only thing that brings joy into your days. You don’t know yourself anymore. A part of you died with him and you’re afraid you’ll never be able to get it back.

You remember the way he smelt and the way his eyes would crinkle when he would smile a little too hard– mostly at you and your corny jokes that he found hilarious. The way he’d sing in the shower and hug you from behind before fully drying off while you prepared dinner because he knew it’d annoy you, but your scolds were never serious. He could tell with the way the corner of your lips threatened to curl upwards.

All of these cherished moments and many others have now become memories to remember him by. The day you forget any of it is the day you die, with your last request being to be buried right beside him.

Repeated sobs escape your once sealed shut lips. You cry and dig your hands into the muddy grass below you, clawing and clawing to seemingly reach the core of the earth and bring him back, but it won’t. Nothing will. You can’t do anything to bring him back and it rips you apart at the very center of your heart.

You’ll look for him in the skies, the wind, the trees, the color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark, and anything and everything else. Until one day, your time will also come and you’ll be reunited once again.

But for now, all you can do is cry. And you do, everyday without fail because any life would be better than one without him.

[otakuworks]

❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑. reborn au

feat. Zhongli x Reincarnated!GN!Reader | PART II | wc. 5.4K

Based on 'See You In My 19th Life' webtoon | overview. This Webtoon follows the story of a woman who somehow can remember all her past lives.

sum. You were running too fast in life, so fast that no one could catch up, not even Morax who left you to fend off with your curse. Just when you thought you'll slip and fall, a certain consultant came behind and caught you.

cw. mentions of extreme emotion breakdown. cttro 双niarss on Twitter for the art below.

main m.list genshin m.mlist

PART I < PART II

THEME SONG; Slump by Stray Kids (English Version)

There are five stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. All in order.

In your case, it was the other way around. You have long accepted Morax will lay on his deathbed one day, every living thing will eventually cease to exist, mortal and immortal alike

You, out of all people know the in-depth concept of death.

And yet, no amount of tutelage or experience can prepare you for the real thing.

Now you understood what Morax felt when you died.

Your chest feels raw like there's a sudden gash wound that has manifested in your heart. It was painful, too painful that you wouldn't wish it upon anyone, even on your worst enemy.

Scratch that. It's not just pain. It feels something more destructive, demanding and insatiable, crueler than sorrow. Not even death can appease this feeling.

It was agony.

Impale your abdomen with a spear hundred times. Sever your limbs every lifetime. Suffer for all eternity hiding behind Morax and watch him love with someone else over and over again— you'd take them all and say thank you.

You'd be grateful and endure each of them just to trade whatever horrible feeling that's tearing you apart.

Confusion, terror and fright blanketed your mind as you slumped on the floorboards, desperately gasping for breath.

The acrid smell of snarling lightning crackles in the stale midnight air, sharp enough to singe every nerve of your body, rendering you cowering in overwhelming emotions— agony, pain and grief.

Inazuma was bustling with the news of the Geo Archon passing away recently. You could only imagine how Liyue is digesting the cruel twists of events.

The news spreads fast enough for foreign people to sympathize to Liyue citizens, some even offered prayers to the Raiden Shogun, some pay their respects by wishing the late Archon to rest in peace, some never bothered to care.

But none of them mourned in the confinements of their four walls as you did, the Celestia above knows the quiet sobs that wrecked the very core of your existence. The horrors of every shitty lives you went through cannot be compared to this day.

Rex Lapis, who is— was widely known for many names, mostly as the Geo Archon, God of War, God of Contracts, Former Prime Adepti, the Stonebreaker, God of History is now reduced by dust with his people carrying the legacy he has passed on.

To you, all this time, he's still... Morax the petulant child who leans on you for comfort, who politely demands you to sing a lullaby as kids. You're already sold to the idea no one would ever believe you if you told them what embodiment of mischief he was in the ancient times, the exact opposite of the Archon they knew about.

Nostalgia hits you in particular days you can't find traces of the young Morax, but Pride would caress your heart every achievement he succeeds as you watch the people love him.

Similar to a lone planet, you desperately search for a star to orbit around, to give you a source of energy and strength. Once you find one, it'll be difficult to rearrange your position after you have settled down, you're attached until the star loses its amber glow.

And now the star is gone. Gone with the cosmos after a supernova.

Destroying the neighboring planets, including you.

You were the closest in its orbit, you're the one who had to endure the scorching flames morphing you into ashes until you're reduced into cosmos particles for no one to remember.

Morax left you to fend off with your curse and face adversities alone.

Mortals would succumb to these adversities and would choose to sever their connection to the living to escape from everything. You've seen a handful of them and can't ever get enough of it.

If there's anything you long to have other than having Morax beside you is a swift escape.

Every mortal is capable of such thing, you are too, but it's pointless if the pain will cling to you in your next life. It's fruitless to cry when you know every affliction won't be forgotten even if you tried.

Just why?! Why do I have this perpetual curse of reincarnation? I abhor you, Celestia! Not only you cursed me, you even took away Morax from this land!

You shake your head as the anger surge took over your sanity. You thought you can just go live your merry life, unbeknownst how dependent you were to Morax.

Your will to live is solely operated by the fact you have someone you want to protect. But now he's gone? What's the back up plan? Clearly you can't just follow him in his death knowing you can die, but your memories will remain with you.

Was it out of selfishness to protect him to have someone accompany your lonely soul? Because he's the only one who actually remembers the real you?

Rain began to pour from the desolute atmosphere as you heard disembodied voices theorizing Morax's death. The muffled thundering of the storm only growing louder, reminding you of today's unsavory news. How convenient, the sky is sympathizing.

No, make it stop! I don't want fo hear any of it! Morax is dead, that's how nature works. I'm griefing because it hurts, not because I have nothing to live for.

You lived in that illusion for minutes until. . .

*drip* *drip*

. . . the dam broke.

Hot tears streamed down your face, and you squeezed your eyelids shut in the hope the pain would stop, just numbing it would be fine too. Your choppy breathing and watery eyes remained for quite some time, and sat there unmoving.

There's no see you later's anymore, for Morax has left you. Today has marked your first Goodbye to him.

For an indiscernible amount of time, there was only a black void and it could have been as if you didn’t exist and you had never existed.

And then you felt each of your cells that had been ripped apart within seconds be sewed back together just as quickly, and your eyes met nothing but a blinding white light.

Have I reborn again? You're not aware which is which anymore. You lift your numb hand and reality crashed over your head, you haven't died out of grief, yet.

Your mind is in havoc, you don't know what you want, not that you have any choice.

Dying won't help you escape, forgetting is not an option, loving. . . can't heal an open wound.

No words can equate the absolute devastation you feel.

❖ ── ✦ ── 『 6000 YRS AGO 』 ── ✦ ── ❖

This is stupid. Utterly ridiculous!

What kind of mortal would go in the mines in the middle of the night where monsters lurk in the shadows to hunt for preys? Yeah, that's a question he would like for you to answer!

He flies twice the speed he usually exerts, his mind running rampant of all worst possible scenarios.

He doesn't know what compelled you to do such ridiculous act, but all he knows is he has get to you before any monsters do.

Landing unceremoniously, he gulps at the sight before him. He was never a fan of darkness, it never fails to instill fear in him, the fear of the unknown.

The only time he feels comfortable in the night is whenever you're around him. You don't fear the night, and it somehow influenced him in a way that there's nothing that should be afraid of as long as you're with him— as his human shield.

Young Morax finds himself slowly withdrawing, the fear overpowering his will to come and save you.

"Morax? What are you doing out here?" Saved by the gracious voice of yours, young Morax nearly broke his neck with how fast he looked at your direction.

Your face is contorted out of concern for him, he's sweating profusely and his breathing is ragged.

Just seeing you all in one piece with no signs of injuries made hin slumped on the ground, sighing in relief.

You were at his side seconds later, subconsciously caressing his cheeks. Celestia above! He's shaking like a leaf!

"It's alright, let's get you out of here." Your soothing voice appeased his troubled mind as you helped him get back on his feet. He clutches the fabric of your shirt and wordlessly launches himself on you, arms and tiny tail entrapping you in an embrace.

You waste no second reciprocating the gesture, you've known him for months to be comfortable with physical sentiments. Though you can't say the same to him as he would always flinch away when you initiate it, but has no problem when he does it.

And it seems like he needs your comfort to even give a damn.

"Whatever it is, it can't hurt you now okay?"

From that angle, he peered from below you as if confirming the validity of your words, amber eyes looking like someone has kicked an innocent puppy, it's no wonder you have a soft spot for him.

Both of you strayed away from the caves leading to mines, "I-I thought you l-left me." He meekly mumbled, almost incoherent.

That baffles you as he continues, "I overheard f-from your village that m-monsters are increasing in the area and you're probably..."

"Shh... I'm here now, aren't I? I'm sorry you have to hear that, I can assure you I haven't encountered any marauding monsters during my little excursion." You sighed, guilt pooling your conscience.

He sniffled, "So, you're not going to leave me?"

"Can I even go anywhere when you have a sharp sense of smell?"

"I'm a dragon, not a wolf." He whined, though you could still see the glint of dubious in his eyes, "Can I trust your word?"

Words never served him better than actions, you ought to show him you honor your word by affirming it through gestures.

Smiling, you offered your hand to him.

"How about you hold my hand on our way home? Will that help?" He stares at you and literally contemplated before he relented.

It's warm, much similar to your hug, but like a form of hug that has been reduced to a smaller fraction. It's still a paragon of comfort.

Surely enough, it did help his mind to be at ease. If you ever feel like he's cutting off your circulation, he is cutting your circulation by intertwining your fingers as if trying to tangle it so it won't loose.

"I'm sorry, you must think I'm stupid for cowering away just because of some stupid dark cave." He lowered his head in shame.

He's a Dragon who has greater strength than most beings, and yet he lets his fear consume him as if they can hurt him like how—

"Nonsense! Don't ever think like that or I will personally be the reason why you should fear humans." As stern as you sound, your eyes tell a different story.

Young Morax deduced this as concern, which resulted a flustered and heartwarming reaction from the boy. You were worried for him.

It shouldn't be something he's supposed to feel happy about, but your fretful intentions warranted warmth and security in his mind.

"I didn't know how oddly. . . pleasant it is to hold hands." He mused, and you responded with an amused giggle, "Here I thought only couples do this stuff, but it's really reassuring."

"It does, doesn't it? Sometimes the solution to your conflicts is in a form of validation."

Too wise for a kid, he inwardly complained, ". . .Meaning?"

You hold his other hand and stood to face him with a sequined smile, "No matter how minuscule or massive your fears are, you'll still find comfort when someone validates your feelings; to let you know that they care. It may not be the solution in some cases, but it's better than being alone in times of your vulnerability."

You leaned slightly closer, "Can I ask you a favor?" Your gaze pierced right through his soul and he can only nod absently which resulted for you to grin.

"If you see someone, friend and stranger even enemies, looking so vulnerable that they actually might cry. . ." You lifted your intertwined hands with his, ". . .Make them feel significant."

A cold midnight wind whisked past the both of you, your eyes shone brighter than jewels and stars alike as you spoke those words that made a huge impact in his life.

". . .Even if my enemies are about to cry because I'm about to end their miserable lives?"

What a way to ruin the moment.

"You know what I mean, Mora." You deadpan, preparing to let go of his hand, but his grip is much stronger and it only tightens once he feels you're trying to detach.

"I'm afraid you have to elaborate further, Y/N. And please, I only have two syllables in my name. What's so hard in including the X?" In contrast to his words, he quite enjoys hearing his nickname.

"The X is not even a syllable, Mora."

That time, young Morax found peace.

He's always on the hunt for something new, something glimmering, something incredible, something undiscovered and something bedazzling. That's how his childlike brain thinks and he seizes anything outwardly beautiful.

But he never knew how amazing it was to see something— or rather, to see someone's beauty on the inside.

Perhaps that's what draws him to you, because of your voice, patience and understanding. He would never admit it though

To him, you're beautiful inside and out, almost perfect, even your flaws are easy to love.

He can't deny he wasted a few immortal years just mourning your death, you'd probably scold him.

Within those years, he's only reliving the memories and wise words you have with him. He wanted to come out as a better person after your death, take it as an honour of your passing.

You made him for what he is.

If he hadn't met you he'd still be the intolerable, impatient and disrespectful person as he grows up.

He'd still fear the unknown, never having the courage to take risks and accept whatever outcomes.

Everything he does always brings him back to you, his actions always correlates to something that's relevant about you. It had always been you.

He prays the Celestia to let you know you will always be apart of his person. Yes, you died, but every lingering piece of you still remains intact in the deep recesses of his mind.

He has moved on, but you remain the person he loved the most. Not even the sands of time has the capability to change that.

"How disastrous. People can be really simple-minded." Morax rubbed both of his temples once he heard the speculation of him and Guizhong plausible relationship.

"I apologize on their behalf, it never crossed my mind they'll be quick to make assumptions." The fair Goddess bowed in shame.

"You have done nothing wrong to spark such rumors, Guizhong. If anything, it is I who should seek forgiveness for I have tied you down with such unpleasant gossips."

She meekly chuckles, "If we're going to paint ourselves as the culprit then we might as well work together to quell the rumors."

His perfectly lined eyebrows knitted, which didn't go unnoticed by Guizhong, "What seems to be troubling your mind?"

A few seconds ticked by before he let out a whisper that only Barbatos can only hear thanks to his wind. For Guizhong who has keen sense of hearing, "If Y/N was here I'll gear up for another war just to extinguish this spreading rumors." She stifled a laugh.

Oh, she knows alright. She knows you. She knows the person who captivated Morax's heart, it's all about he talks to her in their leisure time and you're not a secret between their comrades.

Most people would find it dull to listen about someone's life unless it held any merit to pass onto the other mouth, she would too. But Morax describes you like a protagonist of a fairy tale, like some mythical being, caught between two worlds, a miracle of existence that racked his existence— which makes you an interesting person

She was so eager to meet you, it was rather unfortunate that you've already passed on uncountable years ago.

"Where are you going?" She inquired as the Geo Archon whisk passed her, "Out to visit an old friend. I won't be returning until tomorrow dawn."

She sighed, a corresponding smile soon follows as she took over his job for the meantime.

Morax walked through the barren areas in Mt. Tianheng, it became part of his leisure activities during the day when his mind needs to detach itself from reality and let himself be swayed by the memories he tucked in the deep recesses of his mind.

Memories of his late comrades who perished in the horrors of war and the most painful but nostalgic one; Y/N.

He ruefully sighed at the thought of you. Even in death, you have full grasp of his heart and shroud his head with your image.

Filtered beams of light accented the spaces between the ancient trees that twisted like spires from the undergrowth. Golden leaves littered the forest floor as Morax appraised the trail of mycelium path, one leading to a particular tree.

His expression remains unchanging, at least that's what he thought, any stranger sees him they'll stop to ponder what made this godly man smile so fondly.

A single maple leaf flow with the breeze, swaying in inconsistent direction until it falls in his gloved hand. The rich color of autumn and texture brings him back in his youthful days.

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"Ah! All I do is reminisce to pass time." He muttered to himself as he let the leaf get carried away by the zither winds once again.

"It certainly has been awhile, Y/N. I was but a petulant child since I've visited you. I now stand here as the Geo Archon." It has been a habit to come back to this specific tree and treats it as his home.

It's a sacred place he's closely attached to, he can perfectly picture his young self failing to spy on you. He grimaced at the memory when he was caught in the act.

"I still have no idea why you let me trail your shadows, you weren't least afraid that I'm a dragon. You told me you're fascinated, but. . . was that the only reason?"

Only the breeze answered for him with nothing, "If you hadn't allowed me to do so I do not know what kind of person I would be as of today." He steps closer and pulled off his hood.

He let the silence hang for minutes, maybe even hours. Just standing there as he appreciates what nature has to offer in the place where his story began with you.

"Are you proud of me? My comrades claimed they were more than proud to stand alongside with me, but I doubt the veracity of their words when I led them to their demise. Is it that prideful to have me as a friend when I bring nothing but misfortune?"

He finally sat down between the roots of the tree, relishing the blissful comfort as the sunlight accentuates his godly features.

"I met a boy who was being manipulated by an evil god who only desires power and selfish gains." He began.

"He was a fierce warrior, strong and capable, the manipulation only fuels him to be at his strongest form. I was thinking of eradicating him, but his eyes already looked so dead. It reminded me of. . ."

He holds his tongue and shuts his eyes as he's in pain, "It would be one of my greatest regrets if I had impaled my spear into him."

"I thought of you that time. Hadn't it been to my promise to you, I wouldn't have gained a new ally. Xiao is his name."

The wind blew stronger, ". . . I forgot you can summon him just by calling out his name." He chuckles to himself.

Green statics cracked into the air and quickly revealed a masked man with his polearm readied for any danger.

"Settle down now. I apologize, your name slipped in my mouth." The young Yaksha visibly looked confused even under the layers of his mask.

"I was narrating a story to my old friend Y/N."

Guizhong couldn't have been more right.

By the end of the day, Xiao now knows every detail there is to know about the person called Y/N. It's what Morax ever talk to him.

"Mr. Zhongli is in a very elated mood ever since you told him Archon knows what, Traveler." Hu Tao, the Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor finds the situation quite absurd to look at, but never impossible. His mood just feels out of place.

Who looks at mournful families with an eccentric smile on their face as they consult them about their loved one's death?

"Why does Paimon feel like you're pointing finger at the traveler?" She puts her tiny hands on tiny her hips like a mother hen.

The Traveler let out a nervous laugh, "I wonder what exactly brought him in such high spirit with my words."

"Ooh... Paimon thinks it's about Y/N. Isn't it obvious by now?" Hu Tao furrowed her eyebrows, "Y/N? You mean the Adventurer?" Both heads snapped at her direction, "You know them?"

She reluctantly shrugged, "Only at acquaintance level. They showed interest in business and I taught them a few things." She smiled at the epilogue of her statement.

"If they ever come back, my hunch tells me you'd find them in Wangshu Inn, they frequented there before." She added before turning her attention to a new customer.

Zhongli, who's been eavesdropping, perked up at the claims. Perhaps he should visit Xiao tonight and totally won't inquire if he ever met you before.

Midnight falls and Zhongli bid his farewell to the traveler before heading towards the Wangshu Inn.

For some unknown reason, Zhongli could sense the foreboding feeling that's nagging his instincts as he gets closer to his desired destination, yet he doesn't stop. What's worse is that he doesn't know if it's for the good or bad.

All of a sudden, a harsh breeze blew past his face as if the winds attempting to convey a message that's only for his intuition to decipher, for him to meander.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his statue glowing bright blue, but that wasn't what caught his attention. A hand reached out to touch the stone statue.

A mop of [H/C] facing him backward bowed down in respect of the late Rex Lapis, but Zhongli could feel a much more intense feeling.

Something stirs inside him, he remembers this situation— when he watched Y/N with such fascination from above the tree, not knowing what they look like, yet they never fail to express their feelings through threaded words he finds so wondrous to hear.

In contrary to that, the person appears to be. . . forlorn. He stepped closer until he's only less than five meters away from them.

All of a sudden, he feels skittish around the person. It's as if he doesn't want to leave a bad first impression, he's suddenly self-conscious of his looks, and Zhongli never cared about his outer appearance.

Then they spoke, in a solemn voice.

"See you later, Mora. I hope you found your eternal peace."

There are times when you wish you'd forget Morax, some that you don't. But still, in the birth of new beings, you will find Morax in his next life. The prospect of being alone is a phobia you can't ever overcome unless you have Morax.

What a joke. It should've been a farewell. Your final goodbye to your old friend. Not a hopeless see you later.

It took you months to come with that mindset, only to end up saying what's the exact opposite.

It was difficult to come back in Liyue, every step adds a new pile of memory that drags you further into the depths of agony. Every where you look reminds you of the late Geo Archon. Each encouraging word in your mind gets trampled on by his image.

You consider it as an achievement to stand tall in front of his statue after his death, and a failure that you didn't get to bid your final words to him before you depart from Liyue.

You're still clinging to a nonexistent hope that you'll actually get to see him even after your death. Old habits die hard they say. It couldn't have been more relatable than now.

Sighing in disappointment, you retracted your hand from the statue and briskly turn around when you felt the disturbance behind you.

A gloved hand suspended in the air seems to be trying to reach out to you. As you raise your eyes to meet the oh-so-familiar glowing amber eyes that you grew to love. . .

You offered the stranger a faux smile, seemingly naive to the person standing in front of you with an aghast expression.

You failed to realize Morax as Zhongli just as Morax failed to realize you in your different lives.

"Hello. How may I help you?"

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Time has stopped, both hands of the clock moved counterclockwise, bringing him back to the time he first laid his eyes on you— so unsuspecting from what's about to unravel after a sweet hello.

His broadened eyes are solely fixated on you, it ingnited a feeling he couldn’t immediately identify, a sense of a certain and long-forgotten familiarity fogged his memory.

From the color of your eyes, skin and hair. The subtle furrow of your eyebrows and the upturn of your lips. The gentle facade that compelled him to indulge his curiosity towards you.

Y/N. . . Are you the Y/N the traveler was talking about?

But you bare no resemblance to the Y/N he knew, yet he can tell how it is your soul residing in the mortal's body. It is you. Your eyes aren't the ones that welcomed him as new friend. It feels different.

You're smiling while your eyes are grieving.

Your eyes failed to conceal your weeping soul and could only hope the last bits of its strength will keep it standing until someone reach a hand to put back the shattered pieces.

Behind that gleeful stare was a mountain of pain and extracting it would bring instability to the person who would dare to climb. Yet come what may, you're always worth any risk.

He lowered his hand to shake yours, his lips upturned into an enigmatic smile.

Your heart went erratic and the usually dormant butterflies imploded in your stomach. You haven't felt like a teenager since. . .

You felt your breath hitch in your throat when suddenly, with a mere handful of strides, the beautiful man was standing right in front of you, his amber eyes searching your face intently, trying to find whatever it was he was seeking.

"My name is Zhongli, I'm a consultant in Wangsheng Funeral Parlor." Your [E/C] eyes blinked surreptitiously before accepting it. What a beautiful name, you thought almost immediately.

Under normal circumstances you would've strictly reprimanded the man with his incongruous advances, but you felt something else, something so powerful it overshadowed your senses.

It was a need, an unyielding need to be close to him.

Rather than pushing him away, something inside you stirs awake and begin to implore to coalesce with his existence.

"I'm Y/N L/N, an adventurer."

So it is really you.

He briefly looks down to their intwined hands.

For countless nights, the image of your bloodied hand reaching out to him as you take your last breath plagued his every dream. The tender, soft hands that will no longer bring him comfort. The hand of the person whom he loved so dearly, whom he failed to protect against the wicked ways of the world.

The intense urge to hide you away from the prying eyes that shared similarities to his kept his mind in shambles.

Which what led him to mumble to you what his thoughts are repeating like a mantra.

When he spoke the promise he'll show you what's up at the highest altitude his wings could go, he was mostly speaking out of his selfish desire to hold onto your hand and fly you away to the farthest place no living creatures have ever stumbled upon.

He had to learn it the hard way; that the greater you wish for something, the crueler fate can be. Maybe if he hadn't been so greedy you could've live your mortal life.

Now that you are standing in front of him, shaking your hand, he can amend his mistake by straying far away from you before he repeats history itself, before he could inflict pain on you again.

And yet, looking at you attempting to shoulder the boulders of life is what all it takes for all the wisdom he garnered for centuries to be thrown out the window.

He can't imagine himself distancing from you when you're suffering and have no one comfortable enough to share your burdens with, no one to validate your feelings, no one to embrace you in your vulnerable times.

You taught him to be compassionate, to not disregard emotions, and he's about to set that in motion. You were there when he needed you the most, offered your shoulder to vent out his feelings, it's about time to let him do what you always did for him.

It became abundantly clear he's not willing to let you go through anything alone just like he had gone through without you.

"You claim you're a consultant. Did you perhaps think I'm a potential customer?"

He let go of your hand as much as he loathes being away from your warmth for even just a second, he's still convinced you can be taken away from him at any given moment.

"Indeed, I couldn't stand idle and watch you grieve alone." He watches how you averted your eyes as if hiding the pain would appease your mind.

"I appreciate the thought. . . though, I highly doubt it'll be effective."

He mentally chuckled at the irony. He, too, was once amazed of what simple gestures can bring to a downhearted person.

"Hmm. An old friend once showed me how to console a person. Allow me to share their insights."

Your eye brows perched in curiosity, this man speaks like he's in his 50s or something, ". . .If you insist. I could use a company for now."

Morax experienced eons of desires to attain what he wishes to, though he refrains from being blinded by those greedy thoughts as he had witnessed how cruel fate can be when he once desired to have you. Will history repeat itself?

Zhongli chortles in response, but his expression soon turned nostalgic, "I may not know what adversities you're facing nor do I know who you are, but know that you're never alone."

His smile never left his face as he takes off his glove and held the palm face forward to you, he watches how your eyes glisten with unshed tears, "W-What is that supposed to convey?"

You didn't even notice how much gap he closed just to increase the proximity between the both of you. Archons! You can smell the lingering scent of Osmanthus Wine mingling with his breath!

Is he a drunkard like Venti?

Perhaps this man is drunk to comprehend his actions, perhaps he won't remember this the never next day, perhaps he has mistaken you for someone else, perhaps—

"Wherever you wish to go, I'll keep you company. I dare ask if I may hold your hand along the way, Y/N?"

Perhaps there's hope you can cling onto until your aching heart is at ease.

Your hand found its way to his, almost too desperate to not let this moment of comfort vanish. Just this once, you thought to yourself as the man smiled with absolute glee that it puts the sun in shame.

Out of reflex, your fingers laced with his, wanting nothing more than to relieve in the warmth of his hand. His expression soon turned into a priceless one as if he's in disbelief that you actually just did that, and that alone made the realization struck you harder than Raiden's lightning and fried your nerves with embarrassment.

"I-I'm so-sorry! I didn't mean to get too comfortable!"

You're a stranger to him, and you acted as if you've been a longtime friends. He must have been feeling uncomfortable, you nervously thought as you quickly tried reel back your hand in an attempt to salvage whatever budding acquaintanceship you have.

Keyword; tried.

Your action prompts him to retaliate by locking his fingers in place, keeping your hand sealed with his and shot you a reassuring smile.

"Do not fret. I'm delighted to know I somehow earned a little fraction of your trust. It's only fair to mirror the trust you gave me."

As if to spell out his point, he held up your intertwined hands just below your chin. His eyes blazed with a newfound emotion you couldn't decipher. He almost looks eager. He was gripping your hand, not too tight, but firm enough give emphasize of something.

His action wasn't fruitless as it gained a reaction from you. Your eyebrows twitched, there's something too familiar about it, but your memory refuses to give you that answer.

Instead, you could only mutter weak responses, "I-I understand, but if you feel uncomfortable in any way then don't hesitate to point out what I'm doing wrong."

Whether it was a satisfying answer he wants to hear, his emotions betrayed to even give you a brief answer and his face only lit up as he turns away from you, "You could never do anything wrong in my eyes."

Did he just say something? "What was that?"

"Nothing. Are you new in Liyue? I could give you a tour if you'd like to make you familiarize with the environment."

Your lips turned into a genuine smile, it didn't reach your ears but something tells you this man will lengthen it until you're the happiest person alive, "I'd love to, Zhongli."

As the wind blows to the East, a new chapter has began with a new retelling of their unfinished story. Until the last maple leaf falls and the oldest standing tree drought, two souls will always find their way to rekindle what has been lost.

>> PART III

─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @itsyourgirlria @shizunxie @elsoleil @cherlynono @slzarr @katsuissus @tartarsaucechi1de @spyanya @tikitsune @shoujishu @useless-potatho @chimsblogg @xiamuyi @lemonlimesocks @belletifeshyl @alexon-mars @multifandomvoyage @malt-rants-and-stuff @jameineliebe @angelkazusstuff @orginiallyann @eissaaaa @beezgobuzzbuzz @towos @kamukayakmonyet @atsukawolfcat @sunflowers1970 @yamtwt @avery-needs-more-fics @angstylittleb1tch @bigcandlesmolbrain @lxmine @imk1ra @fauxizs @islxisl @chihawari @bishishbored @yuuki4646 @sunsethw4 @princeabomination @alexiris @chocolateneapolitan @ayra2452008 @akaritenchi @sophiee-bush @ittosoneandoniwife @alatus2716 @almighty-raiden-shogunate

(it's my first time doing tags so pls inform me if it's not working, idk why the others are white, did I do something wrong??)

PS. if you want to get tagged for the next part or be removed then simply comment it TAGLIST is for the readers who want to be updated for my future genshin works.

─ 𝐀/𝐍. Can you all smell that? *sniff sniff* I smell a Xiao ver. of this 👀👀 Fr, I didn't expect the fic will be loved that much as I initially thought, I received many appreciative comments and messages which is what motivated me to write part 2, and possibly part 3 (just for the fluff) since this was supposed to be a series but I crossed that idea out until everyone broke my expectation. Thank you💜💙 and merry christmas everyone ❤💚

[esta-elavaris]

OKAY so I genuinely cannot start writing this in earnest without a hell of a lot of planning, buuuuut...I wrote part one in the meantime. Just to get a feel of the thing (🤡🤡🤡) so bone apple tea! Only posting it on here, I won't post it on AO3 until I'm fully ready to go.

Credit goes to @bumblingbriars for giving me the idea of "wait, what if James was the modern one and Theodora was the character in the movies?" -- thank you for this but also how dare you.

Dividers by cafekitsune.

As It Was

None of the tales ever spoke of the fear. Why did they never speak of the fear?

It was a stupid question. Theodora knew why. Because it didn’t make for a very good story, did it? People wanted to hear of the bold heroes who defeated the monsters with little more than a smile and the strength of their own two arms. Who wanted to be regaled with stories of stupid women on suicide missions for philandering pirates? No, she wasn’t the hero of this story. She was a cautionary tale. That was all her death would amount to.

Clenching her teeth against furious tears, she doused Jack’s hands in the oil from the lamp, and then held firm to the shackles as he slid his hands free of them. They were the only two left aboard the Pearl…and it was looking like they’d be going down with it.

“You shouldn’t have stayed, darlin’,” he said.

There was a mournfulness to his dark eyes that she’d never seen before. Even now, here, at the end, he couldn’t pretend any more than she could that her death mightn’t be a waste. That it was anything more than an idiot dying for the sake of an unrequited crush.

“Too late now,” she ground out, following it up with a very forced, very strained laugh.

Because if she stopped clenching her jaw, she would definitely begin to sob. And that was the only thing here that could be more pathetic.

“Too late now,” Jack agreed, a bitter smile on his face.

Each second seemed to stretch into an eternity – was that natural, when death was certain and unavoidable? It was supposed to come with a sense of peace, was it not? Of calm? Her father had always said…god, her father. How would he even find out, back in Port Royal? He’d never forgive her for this. It was that thought that had her vision blurring.

Around them, deceptively soft splashes sounded here and there, out of place with how the water usually lapped at the sides of the ship, followed by stomach-churning slick noises…that of the kraken’s appendages. Theo took a deep, shuddering breath in. Too late now.

When she looked at Jack again, searching for words – although she knew not which ones, exactly – she found him forcing a smile. Then, instead of stepping back as she’d expected, he stepped forward. Her eyes closed on instinct as he kissed her, time slowed further still, and she felt…she felt nothing. No breathlessness, no swelling in her chest, no weakness in her knees. Nothing like Elizabeth ever described when it came to Will. Only the scratch of his moustache, the way the beads in his beard clacked against her chin, and the discomfort at the awkward angle of how she’d leaned in.

They parted, and when she opened her eyes, she found Jack watching her, that sadness back on his face again. No joking admonishments at her lack of any reaction, no over-the-top exaggerations at how his prowess had just gone clearly unappreciated. Nothing. Just sorrow. But it was quickly covered by yet another forced smile.

“Come on, darlin,” he drew his sword. “Best have a bit of flair about it, eh?”

Well. She could agree with that, at least. Theo drew her own sword, and took a deep breath in.

There were many things that James actually enjoyed about living with his younger sister…although admitting that to her would be nothing short of a fatality. But Phoebe was a rather good flatmate. She picked up after herself, she didn’t throw parties, and she added life to a flat that would otherwise be rather dead during the times when he was actually in it.

One habit of hers, however, that he could do without was her burning desire to watch the same films over and over again, with scarcely an hour between repeats. It was cyclical, more often than not. Winter belonged to Middle-earth, spring to whatever was newly landed on her radar, and summer – which they were suffering through now – was Pirates of the Caribbean territory. One month in, and he was just about ready to set about his eyeballs with a spoon. Anything to make it stop.

At present, she sat on the sofa across the other side of the room while he pottered about the kitchen, watching enraptured as the redhead on screen turned with teary eyes, side-by-side with Jack Sparrow, to face the kraken that would soon devour them both, the music swelling dramatically as they lifted their swords.

“What I don’t understand is why she had to die,” he said unthinkingly.

And instantly regretted it when Phoebe turned with a grin.

“Ha! You’re getting into it now!”

“If you’re going to insist on watching the damn things ten times a week, I can’t be blamed for noticing bits of them,” he replied sourly, leaning on the countertop. “But they bring him back in the next film, don’t they? Why not her, too?”

“The movie-verse explanation is that she was at peace.”

“Dying for a man who could barely pat her on the head in thanks? Oh, yes, very peaceful. Positively euphoric.”

Curiosity sated, albeit not in a particularly satisfying manner, he straightened and resumed the arduous process of deciding whether he’d be having cereal or real food for dinner.

“Yes. Well,” Phoebe turned her face back to the television, distractedly watching as the kraken devoured the Black Pearl, “the boring explanation is that the actress had a nasty accident just before filming started for the next one, and her bones wouldn’t heal in time for all of the stunts and so on. They had to write her out.”

That made marginally more sense, at least.

“…Much to your disappointment, I suspect,” she added smugly.

“Excuse me?” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I saw you googling her earlier.”

“I thought I recognised her from something else.”

The fact that his cheeks blazed almost immediately did little to help his argument, but he took some comfort in knowing she was one of the few who could wrench such a reaction from him. If any of his brothers-in-arms could see it, they’d never let him hear the end of it.

“If you say so,” came her smug response.

“And she…emotes rather impressively,” he added.

“Is that what they call it these days?”

James scoffed his disgust…and then he settled on cereal. That would get him out from his sister’s far too knowing gaze much more quickly. But he’d miss it, he knew, next time he deployed.

[sleeplessdreamer14]

the sparrow and the butterfly

fandom: overwatch

relationship: (familial) genji shimada & sibling! reader

headcanons: years after your family falls apart, you’re given a chance to put it back together

contains: familial fluff, some angst, hurt/comfort, heavy plot

a/n: this is more of a fanfic I came up with like a month ago that I’m telling in the ‘you’ perspective. I might make a part 2 for hanzo if this gets enough notes.

˚˖𖤓˖˚ childhood

as the two younger siblings of the family, you and Genji were quite close

although he wasn’t initially thrilled at the idea of being a middle child, he quickly became enamored with you

you’re kind of his favorite

and you were a pretty good motivator for him to be a bit more respectful, to set a good standard for you

you had caught him sneaking out a few times, and promised not to tell on the condition he bought you lunch the next day

Genji’s not gonna let anyone slander your name btw

some of your dearest memories were made up on the roof of Shimada castle where you guys would watch fireworks together

Genji hoped that despite being born into the yakuza, you could live your life yourself when you grew up

ִ ࣪ ☾⋆ separation

anyway, as you got older, the two of you confided in each other that neither of you wanted any part in the family’s criminal empire

this became a major problem upon the untimely death of your father and responsibilities fell to you and your brothers

you still remember how sick you felt when you could overhear your brothers fighting until everything suddenly went quiet

once torn between your longing for a different life and your duty to your family, you fled that same night and left no trace

as much as you wanted to, you knew that looking back even once would making leaving even harder than it already was

so you’ve lost your family, your home, everything

words cannot describe how scary and lonely those first couple of years were for you

but after you spent enough time mourning, you got back on your feet, took time to make peace with your loss, and built a new life for yourself

after spending a couple years on your own, you embraced your newfound freedom to make your own choices and be entirely and unapologetically yourself

this involved getting a tattoo of a butterfly on your back, a sparrow on your right arm, and an arrow on your left (among other things)

you also collected about half a dozen aliases over the years

overall, you were proud of who you had become, only wishing that your family could see you

‎‧₊˚✧ meanwhile

when Angela brought Genji back, one of his first thoughts was ‘where is (name)?’

he worried that Hanzo might have killed you too which only worsened his mental health

it felt as though the sun had disappeared from the sky

once he was able to eat again, if he ever went somewhere you would have liked, he would get a second order in tribute to you and place it in front of his own

it took a long time, but he actually told Angela and Cassidy about you

whenever he saw fireworks, he took it as a good omen that you were out there somewhere, not only living, but thriving

since he was revived, he dreaded the thought that one day he might see you again and you would no longer recognize him as your brother

˚₊⋅𓅫 reunion 𐀔 ⋅₊˚

not long after the downfall of overwatch and your family’s empire, the stars aligned and lead you to your brother

Genji could not have been ready to see you again

whether he feared never seeing you again or your reaction to his new body more was anyone’s guess

and then you embraced him and sunk in that you didn’t love him any differently than you did before

that was the most vulnerable and safe he had felt in a very long time

finding no trace of disgust or malice in your eyes as you looked at him gave Genji hope

you later explained how you each spent the last several years

Genji was heartbroken to realize you were essentially alone since that tragic night, but at the same time was so proud of how well you did on your own

when you two eventually parted ways, you made sure to stay in contact this time

Zenyatta was pleased to finally meet you and mentioned that Genji spoke of you often

upon seeing your sparrow tattoo, Genji removed his mask to quickly wipe away his tears

‎‧₊˚ 𐀔 butterflies traditionally symbolize hope, faith, and change ‎𐀔 ˚₊‧

[koishua]

queen of tears spoilers!!

identity is above all else, it seems like. ep 14 of queen of tears ruined me in all the good ways. when the question is "do you want to die as yourself?" vs "are you willing to live at the cost of who you are as a person?", the ultimate answer hae-in gives is no. she'd rather come to peace with the prospect of death with all of her memories of loving and, in turn, being loved coming with her. the death of memories is more painful than the death of her life itself. hyunwoo begging and sobbing in her arms does not deter her, however much she wants to keep on living. as herself. keep on living as the hong hae-in who loved dearly and who was loved, desperately so.

a loss of identity is death to everything that ever had a hand in helping her become who she is now. this brings me to the phrase "death is for the living". the dead do not mourn or face the aftermath of their last breath in the world of the living. the living, those who are left behind, are the ones who truly know what death is. so it is painful when hyunwoo, the man who isn't struck with the terminal illness bound to take her life any time soon, begs almost on his knees for hae-in, the woman who's counting the seconds left she has to live, to give up her sense of self. it's understandable how both of them stand strong in their desires. one fears becoming a stranger to all that she loves and one fears becoming familiar to life without the one he cannot live without. so he does everything in his power to have her take the surgery (all effort is in vain, she will not give up her identity).

i love this episode so much. im still only halfway through it but i had to give my two cents. such a beautifully tragic dilemma of two people who love. one loves by wanting to remember, one loves by giving everything to make her live. have a taste of love again for the first time. he says that he'll be the first person she'll meet and get to know again after the surgery. that he will still be there for her when she wakes up a completely different, empty, and lost person. he wants her to live, does not care if she'll ever even be able to reconnect with him ever again. he believes that she deserves to wake up another day and smile. to still be able to make new memories.

in the end they're both very selfish people who love selflessly.

edit: help me my stomach hurts from laughing so hard oml not him using his face and body card to annoy her into living. using jealousy as a mean to motivate her to take the freaking surgery and live ugh im in tears ahhahahah i love how if she doesn't become convinced the first few times when he's nice, he just intentionally pisses her off or annoys her into doing things to help herself 😭😭 thr only way to get hae-in motivated to live: make her mad at himself and have her do beneficial things out of sheer SPITE

edit 2: NO WHAT THE FOUK JUST HAPPENED POOR HYUNWOO OH MY GOD the way he lost all strength in his knees my god he crumbled in front of her feet he got a taste of what losing her felt like with that massive crash im still in shock i can't imagine having to witness that and trying to get through the car window to help save her and then not find her there?? and then she appears unscathed thankfully and he feels like a bucket of ice cold water drops over his head??? man they have to be so much more careful from now on bc the amount of yandereism the other guy is exhibiting ugh and the evil mother saying she'll help him out with "i can't stop till the moment i die" wtf??? OMG SHE'S GETTING THE SURGERY WHAT WHAT WHAT "i promised i would never make you cry after we get married" WOMAN HE'S BEEN SOBBING HIS SOUL OUT EVERY EPISODE SINCE!!!! 😭😭 ALSO NOOOOO NOT MY BOY SOOCHEOL GOING THROUGH IT AGAIN I CANT TAKE IT PLS MAKE HIM HAPPY WITH HIS LITTLE FAMILY I WILL CRYYYYYYYY he's gonna have MAJOR trust issues lmfao

[dontyouworrydaddy]

I had to leave

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem! Reader

summary: Simon lost the only person he truly loved and cared for. What will happen after they take you away from him?

warning: No happy ending, death

I wrote this like a week ago but I didn’t like it. I feel like this isn’t beautifully enough written. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT THIS ONE. But now I’m going to post this anyway…so here we go.

gif not mine!

The moon hung low in the darkened sky, casting an ethereal glow upon the world below. You stood at the precipice of eternity, feeling the weight of its embrace pulling you closer with each passing moment. Your beloved boyfriend, pleaded with you, his voice laced with desperation and sorrow.

But the tendrils of eternity wrapped around you, whispering promises of peace and release. You felt the pull, the inexorable force drawing you away from the life you had known. It was a bittersweet allure, for as you surrendered to its call, you knew that you would be leaving behind the one who had captured your heart.

A tear slipped down your cheek as you gazed into Simon's eyes, filled with an overwhelming mix of love and sorrow. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely a breath. "I feel myself slipping away, growing weaker with each passing moment. This is something I cannot fight."

Simon's heart shattered, the pain etched across his face. He had seen and experienced unspeakable horrors, but nothing had prepared him for the possibility of losing you. He reached out, his trembling hand seeking the solace of yours, desperate to hold on to the fleeting remnants of your presence.

"You're not weak," he choked out, his voice filled with raw emotion. "You are the strongest person I've ever known. Please, don't go. We can find a way, fight against this darkness together."

A weak smile graced your lips as you gently caressed his cheek, the touch like a feather's brush against his skin. "Oh, Simon," you murmured, your voice carrying a mixture of love and acceptance. "You have given me more than I ever thought possible. The time we've shared, the love we've built—it has been my sanctuary. But now, I must let go."

As your eyes began to close, Simon's anguish broke free, tears streaming down his face like a river of sorrow. He clung to your hand, his grip tight and desperate, as if by sheer willpower alone, he could keep you tethered to this world.

"I can't imagine a life without you," he whispered, his voice shaking. "You have filled my days with light, with love, and with a hope I had long forgotten. Please, don't leave me."

In the final moments, as the veil of eternity descended upon you, you found the strength to speak one last time. "Simon, my love, you have given me a gift beyond measure. You have shown me the depths of love and the beauty of a fleeting existence. I will cherish every memory, every touch, every moment we've shared. But now, it is time for me to go."

With a heavy heart, Simon watched as your eyes closed, the finality of the moment crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. He wept, his cries echoing through the empty room, mourning the loss of a love he held so dear.

In the stillness that followed, Simon, the stoic soldier, found himself broken, shattered by the departure of the one who had breathed life into his weary soul. He would carry the memory of you, etched upon his heart, forever haunted by the love that slipped through his fingers.

As Simon wept for a love lost to eternity, the world continued to turn, unaware of the profound loss that had befallen him. The stars above flickered, casting their gentle light upon a grieving heart, reminding us all of the fragility of our existence and the fleeting nature of love. Simon's tears fell like rain, each drop a testament to the depth of his emotions, as he struggled to come to terms with the void that now resided in his heart.

Days turned into nights, and nights into weeks, yet Simon remained locked in a somber state of mourning. He retraced the steps of your shared memories, visiting the places where laughter had once echoed and love had blossomed. But now, those spaces felt empty, devoid of the vibrant energy that you had brought into his life.

In the midst of his grief, Simon found solace in the traces of you that lingered, like a delicate fragrance in the air. He would close his eyes and imagine your presence beside him, your laughter dancing on the wind, and the warmth of your touch soothing his troubled soul. Though intangible, these memories provided a thread of connection, a lifeline to the love that had once enveloped them both.

Simon sought refuge in the company of friends, his comrades who had fought by his side through countless battles. They offered support and understanding, standing as pillars of strength as he weathered the storm of his loss. But in the depths of his heart, he knew that none could fill the void left by your absence.

As time passed, the sharp edges of grief began to soften, and a newfound resilience blossomed within Simon's spirit. He carried your memory like a beacon, a guiding light that illuminated his path forward. And though the ache of your departure remained, he vowed to honor your memory by embracing life with renewed purpose and vigor.

In quiet moments, as he gazed at the night sky, Simon would speak to you, he hopes that his words carried on whispers to the heavens. He would recount his triumphs and failures, sharing the stories that had shaped his journey since you had left. It was as if his words carried across the ethereal realm, reaching your spirit and intertwining with the essence of who you once were.

And as Simon continued to navigate the tumultuous sea of life, he held fast to the belief that love transcended the boundaries of time and space. In the depths of his soul, he knew that the bond you had shared was eternal, defying the limitations of the mortal world. Your love had left an indelible mark upon his heart, and nothing could extinguish the flame that burned for you.

In the quiet of the night, as he lay beneath the star-studded sky, Simon found solace in the knowledge that you were watching over him. He could almost feel your gentle presence, a whisper on the breeze, guiding him forward with unwavering love and support. Though you were no longer physically by his side, your spirit remained intertwined with his, forever entangled in a tapestry of memories and emotions.

For in the wake of loss, he had discovered that even in the darkest of nights, the light of love could never truly be extinguished. And as he moved forward, his heart filled with resilience and an unwavering commitment to honor the love you had shared, Simon found himself embracing life with a newfound passion. He never really talked much. But after your loss he started talking too much. The world were always dedicated to you. Never to anyone else. Because there will never be another person he loved as much as he loved you.

Yet, despite the ache that lingered within his soul, Simon never wavered in his conviction that love was worth fighting for. He carried your memory as a constant reminder of the strength and resilience of the human spirit. In the stillness of the night, Simon would often find himself revisiting the memories you had woven together. He would leaf through old photographs, tracing the contours of your smile, and read through the letters you had exchanged, finding solace in the words that captured the essence of your connection. These fragments of the past became a lifeline, connecting him to the love that had once consumed their lives.

Through the passage of time, Simon's heart began to heal, and he started to find a sense of peace within himself. He understood that although your physical presence was no longer beside him, your love had transcended the boundaries of time and space. It lived on in his heart, an eternal flame that burned bright even in the darkest of nights.

One fateful day, as the sun bathed the world in its golden light, Simon found himself drawn to a familiar place, a spot that held cherished memories of the time you had spent together. It was a place where laughter had resonated, where dreams had been shared, and where the bond between you had flourished.

As he stood there, enveloped by the echoes of the past, a soft breeze caressed his cheek, as if carrying a whispered message from the universe. And in that moment, Simon knew that it was time to release the pain and sorrow that had gripped his heart for so long.

With each breath, he let go of the weight of loss, allowing it to dissolve into the ether. And as he did, a profound sense of gratitude washed over him. He was grateful for the time you had shared, the love that had blossomed, and the lessons you had taught him about the resilience of the human spirit.

In the evening twilight, as the stars began to twinkle in the vast expanse of the sky, Simon found himself at peace. He lay beneath the open canopy of stars, feeling a profound connection to the universe and to the love that had once filled his life. Closing his eyes, Simon could almost feel your presence, a warmth enveloping him, a gentle whisper in his ear. And in that moment, he whispered back, a vow to carry your love within his heart for eternity.

As the night deepened and darkness settled upon the world, Simon fell into a peaceful slumber, cradled by the memories of your love. And as he dreamt, he found himself walking hand in hand with you, traversing the realms of time and space, forever intertwined in a dance of eternal devotion.

As Simon found solace in the memories of a love that defied the boundaries of the physical world, he discovered that even in the face of loss, the power of love could never truly be extinguished. In the tapestry of his life, you remained a vibrant thread, weaving a story of resilience, hope, and the transformative power of the human heart.

As the world quietly turned, Simon Riley and the essence of your love continued to inspire those who crossed his path. His presence became a beacon of compassion and empathy, a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit. Through his actions and words, he carried the legacy of your love, spreading warmth and kindness to all who needed it.

In the depth of his being, Simon knew that your departure had left an irreplaceable void. But rather than succumbing to the darkness, he embraced the light that you had ignited within him. He vowed to live a life that honored your memory, seizing every opportunity to make a positive impact in the world.

With each sunrise, Simon would rise to face the challenges of the day with unwavering determination. The world still held its share of pain and turmoil, but he refused to let it overshadow the love that had once flourished between you. Through his resilience, he sought to bring a glimmer of hope to those who had lost their way, just as he had once found solace in your presence.

As the seasons changed, Simon found himself drawn to places that held special significance to you both. He would sit by the riverbank, watching the waters flow, carrying his thoughts and memories downstream. In the rustling leaves of the forest, he could almost hear your laughter, a melody that danced in the wind.

In the quiet moments, Simon would pour his heart into letters, writing down his deepest thoughts and emotions. He would share stories of your love, offering comfort to others who had experienced similar heartaches. These letters became a lifeline, bridging the gap between the tangible and the ethereal, a way to keep your spirit alive within the hearts of those who longed for solace.

With time, Simon began to understand that your departure was not a sign of weakness or abandonment. It was an acknowledgment of the weight you carried, the burdens that felt too heavy to bear. You had sought release from the pain that consumed you, not realizing the profound impact your absence would have on him.

And as the years unfolded, he never ceased to miss you. Your absence left an indelible mark, a scar on his heart that reminded him of the depth of his love for you. But rather than dwelling in sorrow, he chose to celebrate the love you had shared and the joy you had brought into his life.

On a warm summer evening, as the stars painted the sky with their brilliance, Simon found himself gazing up at the heavens. He knew that somewhere beyond the celestial tapestry, you were watching over him, a guardian angel guiding his every step.

With a peaceful smile on his lips, he whispered into the night, "Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for showing me the power of love. You may be gone, but you will never be forgotten. I carry your love within me, always."

And as he drifted off to sleep, the weight of the world momentarily lifted from his shoulders. In his dreams, he found himself reunited with you, dancing beneath the moonlight, embraced in a love that transcended time and space.

Simon continued his journey through life, he found solace in the memories of a love that had forever changed him. The pain of your departure remained, but it was softened by the beauty of the love you had shared. And in the depths of his soul, he knew that your love would forever be a guiding light, illuminating his path and inspiring him to make the most of every precious moment.

For as long as he lived, he would honor your memory, cherishing the love that had once burned brightly between you. And as he walked the path of his life, he would carry your love within his heart, forever grateful for the time you had spent together and the profound impact it had on his being.

As Simon ventured forward, he sought to share the lessons he had learned from your love with others who were struggling to find their own sense of purpose and resilience. He became a beacon of hope, offering a comforting presence to those who felt lost and alone. His words carried the wisdom and empathy that had been cultivated through the depths of his own grief, inspiring others to embrace life's uncertainties with strength and grace.

In his interactions, Simon possessed an unparalleled ability to see beyond the surface, recognizing the hidden pain and longing in the eyes of those he encountered. He extended a hand of understanding and compassion, inviting them to share their burdens and find solace in the knowledge that they were not alone. Through the passage of time, Simon's journey took him to farflung corners of the world, where he witnessed the beauty and resilience of the human spirit firsthand. He worked tirelessly to uplift communities ravaged by conflict and injustice, using his skills to bring healing and transformation. In each person he encountered, he saw a reflection of the love that had once illuminated his own life.

But amidst his tireless efforts, there were moments when Simon couldn't help but yearn for the physical presence of the one he had lost. In the quiet of the night, when the weight of the world settled upon his shoulders, he would retreat to a secluded place and whisper your name to the wind. He would pour his heart out, longing for the touch he could no longer feel and the laughter he could no longer hear.

Yet, within the depths of his sorrow, Simon found solace in the knowledge that your love had not truly left him. It had become a part of him, interwoven into the very fabric of his being. It manifested in his unwavering determination to make a difference and his relentless pursuit of a more compassionate world.

With each passing year, Simon's legacy grew, his name becoming synonymous with love, resilience, and unwavering strength. He became a living embodiment of the transformative power of loss, proving that even in the face of heartache, one could rise above the darkness and find purpose in the pursuit of love and justice.

And as the story of Simon "Ghost" Riley unfolded, his path crossed with kindred spirits who had also experienced the depths of grief. They formed a bond, a community of wounded hearts seeking solace and support. Together, they created a sanctuary of healing, where the echoes of lost love were transformed into the fuel that propelled them forward.

In their shared experiences and collective vulnerability, they found the strength to embrace life anew. They knew that while the pain of loss would never fully dissipate, it could be harnessed as a force for positive change and a catalyst for personal growth.

For in the feeling of loss, he had discovered that love was not bound by time or space—it was a force that transcended all boundaries and connected souls across eternity.

[pendragonsclotpole]

The story goes like this: Arthur dies, and Merlin grieves, and then…

Merlin does not die.

Merlin should die. For the ten years that Merlin has lived in Camelot, he has not lived as Merlin.

His existence had always been as the lesser half of a greater whole. Even the name Emrys failed to cover the depth of who and what he had become. The moment Merlin stepped foot on the castle grounds and met the then-Crown Prince, he accepted the inevitable whether he knew it or not. From then until the end of time, and maybe even longer than that, it would always be Merlin-and-Arthur.

This was the promise of the dragon. Merlin-and-Arthur were part of some greater destiny. They had not entered the world together, but they would live together and they would die together.

The death of Arthur feels like the cruel facsimile of a tragedy that has already happened. The pain burrows into him like a splinter beneath his nail. Blood pools into the crevices of his flesh, the nail bed turns black, and the splinter scrapes across his bone with the screeching cry of a creature he is sure he has already defeated.

When the infection grows too big, when the pain spreads and the splinter turns into a spear, and Guinevere visits him in her gown of dread, only then does Merlin pull out the splinter. In her arms he bleeds out. His life force stains her dress, and his tears run down her hair and he sobs against the life that grows inside of her, the last remaining proof of the thing that once was Merlin-and-Arthur, but can no longer be.

Merlin does not die. Not then or the day after or in 500 years or in a thousand years. Not today or tomorrow or the day after that. Merlin lives because there is no other choice and because whatever survived the death of Arthur is no longer Merlin. Death cannot touch a thing that no longer lives.

He learns this the day Arthur’s son dies in a hunting accident. The boy having barely lived to be thirty. They carry his bloody body back in the same wooden carriages Arthur refused to ride in. The boy, though truthfully no longer a boy, is as pale as the day he was born. A silent thing that almost hadn’t lived if not for Merlin and the spells he wove and cast even as he felt the pull of the world’s magic inching toward a slumber. The boy had lived, and for thirty years Merlin believed that perhaps Arthur’s son would be the King whose reign would last lifetimes.

The boy died, butchered like a pig, gutted by a stag. His crown the antlers that split through his chest. He did not die in the peak of battle. He did not perish from the poison of his enemies. He lived in the peak of an age of peace and prosperity, though mired by tragedy.

Guinevere-the-Queen commands he be buried in the crypt below the castle of Camelot. Merlin carries his body, places him into his coffin, brushes the strands of gold spun hair out of eyes that no longer see, seals the lid, and does not think about the empty coffin that rests right past it.

When Arthur died, Merlin had not returned to Camelot with a body.

This did not change.

Not when Guinevere begged.

Not when the Council demanded.

Not even when, five years after, a young prince slipped past his guards to sneak into the crypts and talk to the place that should have held his father.

Merlin remembered finding him there, hours later, half the castle in a panic. He felt not a single ounce of regret. Merlin does not die.

Arthur dies a thousand deaths. The body that slipped into the lake was not the body that once held the King, and the King the realm mourned was not the King Merlin knew nor the one that existed.

They had been Merlin-and-Arthur longer than Arthur had been King or married to Guinevere and certainly longer than he had ever been a father. No one could understand what Merlin had lost. He learned quickly to never apologize for that.

The boy should have lived. He does not live. And Merlin does not die.

Arthur’s granddaughter rules for sixty years. Her reign is long and prosperous. She is but a babe when her father passes, little more than a girl when her only brother passes, and a woman grown with children when Guinevere finally passes.

There is joke somewhere in this.

Merlin spent the early part of his adult life expecting to help a King usher in an era of greatness. Instead, he has seen a great king die, buried a boy of a crown prince, and served two queens whose reigns are never forgotten.

(Later, much later, in an effort to keep an eye on the latest Pendragon, Merlin will enroll in a class on Arthurian history and legend. Arthur’s time is spoken about in length, with a level of wonder and despair. Guinevere’s with more reservedness. There is awe to her rule as there is bewilderment at her betrayal. But it is Arthur’s granddaughter who stills an entire class. It is the drawings of her crown and her laws that they admire. It is her death he carries in his heart for almost as long as he carries Arthur’s.)

Arthur’s granddaughter abdicates from the throne at ninety-seven and she dies in her bed at the age of ninety-nine holding his hand. She dies having outlived her mother, and her grandmother, and her brother, and her husband, and a son and a grandson. She has lost more than he has ever held and Merlin finds after thousands of years of living that she is the only one who ever understands.

When she dies, Merlin carries her quiet body down into the crypts, places her into the coffin, brushes away grey strands of hair, and kisses her on the cheek. He stands for a moment, and kneels before her.

When he closes her coffin, and lets the door of the crypt close behind him to herald her death at last, Merlin does not die.

He cannot die. He had delivered her into the world, a squalling babe with no idea of all she would do and see and live. Merlin has spent his entire life watching the people he loves die. Each time it has always been his fault. Each except for her.

She, in the lifetimes of thousands, is the only one he has ever and truly served. She is the one he had never failed. But she is also the one that has never needed him.

She had not needed him to live as her father had. She had not needed him to breathe life into her or to follow her into battle to protect her. She done that on her own.

When she dies, Merlin does not die. Merlin leaves.

He comes back, but he never stays for long.

The reign of her second son is not long but it is prosperous. It has no need of him or of a magic that fades away with each passing day.

Merlin spends the next 100 years burying the Pendragons, but he never attends the birth of another one. He tried, once, a few months after the death of Arthur’s granddaughter, but the moment he’d entered the room, the ghosts of a lonely crown prince and a dying queen followed. The prince died for a life he thought he needed to live. The queen lived for a man that does not die. Merlin cannot bear it.

He still buries each of them. The son of Arthur’s granddaughter, and his son, and his daughter. He carries their bodies down, places them into their coffins. Adjusts the crowns on their heads, brushes away their hair. He kisses their foreheads and wonders what it must be like to die.

Then he leaves.

They ask him to stay anyway. All of them do. Those Pendragons. They ask too much of him. They ask him to walk beside them. They ask him to tell them stories. Stories of Arthur and Guinevere and Arthur’s son and granddaughter. They beg him to help them, and when the groups from the east invade, they ask him to fight for them.

He does not.

The reign of the Pendragons cannot be his burden to bear. He bore it once and when it ended, he failed. The one that mattered most was no longer alive and the one that followed had not needed him to live or die.

Merlin hides away in some village and ignores the letters that are sent to him. He pretends he has died.

He regrets this later.

He regrets it when the Pendragons are butchered and Camelot falls in a battle that spills more blood than he has ever seen, all without an ounce of magic.

He regrets it when he walks upon the carnage and does not die.

He left so he would not watch them die, but this? This is worst than being alive.

The blood of the babes with the look of Guinevere stain his hands. Their screams should haunt him. Their ghosts should curse him. Their lives should still be here, by his side.

But they are not.

Merlin carries each of their bodies, places them into the coffins, brushes away the strands of their hair, kisses their foreheads, and he does not die.

He lives. He seals the crypts so that they may never be disturbed, and then by some miracle he finds the last Pendragon left alive, now no longer a king or a prince or anything so valued. He finds that this may be the best way to help them survive, and they leave the Pendragon name behind. He raises this last Pendragon as his own son. When eventually it comes time for Merlin to either disappear or fake his death or change his appearance, he leaves. For a year or maybe twenty. He lets the memories of him fade away and eventually those that know the truth die.

When Merlin eventually returns it’s always an act of masquerading as so-and-so’s son or grandson or younger brother.

Spells come in handy, but Merlin thinks some of them know more than they let on. They never say—most are too polite and thankful by a large margin, others possess too much of Arthur’s belligerent kindness and care more for his love than his truth—but they know. Merlin does not die.

Merlin just is. He is half of a twin soul. He is bereft of his very being. He is the leftover parts that Death never wanted.

But he cannot stop caring.

He welcomes as many Pendragons into the world as he buries them. He watches the centuries pass by and does not die.

Arthur has yet to come back to life, but every so often a descendant inherits his eyes or his ears or his hair and Merlin accepts that though he cannot die, this is how one stays alive.

(His favorite hobby is attending the history classes that speak of Arthur’s granddaughter. Hers is the one death he never mourns.)

Title: And I Buried You in the Crypts of Camelot

Notes: just a little something I keep wanting to see in a longer fic.

[maruzzewrites]

Tome of Strahd

I posted the link to my Ao3 before (here, if you want!), but I figured I wanted the full thing on Tumblr too. Expanded on the Tome to give more context to my players, with my own ideas about Strahd's character, relationships and story. All the warnings typical of Ravenloft apply, of course.

The first time I saw a man die in front of my eyes, I was still a youth and easy to upset. For years, I have waited to join the people of my country on fields virgin to blood. 

Never I contemplated the possibility of death in war in my young mind, filled with every possibility but mortality. That was when I was confronted by the reality due to a soldier having his guts spilled on fresh grass, now too heavy for the blood to dance with the air.

I regurgitated every last piece of food sitting in my stomach that same moment, and again that evening when I could see the scene the moment my eyes closed. 

Now, more than a decade later, the same sight wouldn’t leave the same impression. On the other hand, it’s the same indifference I experience that troubles my mind. A man should not find himself not caring for the life of others, so why can I mourn a soldier in less than a minute now that I’m older and wiser?

When I admitted to others the growing concern about this affair, I am met with issues of similar entity. Never with solutions, however. My closest companions would either offer sympathies or comfort, but no amount of words can really quiet the noise, not when they’re not at my side. I can drown these thoughts only so much in conversations.

One thing I never wished for was these worries to reach my father’s ear, yet one day he approached me and imposed his will: I should stop agonizing over pointless doubts and accept the reality of my duty. Death follows those who sow it, he said.

Despite his warning, I feel restless. Every moment devoid of action, is devoted instead to resist either the knowledge I’m losing some part of me or the attempts of my brain to remember the fallen through their last moments, lived in front of my eyes.

Death truly follows me, yet I forget.  

Thus, I now find myself noting down my thoughts so that they may not escape in the fog that is my memory. Everyday, words escape me, thoughts are like wind blowing between mountain tops, and my body seems to lose the limits of the flesh when I stall too long.

For this, I am always moving and occupying myself in an attempt to keep everything inside the boundaries I need to maintain. And for this, I note down the names of those we lost and will lose. I may not speak of them, per my father’s request, but I will carry them.

---

My father lost his life in the last battle.

Our troops were in a frenzy, as soon as his body hit the ground. Scrambling to reach him so that he could be brought to safety, hoping that his life could still be saved. It was too late, however. Fatal blow, he died almost instantly.

I knew it, of course. One could survive a wound like his to the chest, to the legs, to the arms, not to the brain. The last image of my father is of a bloody gash opened in the middle of his forehead, his skull concave.

I regret thinking about how peculiar it was to me his men would rush to his side to save him. Was he truly a great king and a great general, to the point people would overlook his shortcomings? And yet his own son felt a spark of relief in his death, immediately suffocated by heartache?

I admired my father. I want to love him. And now, I find myself wondering if I can even step in his shoes. I wish for someone to admire me, wanting to love me as well; but I despise the thought of ending my life on a battlefield.

---

The war ends, at last.

My enemies are weary as much as my men. I do not see the need to continue if we can reach the right compromise and live in harmony. I cannot hope for friendship, but peace will be enough.

---

The valley is the most beautiful I have ever seen. Nature doesn’t seem to fight the villages and towns here, but embrace them. The river and the lakes are clear, cold to the touch, yet beautiful to observe.

My friends always lauded the wonders of the sea and the benefits of a life with dried salt on your skin, burning because of the sun. It is hard to let them understand the grace and charm of the mountains surrounding a peaceful valley: emerald and colorful when spring comes, muted and candid with snow once winter takes hold.

The quiet can be healing to the spirit, but if one feels too isolated and craves the noise of a town, in the heart of the valley you can find people. I had no hesitation in celebrating von Zarovich’s ritual to claim the land and now my blood runs inside the earth. In honor of my father, I named it Barovia; shall he oversee this new land and rejoice that his name can carry on.

Lost in nature but still vibrant with life. This valley reminds me of the words of a person I knew long ago. 

Perhaps I’m just blinded by memories once again. However, I cannot deny myself this reverie, for it is too delightful.

---

Today, a woman came knocking on the door of my new castle. The sister of the last survivor of the dusk elves’ court and the one I usually refer to in order to talk to them. Her name is Patrina and she was offered a room, for I wish to be a respectable host.

Rahadin isn’t too fond of her, to be expected. He doesn’t seem to favor anyone of his kin and, no matter how it pains me to see his loathing, I have to accept his reasons. He can be sentimental about family, despite everything.

This woman has an incredible understanding of magic. Her arrival at my castle was motivated by her hunger for knowledge and she attributed to me a source of magic and learning. I do not see how I could teach her much, I have seen her read spells of great power without a hitch; yet, I find myself unable to refuse her presence.

I am no fool and I am not one to deny evidence. I have been alone for a long time, engrossed in the expectations of my father and my army, so the interest of a person so remarkable does something to a lonely man’s soul.

---

There is something uneasy lingering in my brain lately. I am restless and unable to succumb to sleep easily, it is as if feelings and sensation I cannot remember rush to my mind the moment I close my eyes and escape me as dreams do in the morning.

It is not simply the same old, the nightmares of war festering like every night. This is different. There are voices in tongues I do not know, shadows are deeper and darker in the corners of my room, there is a weight in the back of my head that grows when I have less control over myself.

Patrina smiles at me, when she sees me like that. I wonder if she wants to comfort me when she tells me humans are fragile things, susceptible to time. She can speak so lovingly, yet her words cut deep and she cannot see it.

When I look at her, in the moments together in the library or on the balcony, I see a defiant youth who can defy mortal rules and a pang of envy grows cold in my chest. That is when I can hear those voices more clearly.

Perhaps they are simply thoughts I suppress and fight not to understand. 

---

The solitude poisons my mind. Despite the presence of my fiancee and my loyal friend in the castle, despite servants ready to answer my every word, I feel as if there is nothing for me here.

The beauty of the valley is still there, but I now see the truth: spring dies too quickly, winter is bitter and unending. The spectacle nature can offer has a short life, then it leaves space for death and desolation. Ulmed invited me to spend some time away from Barovia, somewhere warm and welcoming, and I do miss his friendship; however, it is my duty to serve Barovia as it serves me.

All the same, his words did give me the idea: I should inform my mother and my brother that they can live here, if they wish. If they come, perhaps, the cold will be nothing more than an excuse to spend time together.

---

Words full of contempt have reached my ears, they have insinuated in my head and they will not leave. 

The people of the valley whisper rumors that are founded on nothing. Tales of my perceived bloodlust, of slaying creatures only for my cruelty and no care for the consequences it would bring to those under my care. Some talk about how I hold powers who feed on the souls and life of mortals. Others see me as an old man wrecked by horrors and unable to act properly.

I am either treated as glass or as scourge. And while they do not dare to tell their thoughts to my face, Rahadin brings back information regarding what they say. I wish for him to stop reporting these rumors to me. But he is only doing his duty, most useful ally and most precious friend he is.

My mother informed me that she does intend to move into my castle and she will bring my brother with her. It surprises me that Sturm would leave our old house, but I will welcome him as a worthy older brother. I just worry, alas, about these rumors.

They shall not bring anguish to my poor mother’s heart. She should not suffer hearing the ingratitude of these people towards her son.

---

Patrina’s knowledge is truly something otherworldly. I have studied languages before and I know many, but to speak the words of the underbelly of the world has a strange charm to it. Seeing her speak Abyssal with such ease, and offer nothing but smiles when I ask her where she could have found her source of inspiration.

I have to admit, in spite of the beauty and grace of this fiancee of mine, I feel my heart tremble in my chest for causes beyond infatuation. It’s difficult to place this frenzy, it’s not like myself; when Patrina talks to me, it’s a feverish feeling of wanting to please her and knowing I can’t get there quite yet. 

Nonetheless, there is more to it than simple devotion.

Still, she teaches me Abyssal and Infernal. I learn, easily. And now I understand some quick words coming from the voices who accost me on the edge of sleep. I still forget them come morning. 

Maybe I should ask her if she knows, if these lessons are deliberate. However, I fear I will only see her cryptic smile.

---

I received a joyful report that my mother and my brother are on their way. They are close. The peaceful feeling surrounding this information is only the prelude to a prosperous life, I want to hope.

Even the continuous voices and rumors reaching me on the peak of this castle cannot silence the delight I have in my body. May these people be ungrateful, may they forget who they owe their loyalty to, for now I will only care for the reunion with my beloved mother.

---

It has been difficult to write or think lately. 

To think I was envisioning days spent with my mother. I knew she was weak and ill, due to her age, yet I still hoped the change of air and the undemanding life she could lead here would have given her new life. Instead, she arrived at my door in a coffin and with my brother following her.

Only that, it was not Sturm. My younger brother, Sergei, resides in my castle now. I had heard voices and rumors about the last son of Barov and Ravenovia, but after my father’s demise I have not received news. I feared the grief could have compromised my mother’s health to the point of loss.

Instead, he is here with me. In my castle. In our castle.

It made me think how I knew so little about what happened to my mother. I knew of her illness, unknown to the best doctors of the land and believed to be divine in nature. Despite the annoyance such foolish conjectures can be, I truly knew nothing about her condition and its gravity.

Was my request the last blow for her? I should have been more lenient, waited for information about the feasibility of the journey and sent my best men to be sure she was healthy enough. 

Seeing her body, preserved thanks to the abilities my brother gained in his life, was humbling. My father and now my mother are not here anymore, and I tasted mortality truly and bitterly. 

Sergei is sensitive, I learnt. He had to be strong while coming here, he had to make sure the people around them would arrive in Barovia and he had to lead them. Admirable, for how young he is. Almost half my age.

Yet, in the intimity of family, he let himself weep as we buried our mother in the crypts. I had to, I couldn’t bear the thought of her resting place being far away from me, and if I wish to visit her grave at any time, it is within reach of my restless nights. Right in front of the one dedicated to my father, beneath my castle.

Our brother Sturm has been informed. For now, it’s only me and Sergei, with our sorrow. I never felt as faint as when I saw the poor man melt into his tears at the knowledge he had to depart from the only parent he has ever known. I was touched by the sight and could not help myself but comfort him.

As I held him in my arms, I could feel my heart fill with love. He was helpless in his mourning and sought the understanding of the only other person who could feel the same. 

He needs me. That's all I could think about as I held him. It has to be enough for now.

---

A few weeks have passed and dark thoughts linger in my ears, before vanishing while I wonder if they’re even mine. My mother lays under my feet, and every night I feel the need to leave my room to spend hours in her crypt.

I resist the temptation as I found that complete silence makes the voice of my thoughts louder, if only because it contrasts with nothing. There is no use in losing my mind in the darkness by myself, but staying in my bed is just as haunting. Not even the rhythmic pacing of Rahadin’s steps through the halls during the night comforts me anymore.

What truly weighs on me during the night, besides the natural mourning of my mother, is the conversations I had with Sergei. I wondered about his life, his studies, his ambitions, anything to have a feeling of how my brother truly is. We are, after all, the last family we have close. Sturm came to pay his respects, but he seems to have come to terms with the reality of our mother’s passing. 

And Sergei gave me his answers: our mother did not want him to take the path my father wanted for me, so he chose the cloth. His kindness, his charity, I can see the people following him with love in their eyes, even here in Barovia. Even Patrina stood by my side and whispered to me that that brother of mine is a pearl kept hidden and now discovered.

He is, he truly is. I see the levity and joy of youth in his eyes, the same traits we share are painted with different brushes. I can see the love my mother poured into him, or he would not be quite as lovable.

How I wish she could be here, and sing his praises to me while we watch him rush to Vallaki to talk to the people or travel to Krezk to return the following day because he was caught up in discussions with the clergy there. I did not have the possibility, though. I was robbed of the last chance to hear my mother’s voice.

Do I even remember it? When I observed her face as we attended the private ceremony, did I truly remember everything about her features or did so much time pass that I had no reference anymore, thus using what I had under my eyes to draw her in my memory? If I was asked to tell a story about us, about my filial love, would I be able to recall the details or would I have to delude myself into believing them?

These questions creep up my marrow, sticking to the back of my brain until there is nothing that allows me to ignore it. At times this darkness becomes oppressing to the point I need to seek solace, wandering until I find myself in Patrina’s arms and she tells me my doubts make me human, and my humanity makes me tender.

She tells me I have to prove to myself I am worthy of love, because the people in Barovia truly do not think so anymore. Her heart bleeds at the hurtful beliefs they hold, yet it does not matter if I can make myself worthy of love. 

There is one last way to listen to my mother, and the documents she left behind. Her memories, her last logs. I have seen them, in her belongings. 

Perhaps that is the solution. 

---

Sergei asked me not to read my mother’s last thoughts on paper as a form of respect, but I told him he had a lifetime to listen to her. I, on the other hand, never had the possibility to see her again.

Yet, those documents lay on the desk in my study as I attempt in any way to avoid having to read them. I know I would feel betrayed if someone important to me read my private musings. I should desist, but the temptation is too great.

Everything has been opened and read already, even if I have no idea who could have pry in my family’s private life. Reasonably, I can assume it was Sergei, however I find it hard to believe.

Indeed, even dwelling in this mystery is just a form of unwillingness to read the contents of my mother’s words. I just need more time to face the last opportunity of having a one-sided conversation with her.

---

I have thought for days now. When I was young I could never imagine venturing into such paranoid yet enlightening truths.

My mother, her last will, wanted to leave all that is left of our family’s grandeur to my brothers. If the wound was not deep enough, my brother Sturm would inherit only the house he so meticulously has taken and continues to take care of, while every heirloom and vestige carrying our name would go to Sergei.

At first I wanted to believe her wish was because she knew I had conquered a land and fortune for myself, but the reality was evident even to the blind eyes of a devoted child. I still can recite every word, but I will refrain from writing them with my own hand if this will prevent making them indeleble under my eyes.

My mother feared me. In her memories, she would report how the invite to my castle made her fear for hers and Sergei’s life, how the day approaching would make her muse over my cruelty and how the rumors traveled from Barovia to her ears by some scandal monger. And all she had to say was that she was distressed that her hypothesis was useful.

That she felt less guilty when her honest thought for years has been that she would have felt relief if I forgo my dreams of conquest or, in case I would not, I would perish for them. For something I have done for my family and for my father’s will.

What fault do I have? If she feared my actions so much, why didn’t she stop my father from using me in war? Why was I robbed of my youth, while my brothers could stay home and build their lives? Sergei is kind, and sweet; but he has never felt the smell of blood, and guts, and flesh clawing its way up his nose and haunting his spirit. 

Why am I the one to be feared?

All I have now are tainted memories, a lot of land populated by ungrateful rabble, a mother who could not bear to love her child, a father who haunts me with a probable destiny and my brothers.

And my brother. Sergei, the perfect and kind son. My father would have loathed his weakness. Or perhaps that was reserved for me.

---

There are voices in my head tempting me into reading every last word in my mother’s memories. It is torture, pure and simple, yet I cannot stop read and reread every passage with my name.

I take from my mother the habit of not writing down my thoughts often, a single journal spanning years and years. Only notable events in her life were graced of her consideration and penned down so to remember; but all were gloom. If my birth was a happy moment, the following days filled my mother with grim foreboding and fear of the evil she could see in my eyes. As an infant, not yet able to talk or move.

I never knew pain could feel quite like this; numb, cold. Patrina asked to have the journal and dispose of it, citing how my compulsion to read it was only harming me. In a moment of clarity, I did give it to her and yet I cannot forget the words.

---

There are voids in my memory lately. Patrina attests to it. There are times where she seems to speak with the same words my mother reserved to me in her memories, but when I question it she observes me with sorrow in her eyes and she tells me I told her those exact words.

She is right. With how restless I feel, I am lucky I have a patient woman to my side. Her caring nature is only enhanced by her willingness to wait for the right moment for marriage, never pushing or asking when I intend to ask. 

Perhaps it should be soon.

---

The winter goes, once again. It is spring and I detest how the cheerful air cannot help my humor. My heart feels heavy, my soul is spent. Alek speaks to the nobles in my stead, Sergei is loved by the population.

It is easy for them to desire him in charge when all they know of him is charity and kindness. But a ruler cannot function like that, he has to be headstrong and know how to impose his will.

Perhaps Rahadin is right and I will return to reign properly. If everything in my past has been ruined by the selfishness of others, I can forge a new future. With a wife, and potentially children.

---

Patrina seemed elated by my desire to truly rule over my subjects and take my rightful role as the count of this land. Her support makes me believe my choice has been the right one, that she is truly a wonderful candidate as the countess of Barovia and my future spouse.

I have informed her of my intentions and soon we will announce our decision together. We hope this union will favor a peaceful relationship between humans and elves.

Perhaps as a gift for this proposal, Patrina shared an ancient secret of this land with me. She informed me she has been wanting to reveal it for a long time, but she was certain the moment came when I asked to be linked in matrimony.

Apparently, a venerable temple was built in the southern mountains of this valley. Hidden by the snow and the harsh road, this temple is a cove of secret knowledge gathered by powerful wizards to share with the world. Due to their death, the temple has fallen into anonymity before Patrina found it.

We traveled to it. It is an impressive structure and it is a wonder it has been unknown for so long, but what really made my heart sink was approaching it and the voices that tormented me for months fusing into a single, clear voice: my own, repeating the same upsetting ideas into my ears. The only difference is that now I could remember them, and I felt like I always had them in my head.

Could it be an effect of the obvious magic hosted by the temple? When I asked Patrina if she felt different arriving there, she denied and she wondered if I felt anything odd. I denied too, worried it may alarm her. She did not elaborate on it and I was grateful.

---

Everyone just thinks they can take everything from me. It is a cruel joke of the universe that I shall suffer for the errors and selfishness of those around me. Rahadin was right, the dusk elves are nothing but a mass of pathetic liars and wretched lowlives.

I do not know how they could claim their action was self-righteous when they have the blood of their own kin on their hands, for nothing but petty offenses. Patrina was killed by them in a cruel and dishonorable display of pure narrow-mindedness.

I could not let them claim victory for this battle, and I instructed Rahadin to do as he wished to them. I know that any ounce of rage I may feel cannot compare to the hatred he has felt for years. So, may he find peace now that the deed is done.

---

Barovians care not for actual leadership, they only crave the indulgence of those who can give without taking. A demanding herd following the words of subversives, but if they do think I take pleasure in the thankless task of guiding them they are sorely mistaken.

Let the barons lead. If they so wish, the masses can resolve their own issues and manage their own treasure. I will not invest money of my own in communities who will not be gracious enough to give back and respect authority.

Sergei is not in agreement with my methods. If he wishes to use his newfound inheritance for the people, I am no one to impose my will on this finances. I can offer advice, but not issue orders to him. 

However, he needs to remember he is a man of the cloth, and not a statesman. My parents gave up that title for him when they forced it on me.

---

Sergei had a surprise for me today. He invited me to Vallaki, to the central plaza. I should have told him I was unavailable for his frivolous games, but perhaps I was filled with fear to prevent myself from experiencing the beautiful autumn this valley can offer. It is the last occasion before winter will arrive and freeze every place, person and sentiment.

Therefore, I waited for him in the plaza. I have avoided relationships with the population for so long that many have no idea of my face, but those who remember who their ruler is would regard me with contempt. Those same people who would celebrate my birthday and my arrival like sheep, now are unable to form thoughts of their own about my person.

In spite of the faults of this crowd, there was someone who shone bright in the shadows. A woman reached my side and spoke with such candid modesty. She has a rare beauty to her as she carried the colors of autumn as she went, and I can only imagine she will harvest the spring when it will come.

Her manners were typical of the common folk, yet devoid of the flattery of nobles. She spoke to me with honesty and humanity. It was a vision, until I saw my brother join our conversation without being noticed by me, such was my attention grabbed by this woman.

Then, she was introduced to me. Tatyana is her name, soon attached to von Zarovich. The same breath who gave me her name, ripped her from my hands. This was Sergei’s surprise; his paramour.

Her ‘brother’, that is what she referred me as. 

Once again I had to see someone taken from me. I do understand my brother is a suitor many would want to marry, but I could see genuine affection between the two of them. Sergei has been fortunate enough to find someone to love him earnestly, while I was once again robbed of this possibility by the cruel path forced upon me.

That is what separates me from him. I have been death’s companion for long, and people cannot stand the sight of a man who wasted his youth. Even if it was for them. Sergei never had to.

That is why Tatyana can look in his eyes and find love, while looking into mine and find pity.

---

I knew winter would bring nothing but sorrow, but now even spring betrays me. Sergei has informed me of his and Tatyana’s intentions to marry this summer. My soul aches with the same intensity of old wounds, and my heart cannot choose the emotion on which to settle.

I had months to forget and forsake these feelings, for I know I could not forgive a brother loving my wife. All the same, her carefree and youthful personality brings light into this valley and she stands so close, her presence lingers in this castle long after she leaves.

When I see her, my heart falls out of my chest and into my hands. I taste mortality again with every day I see them savor their youth without the worry of age. And even then, when they do reach my age, they will have been blessed by a secure and untroubled life.

Worse than anything, those voices continue to push and probe at my morality. I have already done unimaginable things, and endorsed those of other people, they tell me, what is stopping me from another sacrifice. I want to convince myself that these voices are separate from me, but such a thing is ridiculous.

To think I would find myself battling my own voice and my own ideas, struggling to even sleep lest I fall victim of spirals of terror.

These afflictions force me out of the castle, seeking knowledge. I visit those abandoned halls guarded by the cold everlasting winter of the mountains. The temple holds immense wisdom dating back centuries and I find comfort in the eventuality of an answer.

But last time there was something calling to me, in the depths of the temple. In its belly, something was calling to me and promising me eternal life for a price. No matter how much I bargained, I would receive no answer about my part of the deal.

Exethanter would not answer either. He simply found the situation hilarious.

Now, in the dead of the night, I continue to rethink those words. If noting down my thoughts has helped me in these years, the last months have been filled indeleble words fogging my mind.

I can think about nothing else unless I am besides Tatyana. 

She gives me peace, and she may be taken from me.

---

Rereading everything in this tome reminds me of the frantic line of thoughts that kept my head full, and still now there is the shadow lurking in the back of my mind waiting for those moments of calm to strike and plant discord.

I wonder how much time has passed. The ink on the last page is dry, consumed, and I now live with the memories. For now I am the Ancient. I am the Land. I forged a path of blood with that one entity calling to me in the temple.

I touched its tomb of amber and I knew instantly the price. To sacrifice someone I love, and my mind wandered immediately to my brother. On the day of his wedding, I fulfilled my end and drank his blood.

I felt as if I was filled with rapture and reached the balcony, where the ceremony would take place if the groom was alive. Among the nobles, the clergy, the guards, in front of Tatyana, I appeared beastly and sanguinary.

She fled from me. Only rage fueled me, as I strived to make her understand the lengths I would go through to prove my love. Yet, she ran from me and reached the edge of the balcony, stealing one of the swords from the guards too petrified to react, and she threatened to jump.

No amount of persuasion could convince her to step down and let me explain. When I approached, she would get closer to the edge, and her heels ended up balancing on the fine line separating her from the void.

She would not stop yelling at me and I could not help myself from grabbing onto her dress, hoping she would just come to reason. She did not, she swung the sword and the blad sunk into my chest. However, I did not die. I did not live either.

I exist in the limbo between, I belong to the beasts I hunted for years. I am undead, and Tatyana was the one who sealed my pact with my own blood. It tainted the pearly white of her skirt as it splattered all over. 

She looked at me with horror as my transformation came to an end; now people describe me with red eyes I cannot see, with fangs and deadly skin. She would rather jump to her death than accept my promise.

I searched every inch of the land under the cliff personally, and the limits of my domain will not set anyone free. Her body disappeared, as if swallowed by the mist haunting the valley now. Not even I know what was of her body.

I lived long with the torment of having lost the light of my life, while still having to pay the price of the deal. Barovia now shows its rotten nature and it was supposed to be my eternal hell.

However, I found her again. Under another name, but her appearance and her behavior cannot be mistaken for anyone else. I truly believed I could hold her at last, and exorcize the voices and the curse lingering around me once and for all.

Once again, though, the world was complicit in tearing her from me. And again. And again. She is taunting me. The land itself is taunting me. I shall find a solution. Perhaps the temple holds the answer, perhaps I can fabricate my own answer.

Perhaps I should simply pursue Tatyana until she understands and we shall find peace together. She took my mortality and plunged into the earth with it. If she took it from me, she can give it back.

[keicordelle]

Not a Champion, Just a Knight, Ch. 4 (Causes and Costs)

Fandom: FFXIV Rating: M Pairing: Past F WoL/Haurchefant Greystone Word Count: 4.4k Archive Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Haurchefant Greystone Lives, Angst, Tragedy, Dark, Grief/Mourning, Body Horror, POV First Person

Summary: You have ever been my hero. Now, you must be the world’s. I pass my mantle to you.

Atop the Vault after racing to save Aymeric, Ser Zephirin hurls his Spear of Fury and Haurchefant is not fast enough to save the Warrior of Light. As she lies dying in his arms, she makes one final request of him: that he take up her title and become Eorzea’s new hero. Overcome with grief, he vows to avenge her death, and sets his sights and his rage on Thordan and his knights twelve. Even so, he is not the vaunted Warrior of Light, and he cannot face these challenges alone.

-

We all knew the peace wasn't going to last. Nidhogg was coming, and even the heartfelt hails I received from people on the streets weren't enough to raise my spirits. But I smiled to each and every person who called to me, offering them a reassuring wave and stopping to talk to them when I had the time. Just like the old days, when I’d just been a knight. Back before... before. Somehow, it didn't feel the same.

Was this how she had felt, as she'd navigated the thorny path of an unsuspecting hero? She had not asked for the title any more than I had, had she? I'd always thought it suited her, that a hero was exactly what she'd always been meant to be, but... Perhaps people looked at me and saw the same thing. Surely, though, surely this duty had not weighed so heavily on her. She would not have bequeathed it to me if she had known... right?

No, no, what was I thinking? Of course she wouldn't have. She had been blessed by Hydaelyn herself, brilliant and talented and destined to be the champion of the people. I was just a knight, just... me.

I drew in a deep breath, the chill air searing through my lungs as I shook off the rising hopelessness and despair, affixing my signature smile upon my face. The dark flame buried in my soul receded as well, I realized with a start. I hadn't even noticed it swell until it backed down, content to simmer in the depths of my being. My smile soured, brow furrowing as I rubbed at the center of my chest, where the darkness seemed to lay. Even the slightest provocation or shift in my mood seemed to spur it to life these days, and I was certainly not short on woes of late. Each whisper of that flame was both blessing and curse: one more chance to hear her voice, and one step closer to losing myself. I had to find some way to control it, and fast. If our chances of defeating Nidhogg were slim even with that mysterious power at my back, they were infinitesimal without it.

-

Read the rest on Ao3!

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[maglors-anion-gap]

9,10 and 13 for the weird writing ask :3

[from this ask game]

I'm late getting to these! when I ask for asks, never trust that I'll respond promptly (send them anyway, though, I like attention)

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know.

kinda, maybe? There's been some times where my mom was sure she was visited by something.

She was downhill ski-race training at night once when she was younger than me, and she tripped on something and fell. Her dad came running up the hill because her light went out. She was a junior olympic racer, the snow was fresh powder, and the place she fell was clear of debris - but if she hadn't fallen, she would've slammed face first into a tree at 70 mph and died. The light on the course was out; she would never have even seen it. Falling saved her life, and she fell over nothing, over thin air.

She's also been visited by her grandmother twice. On the worst night of her life, she said she felt her grandmother, who had been dead for twenty-some years, sit down next to her and this feeling of peace came over her. Almost a decade later, I was out in the forest with her, somewhere her grandmother would have liked to be. I was doing something with our gear, and I turned around and she was kind of crying. And she pointed down the path and said "I just saw my grandmother. She stopped by again to say goodbye, because I don't need her any more." And I genuinely can't remember if I saw a person on the path or if I'm imagining what my mother saw.

On a more pragmatic note, I think people feel strongly about ghosts for one of two reasons: sometimes you get a gut feeling that something's wrong, and that's usually worth listening to; and respecting the dead/the passage of time and life is part of the grieving process and being able to let go of people who have passed in a healthy way. I think science affirms, not discredits, the need for a mourning period; people might dismiss them as a thing of the past, and the economically minded certainly begrudge bereavement time, but what's profitable isn't synonymous with what's kind or what's right. You need some time and some space to get right with your love and your sadness. So traditions around mourning and paying your respects to your ancestors are very interesting to me!

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

Haunting is like, when I can't stop thinking about something, and I keep turning it over in my head. This can be a good, bad, or neutral thing, depending on if I enjoy thinking about it, or if it torments me. I don't think I've ever been tormented by my own writing (except perhaps in embarrassment); I don't think I've ever managed to write anything that soulful (though I've certainly tried). Right now I'm being haunted by that Tom Stoppard quote, let me find it:

“What do I want? Nothing which you'd call indecent, though I don't see what's wrong with it myself. You want to be brothers-in-arms, to have him to yourself... to be shipwrecked together, (to) perform valiant deeds to earn his admiration, to save him from certain death, to die for him - to die in his arms, like a Spartan, kissed once on the lips... or just run his errands in the meanwhile. You want him to know what cannot be spoken, and to make the perfect reply, in the same language.”

I am being haunted by this because 1) this is what it's like to be a gay man, 2) this is what it's like to be a trans man, 3) this is what it's like to love a man. And I am in a really weird place where I love my partner, I covet what he is, and as supportive as he is, I also get the sense that 0% of this makes sense to him. It's all impossible to talk about, I want him to understand it intuitively, and to know what to do. Instead he asks me if I might grow my hair out again.

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

I am having a weird-hard time writing about women who want to be women. In the sense that: I would be cool with being a woman if being a woman meant nothing and I existed in a void without anyone else around me. Introduce one person to the void and I have to get as far away from being a woman as possible, because their idea of being a woman is always different from mine. Had a big row over my hair - I actually like having long hair, but not when people tell me I ought to. So because I'm having a weird-bad time with being an (ex)woman, it's hard to think or to write about why that's actually enjoyable for many people.

It was never hard before, and once I get this worked out it will be good and easy again and I will write about lots of women. Unfortunately right now all of my women start drifting into manhood.

Otoh: it's very easy for me to write about sex.

my newest fic is about 1) women and 2) sex and that's why it's taking so long to finish. The sex is done, the women are not. Apologies to the intended recipient :'(

[ianthedisastrous]

Character Name: Iandore Lightfoot Title/occupation: Viscount Magick Status: Elven Sorcerer (Out) Biography: (tw: death, mourning)

Iandore had taken to writing letters, although many he never sent.

One to his mother, at the end of his previous Season. A declaration of certainty, chance, risk in the match he had found. A swell of joy scrawled in ink that remained tucked into his journal, knowing the disappointment it brought, knowing he had broken her heart for the sake of following his own.

'I am endlessly sorry, but my heart simply will not allow anything less. Lady Rabbit has been an excellent mentor, do not think poorly of her for the choices I make. This is the chance I must take, even if it leads me so very far from home. I did not know love could be such an unruly creature, nor could I.

I wish you could be here, I never imagined a wedding all on my own, all over a title that was not nearly enough. The day was lovely, but something was missing. Someone was missing.

Forgive me for how selfish I am.'

Another, six short, devastating months later, in anger and grief, with his eyes drawn to the rainy afternoons and the empty gates of the estate attached to a name he shared with a husband who did not return because of something as foolish as a dispute over their lands. Lost, in that way that cannot be reached; resting in the quiet earth.

It joined the first, because he could not stand the thought of letting it go when he had let go of far too much already.

'I will never know why the world gave me you, but for no longer than a moment. As if any life there was to make could only be so few breaths. I should have saved them, spent them with more care.

And now I cannot stomach the thought of spring. My chest may as well collapse, it is no more than an empty cage of ribs and splintered what might have been woven tight, suffocating me.

The thought of swaying trees and the blooming flowers that will continue on, gracing the gardens with their sweet scent and soft colors, as though they have any right to while you are not here to see them is one that leaves me in longing for winter.

This place is becoming my grave as well, day by day.'

When he finally heard from home again there was yet another letter, left boldly upon his desk to greet his kin from the States if they ever bothered to come seeking him in the empty halls, demanding he return to the Season, that the family name remained tarnished with his choices to marry the wrong match in Viscount Riku.

'I leave this haunted place to the lot of you, and I hope it serves you well because I will not any longer. My late husband does not linger here and neither will I another day. If he has found peace I must seek my own alone, as this world will allow me nothing else.

I take my name back, what remains of my sparse means after these months with the estate in decline, and the rest is for your hungry hands to claim as you wish. It will not please you, but my will to see the beauty here has crumbled as the stones have begun to.

Do not call on me, I know you would never welcome me, I find no comfort in wishing otherwise anymore, and my home here has withered away around me. Whatever lies ahead, you are welcome to these ghosts.

I do not know what life I must live now, but I am tired of dying each day.'

Iandore returned to travel, to quiet evenings alone and the road as far as his dwindling funds could take him knowing he had nothing left to fall back on. His words kept him company, a peace in them, a smaller joy, to fill the emptiness where his heart lay tangled in memory.

But now, nearly two years behind him and a heart tired but somber, he has come to the ends of his means, found himself in London once again during that unlucky time, the Season in full swing.

He has no energy for it, these silly games of airs and importance, and certainly is unsuited for them with empty pockets and no prospects. Uncertain of a future he was never taught to survive without comforts he took for granted, Ian persists if only because he has memories to still carry, but fortune may not have abandoned him just yet.

[nomdepen]

“It is very noble of one to commit to their sworn duties.” Penelope couldn’t help but imagine herself in Sarah’s shoes. If there was a draft and her beloved was called into action, would she be able to sit by idly? If death on the battlefield was as common as flowers were in the country, would she truly be willing to make peace with her fiancée’s choice? No, she decided. After all, self preservation and heartache often went hand in hand. "But I can’t say I would not wish for my husband to return home as well. After all, what good is a home with an empty hearth?”

Hearing him relay his tales of love and subsequent loss, Pen couldn’t help but imagine him as the tragic hero in one of her novels. A dutybound soldier and a young lady. A love torn apart by honor—something no man in her own family ever seemed to possess. But, unlike the tales in her books, it didn't appear as though Benjamin had received his happily ever after and it made her worry. If a gentle and kind man such as he could not secure a happy ending, what hope did she have?

“I cannot fault her for saving herself from widowhood. I’ve seen the way it affects women, in different ways.” Her own mother had gone through a kind of metamorphosis after Archibald Featherington had died. It wasn’t the usual outcome that most of society expected of mourning wives, but it had brought about a change in Portia nonetheless. And, in the case of Violet Bridgerton, Penelope had never seen a woman so altered by grief. Her skin had been so sallow and pale and, even in Pen's exaggerated memories, the woman looked like a revenant herself. As selfish as it may have seemed to Penelope, she couldn’t deny that she might be tempted to do the same. “But I do believe that true love is worth waiting for. You are kind. And smart. And, if I'm allowed to be frank, rather pleasing to the eye." Clearing her throat, Penelope continued. "I have no doubts that if you were allowed to enter London society like some of the other gentlemen, you would have no trouble finding a match. In any case, I hope that both of us are lucky enough to find our own happy endings.”

“You find women frightening, Mister Tallmadge?” She paused, turning to face him. Pen narrowed her eyes, playfully daring him to recant his statement. There were certainly a fair share of women in the ton who struck fear into the hearts of the coldest of men, but she couldn't imagine any lady being more terrifying than war.

“I confess I’ve always wanted a family of my own. Children, a husband, perhaps even a dog. Someone to grow old with. If I had the same freedoms a man had, I might take to the road and explore the world, but, in truth, I don’t think a nomadic lifestyle is for me. I’ve often thought about what it’d be like to travel the world as Colin does and visit all the far off places I’ve read about, but," She mused, but her smile faltered as her train of thought continued. "Traveling seems awfully lonely. My imagination has always seemed much safer."

She’d been called a hopeless romantic enough times in her life to know how he must be seeing her. A pitiful young lady holding on to a worthless fantasy. A love match was rare, unless you were a Bridgerton, it seemed. Penelope knew her time for finding true love was coming to an end. Like Cinderella, at the end of the season, she risked turning back into a pumpkin. Before long she’d be desperate enough to marry any suitor who offered the slightest interest. Or, worse, her Mama would find someone she deemed worthy. “In truth, I am not opposed to marriage. I find the idea of being a wife quite endearing, but to marry for any other reason than love, to me, seems unbearable. Hence my estrangement from other ladies my age. However, if there is ever a lady you have your eyes on, I could be of use. Being a wallflower has it perks when it comes to secrets."

"Well..." Benjamin faltered, his tongue sticking unpleasantly to the roof of his mouth. "She was completely in the right, I'd say. After my brother was killed in action, she begged me to come home... And I told her no. Because I felt I had a duty, a responsibility to finish what Samuel could not."

Wincing, his cheeks grew hot within the pale moonlight. "I suppose in retrospect, it was selfish of me... I, myself, was grieving so deeply that I couldn't see her own pain." The hollow of his cheek twitched. "So no, I cannot fault her at all. I have a bad tendency to run from what wounds the heart -- what hurts -- and serving in the war kept my mind preoccupied."

Penelope latched onto his comment about being akin to "old, dried grass," and a ghost of a smile returned to his face, soft and warm. The deflection was appreciated.

"Oh, absolutely," he played along. "It can be used as fodder in the hearth, from what I understand. That must make me quite valuable."

Penelope's admission was passionate and heartfelt, and although he often shared in her romanticism, Benjamin envied the hope she still seemed to possess.

"I think she let me go because of that love," he softly said. "Sometimes, regardless of our intense feelings, we need to cut the proverbial strings to protect ourselves. Sarah did not wish to be a widow. I did not wish to be a coward. Our goals were no longer a united front, so I can never begrudge her for choosing a man that could remain at her side."

Penelope's fervor was far from extinguished. He listened as she spoke of feeling suffocated, impotent, and Benjamin's smile grew flat as he offered, "I'm afraid that in the colonies, it's very much the same. Ladies are demure, kind, and soft-spoken, and I've often wondered if beneath all the pageantry, any single word that they breathe is true."

She apologized and he waved a hand, unruffled. "We're all human, are we not? Each created equal before God, and yet...we are so very, very different. A part of me finds the fairer sex far more terrifying than anything I ever faced in battle." His smile returned then, lopsided and sheepish. "I don't know how I managed to become engaged. When I first met Sarah, I was so bloody nervous that I spilled ale all over her bodice and skirts. And if that wasn't bad enough, I then slipped in said ale while trying desperately to dab at her gown with my handkerchief." He grinned at the memory, his eyes distant and fond. "But all she did was laugh... And somehow, I knew then that she would always hold a piece of my heart."

Self-conscious, Benjamin cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "But enough about me. If you will humor me a moment, I would very much like to know: if granted the freedoms of a man, what is it you would do with yourself, Miss Featherington?"

[separatist-apologist]

Lucien Vanserra + The Villain Theory & Why the Mating Bond Is Not Fake

I've been thinking about this for a while and I've decided I want to debunk this because of all the *insert character that is definitely not the villain becoming a secret villain*, Lucien is most definitely not it.

The theory, according to tiktok, is that Lucien is a secret schemer who has tricked everyone, including Elain, into believing they are mates for undefined, suspicious reasons likely related to Koschei. I find this unlikely considering his "father" is ALSO scheming with Koschei and Lucien likely has some awareness of this considering how often Eris is suddenly hanging around.

This is so long. Everything is under the cut.

However, lets pretend he doesn't. There is consistent, contextual proof that Lucien a) could not make up a mating bond even if he wanted to and b) everyone would know if he had.

Starting in ACOTAR, Tamlin tells Feyre the story of Lucien. On page 160, Tamlin says:

"Lucien said he didn't care she wasn't one of the High Fae, that he was certain the mating bond would snap soon and that he was going to marry her and leave his father's court to his scheming brothers."

Followed up on page 161, Tamlin adds:

"...his father has never apologized and his brothers are too frightened of me to risk harming him. But he has never forgotten what they did to her...even if he pretends he has."

That's ACOTAR. I know SJM likes to change things on a whim, but foundationally, this is Lucien's character and across all five books, it never changes. Lucien is still haunted by Jesminda and the mating bond he lost. He firmly believes, if we believe Tamlin to be a reliable narrator (and we should, as Lucien backs Tamlin's opinion up in his private thoughts. It is also worth noting that if Lucien has a villain origin story, it begins right here, the moment his father beheads Jesminda. To assume he's the villain, we ought to believe that he's been scheming non-stop for at least 200 years (since he's like, 300ish?) and to what end? To kill Beron? He'd have been scheming far longer than Elain was alive.

Moving right along to ACOMAF, on page 619, Amren says:

"And the bond," Amren breathed, Cassian's blood shining on her hands as she slowed its dribbling.

Mor said, "She asked the king to break the bond. He obliged."

I thought I might be dying- thought my chest might actually be cleaved in two.

"Thats impossible," Amren said. "That sort of bond cannot be broken."

"The kind said he could do it."

"The king is a fool," Amren barked. "That sort of bond cannot be broken."

"No, it can't," I said.

This is from Rhys' perspective. A mating bond can't be broken with magic- it's forever. Even rejected or in death (we'll get there), the mating bond is for life. Assuming Lucien's mate was Jesminda, even if it hadn't snapped in death, she would STILL be his mate and death would not have changed that. Neither would any magic Lucien, a spell-cleaver, might possess.

Let's also consider Elain, who has no reason to lie and every reason to call Lucien out regarding the bond. In ACOMAF, page 608, we see this:

"...Elain was staring over Nesta's shoulder. At Lucien-whose face she had finally taken in. Dark brown eyes met one of russet and one of metal. Nesta was still weeping, still raging, still inspecting Elain-

Lucien's hands slackened at his sides. His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, "You're my mate."

It's Elain who sees him first, who feels the mating bond mere seconds before Lucien. Why choose Elain, if you're going to pick a fake mate for your scheme? The argument is generally that she has the least amount of knowledge about Faeries and no interest in that education but how would Lucien know that? Feyre told Lucien nothing about her sisters (she told Ianthe instead), which means he would have had to guess. Given that Elain fights being put in the Cauldron, there's nothing contextually in that moment that suggests that Lucien somehow knew she was the easier sister to fool.

It's also worth noting that Lucien, up until that moment, still genuinely believes Jesminda was his mate. If he's the villain, having a fake mate makes no sense to the story or his plans.

Feyre has been inside Lucien's mind twice. Once in ACOMAF (pg. 95):

"Thoughts slammed into me, images and memories, a pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever, and sad, so endlessly sad and guilt-ridden, hopeless-"

And again in ACOWAR when Lucien meets Elain for the first time. On page 249, we get the best description of what Lucien is feeling regarding the mating bond, all through Feyre's perspective:

"Too thin. She must not be eating at all. How can she even stand?

The thoughts flowed through his head, one after another. His heart was a raging, thunderous beat, and he didn't dare move from his position a mere five feet away. She hadn't yet turned toward him, but the ravages of her fasting were evident enough.

Touch her, smell her, taste her-

The instincts were running a river. he fisted his hands at his sides."

"But there she was. His mate. She was nothing like Jesminda."

"Elain had been...thrown at him."

"That circle of people who now claimed to be Feyre's new family...It was what, long ago, he'd once thought life at Tamlin's court would be. An ache like a blow to the chest went through him, but he crossed the rug."

"But he couldn't breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he'd ever seen. Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He'd said the same to Jesminda once. But even as shame washed through him, the words, the senses chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours."

"She looked away- towards the windows. 'I can hear your heart,' she said quietly. He wasn't sure how to respond, so he said nothing and drained his tea even as it burned his mouth.

'When I sleep,' she murmured, 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. 'Can you hear mine?'

He wasn't sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, 'No, lady. I cannot.'"

These are Lucien's thoughts from Feyre's perspective. He has no idea she's in his head, so why is he thinking all those things? Why feel guilt that he finds her beautiful or that he'd once said all the same things to Jesminda that he thinks about Elain? Why care about her well-being? We know mates are driven to protect and Lucien's very first thoughts about Elain are ones of concern. She's not eating, she's too thin, how can she possibly stand? Not, hahaah my evil planned worked and I totally have an in with the Night Court (which, why would he need considering Tamlin is currently allied with Hybern and Lucien could have taken full advantage of that?).

Additionally, assuming Lucien is faking the mating bond for some poorly defined, evil plot, why keep such distance? Why not force himself on her? That's the claim, right? That he's forcing her to be with him which is amusing because in ACOFAS, Lucien has some thoughts on page 162"

"'How is she?'

'Better. She makes no mention of her abilities. If they remain.'

'Good. But is she still...' A muscle flickered in his jaw. 'Does she still mourn him?'"

First question he asks. "How is she?" Followed by if she's still in love with her ex-fiance. And I can hear the screaming now, "HE ASKED BECAUSE HE WANTS TO OWN HER" but like, on page 165 of ACOFAS, we get:

"I can't stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes."

Truly a stupid plan to fake a mating bond with a person that is causing you to be eaten alive with guilt and longing. We know the second he's around her, Lucien's is overwhelmed with the mating instincts and feels guilt over Jesminda, which is why he spends little time around Elain. He also tells Feyre, on that same page, he doesn't want his life to be financed by Rhysand. Feyre practically begs Lucien to move back to Velaris, to work for her full time, to let her set him up somewhere nicer and Lucien declines it all. If his plan hinged on getting closer to the IC, to using Rhys' resources, why tell her no? Why not take her up on it? Why not make him part of her life in a much more tangible way?

And finally, the dreaded scent of the mating bond. Feyre doesn't risk talking to Rhys when she's in Spring for fear of alerting everyone to the scent of the bond. Azriel, too, cannot stand the smell of it to the point he stands in the doorway during solstice rather than come in.

Ladies, Gentleman, and Non-binary pals of the jury, examine the evidence. For Lucien to be a villain, he has to KNOW that Feyre is a daemati before she does and both leave his thoughts unguarded while constantly assuming she MIGHT be picking through them. He also has to be able to control large amounts of people at the same time via the smell of the bond and Elain being able to feel it. When he tugs, she responds.

It would require everyone around them to be incredibly dumb. Feyre and Rhys basically share a mind and while they don't necessarily trust Lucien (unfairly imo), I firmly believe one of them would have picked up on a fake bond or Lucien's scheming.

Lucien wanted Jesminda, not Elain. If he decided to punish the world around him for the consistent pain he was enduring, he doesn't need Elain to achieve this. He's friends with Feyre. He has contacts all over Prythian. He didn't need to fake a mating bond, nor does it make any sense to do so. What they have is REAL.

And lastly, the bond can't be broken. Rejected, yes, broken no. Regardless if you think they'll keep it or not, they ARE mates and Lucien is NOT the villain who will be heroically slaughtered. They're awkward, they're uncomfortable, they have shit to work out but they ARE mates, and Lucien has proven over and over that all he wants is a home and goddamn peace and quiet.

[poppystain]

SENTENCE  STARTERS :  THE  INVISIBLE  LIFE  OF  ADDIE  LARUE  BY  V.E.  SCHWAB 

PART I: THE GODS THAT ANSWER AFTER DARK

❛ don’t you remember when you were nothing but shadow and smoke? ❜

❛ darling, i was the night itself. ❜

❛ some days you’re stuck with what you’ve got. ❜

❛ heaven is a nice spot in the shade, a broad tree over my bones. ❜

❛ spells are for witches, and witches are too often burned. ❜

❛ never pray to the gods that answer after dark. ❜

❛ i am always with you. ❜

❛ am i the devil? or the dark? am i a monster? or a god? ❜

❛ i do not want to belong to someone else. ❜

❛ i want more time. ❜

❛ are you a stranger or a spirit? ❜

❛ you wanted to be free. ❜

❛ it is a lonely thing to be forgotten. to remember when no one else does. ❜

❛ how do you walk to the end of the world? ❜

❛ come live with me and be my love. ❜

❛ you do not know what love is. ❜

❛ if you sold your soul for one thing, what would it be? ❜

PART II: THE DARKEST PART OF THE NIGHT

❛ you are entirely hopeless. ❜

❛ this, is a story of gods. ❜

❛ drink with me. ❜

❛ if a person cannot leave a mark, do they even exist? ❜

❛ with time, you can get used to anything. ❜

❛ you can have my life when i am done with it. you can have my soul when i don’t want it anymore. ❜

❛ you will give in, soon enough. ❜

❛ water me, and watch me bloom. ❜

❛ they say people are like snowflakes, each one unique, but i think they’re more like skies. some are cloudy, some are stormy, some are clear, but no two are ever quite the same. ❜

❛ i am not yours. ❜

❛ am i the devil, or the darkness? ❜

❛ stop pretending you did me a kindness instead of a cruelty. ❜

❛ you have grown teeth. ❜

PART III: THREE HUNDRED YEARS — AND THREE WORDS

❛ i was thinking, that it must be so easy to be a man. ❜

❛ there is something timeless about you. ❜

❛ i thought you were a new yorker. ❜

❛ do you ever feel like you’re running out of time? ❜

❛ it did not feel like courage, it felt as if i had no choice. ❜

❛ do you think a life has any value if one doesn’t leave some mark upon the world?❜

❛ i think there are many ways to matter. ❜

❛ i know your heart, dear. i feel when it falters. ❜

❛ i am the night itself. i see everything. ❜

❛ you thought i would wither without your attention. ❜

❛ would you rather feel nothing or everything? ❜

❛ i thought you had better things to do than plague me. ❜

❛ you’re being an ass. ❜

❛ he’s still in love with you. ❜

❛ but i can’t love him back. ❜

❛ without me you will always be alone. ❜

❛ are you still drunk? ❜

❛ don’t forget me. ❜

PART IV: THE MAN WHO STAYED DRY IN THE RAIN

❛ time moves so fucking fast. ❜

❛ you’re not enough. ❜

❛ we can’t help who we fall in love with. ❜

❛ pain can be beautiful. ❜

❛ i am the one who sees kindling and strokes the flame. ❜

❛ i can look at you and see you as you are. ❜

❛ you look like shit. ❜

❛ my little storm cloud, don’t let it get too dark in here. ❜

❛ come home with me. ❜

❛ god, it feels good to be wanted. ❜

❛ don’t get me wrong. you’re cute. but i’m still a lesbian. ❜

❛ the question is simple, what do you want for yourself? ❜

❛ you are impossible, a paradox, a collection at odds. ❜

❛ they look at you and see whatever they want… because they don’t see you at all. ❜

❛ what do you see in me? ❜

PART V: THE SHADOW WHO SMILED AND THE GIRL WHO SMILED BACK

❛ and you think me the devil, now? ❜

❛ say the word, and i will lay my soul bare before you. ❜

❛ you do have a way of finding trouble. ❜

❛ humans are so ill-equipped for peace. ❜

❛ are you not a god of chaos? ❜

❛ i am a god of promise. ❜

❛ do not mistake this kindness. ❜

❛ i simply want to be the one who breaks you. ❜

❛ i do what i have to, and it’s not always nice, and it’s not always fair, but it’s how i survive. ❜

❛ i can be wild. i can be stubborn as weeds, and you will not root me out. ❜

❛ we are not so different, are we? ❜

❛ i have seen your truest form. you cannot scare me now. ❜

❛ in the end, everyone wants to be remembered. ❜

❛ i am a muse and you are a thief. ❜

PART VI: DO NOT PRETEND THAT THIS IS LOVE

❛ i know i can be cruel but nature can be crueler. ❜

❛ you know how to summon gods. ❜

❛ who knew gods were so nostalgic? ❜

❛ you have not been human since the night we met. ❜

❛ i would rather be a ghost. ❜

❛ have you missed me? ❜

❛ immortality breeds a high tolerance for risk. ❜

❛ there are things worse than death. ❜

❛ i want you. i have always wanted you. ❜

❛ will you vanish with the sun? ❜

❛ how often did you think of me? ❜

❛ you are not capable of love. ❜

❛ love is hungry. love is selfish. ❜

❛ do not pretend that this is love. ❜

❛ dance with me. ❜

❛ stay with me, i’m here. ❜

❛ i am tired of losing. tired of mourning everything i try to love. ❜

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Even Stars Burn Out

As he enters the Jedi temple, reinvigorated by a new, unspeakable purpose - Anakin Skywalker feels nothing.

There are no thoughts in regards to the countless lives he is about to snuff out in his mind. There are no feelings of remorse or hesitation in his heart. He has already decided, he has already weighed the lives of his former fellow Jedi against Padmé’s. It was never a contest, there was never any question as to whose life mattered more. Anakin keeps his lightsaber in his hand, his loyal 501st battalion have his back. Order 66 is nigh, the termination of each and every Jedi the rule which he must obey.

Do the Jedi deserve such a grim fate? Anakin thinks being part of the order, a constitution that has molded and used him for years, is crueller.

Do they deserve to die? Anakin thinks death will bring relief, as the misled become one with the Force.

He strikes down the first meager padawan, and still he feels nothing. No guilt, no remorse. Only anger.

His rage burns red hot, his hatred thrumming like the rhythm of a drum within his chest. The pounding of his heart is the only beat he follows, as he strikes down another familiar face. And another. And another. Until the faces all blend into one, until blaster fire and the buzz of clashing plasma blades overpower his senses.

They fall. They all fall.

Anakin is powerful, he has always been powerful. Talented, the Force syphoned within his very cells so much more than that of his peers. He has less training, yet he outmatches each and every one of them. Master Cin Drallig proves to be some competition, but even he must fall at the swipe of Anakin’s blue saber.

Master Jurokk stands no chance.

Shaak Ti is caught meditating, unaware of the one time hero of the Republic coming to end her life. Anakin stabs her in the back, and she slumps limp to the side as her light burns out. Anakin keeps no count, he has no idea how many bright eyed young men and women he has struck down. They seem to him like spider-roaches; like an endless flood of vermin pouring from each and every entrance like spider-roaches from a damp crack in the wall. He deals with them with the same dissociation, with the same emotional dissonance. His master's words echo in his head; his praise and his promises. The Sith Lord will aid Anakin in his crusade to save Padmé, and Anakin is desperate.

The hall seems serene, a clean slate save for the heaps of fresh bodies stacked along the ornate stone floors. Their hollow eyes stare at Anakin, locked in horror and what he feels might be accusatory glares. They will judge him, and he accepts that fate. Their thoughts of him matter little.

Anakin closes his eyes, senses further life forms. Senses Force signatures that are unstable; some weak, some fluctuating. Some reeking of fear and confusion. Youthful. He knows what must be done.

Only now, does Anakin take a moment to weigh his options. Only now, for a brief second in which clarity finds him, does he stutter. The moment passes, almost as casually brushed aside as if the doubt was naught but thin air. He ascends the grand stairway, makes a well aimed leap to the second suspended level. The pale, tear stricken faces of the hidden younglings greet him as he enters the juvenile training hall. They have hidden behind the scarce furniture provided. Anakin senses their terror, and he tries to relish it. He takes a deep breath, steadies his trembling hands.

Do these children deserve to die? Anakin knows they will be hunted relentlessly by the clones, and by his master, should they be left alive. Him killing them is a blessing, it's a mercy that he will take such pity on them.

Sors Bandeam approaches, the blonde boy barely even a toddler. He speaks, but Anakin hears none of it. He shuts out the hushed whispers and murmurs, and acts. He thinks of Padmé, of the child she is carrying. He tries not to picture the face of his daughter or son in the place of the younglings' as he strikes them down. Padmé must live, nothing else matters. These younglings would have grown to develop the same traitorous, poisonous views as the Jedi council. They are merely the next generation. His master asked him to spare none, and Anakin obeys. He will always obey.

When it is done, he doesn’t linger. He doesn’t dwell upon his heinous crime. He exits the chamber, leaving the children as they lie. Helpless, hapless, innocent and forever suspended in time. They shall never age, they shall never reach adolescence. They have found peace.

When Anakin exits the smoldering Jedi temple, there are no survivors. Thick black smoke billows out of the giant construction, his trusty platoon of clone troopers left behind to guard the tattered remains of what was once Anakin’s home away from home.

Bodies litter the exterior stairway. Anakin steps over them with little reverence. He smells only the ashy, pungent stench of death and embers.

He thinks he can sense Padmé’s distress from afar. Something in him tells him to go to her; to reassure her, to feed her any lies necessary in order to soothe her pain and fear. She is distraught, as he comes to her. He is disheveled, still numb and empty and hollow inside. He thinks only of her, as he kisses her lips and strokes her cheek, and offers her what he hopes is an affectionate smile. She is unconvinced, fretful, and he cannot stop her wandering thoughts. He tries, he explains what little he can. He has further duties, his master expects him to follow through with his mission. He can’t stay, despite her pleas.

The flight to Mustafar is quiet, solemn, and stifling. Anakin blocks out his barrading thoughts, thinking only of Padmé’s beautiful but sad face. He thinks of her swollen belly, thinks of the baby kicking as he presses his palm to its curve. He does this for her, for their child. For them. Only them. Only her. He lands, resolute. The separatists must fall, like Count Dooku before them. The war must end, a new era is about to dawn.

The heat of the lava planet is pressing, sweat pouring down Anakin’s furrowed brow. His reception party is confused, and he smirks at them. He quips, voice dry with sarcasm as he adds two more lives to his conscience. He is focused, clear headed and determined. His strides are fast, and the Neimoidian viceroy Nute Gunray of the Trading Federation appears bemusingly shocked as Anakin interrupts the meeting. Whatever his master promised Gunray was a lie, and the viceroy realizes this. Anakin hates Gunray, he hates the Trading Federation, he hates everything they stand for. That unbridled hatred feeds his rage, and steers his saber.

If Anakin felt nothing killing his fellow Jedi, he feels even less slaughtering the ring leaders of the faction he has spent years of his life battling. War has changed him, desensitized him and he slices through their hideous bodies like butter. Like paper, they rip and tear and break. Gunray pleads for his life, and if Anakin were a cruller man he might have relished in it. Instead, he finishes the job.

An eerie silence once more overpowers him, as he reports to his master. The now Emperor Palpatine praises him, but the compliments ring hollow. They are meaningless, and Anakin knows this. He accepts this as par for the course. His master has never been honest, and deep down, Anakin has always known this.

Still, the solitude is claustrophobic. The walls seem to be closing in.

Anakin finds himself desperate to move anywhere at all. He paces the room, avoids making eye contact with the dead as they glower at him - mocking him, just as the fallen Jedi had. The balcony suspended sixty feet above the rivers of scalding lava below becomes his refuge. He fixes his eyes upon the mesmerizing molten rock; yellows, browns, reds and oranges capturing his attention. The river twists and warps into random shapes and patterns, and its roar seems to bring to mind cries of agony and misery.

Anakin shakes his head, the anger dissipating bit by bit. In its wake, there is pain. Clawing at his insides, clutching at his heart. Padmé must live, he thinks. Nothing else matters. But Anakin knows he can never go back. The moment he agreed to aid his master's vicious scheme, he was lost. The stricken faces of the younglings flash before his eyes; little Sors' big blue eyes full of admiration. Expecting to be saved, to be taken away and kept safe by one of the biggest heroes of the Republic. Instead, his frail body now lies cold and lonely lightyears away.

What might Padmé think, if she knew?

What might Padmé say, if he ever told her?

Anakin’s hands tremble, and he wraps his arms around himself to still their treachery. The Sith yellow of his eyes, a sickly hue that had overtaken them as he allowed darkness to engulf his being, fades. It is the last time it will ever fade.

Pale blue eyes regard the lava river, even as they are clouded with tears. Anakin thinks of his mother. He thinks of her kindness, her love, and her demise. He thinks of how heavy her withered body felt in his arms as he brought it home, thinks of how he failed her. He will not fail Padmé. He will not bury Padmé.

There is guilt now.

Guilt so raw, so blunt, so immense that it tears Anakin’s heart in two. He feels conflicted. He feels lost. He feels alone, and afraid, and disgusted. He feels hurt, and used, and enraged. He feels small, and helpless. He feels powerful, and untouchable. He weeps, and he allows himself to mourn the Jedi. He weeps for them, and for himself.

Cin Drallig.

Shaak Ti.

Jurokk.

Sors Beam.

Anakin will forget them, eventually. Their features will fade, as his memories disappear into oblivion. Only Padmé remains a beacon of hope, only Padmé can save him now. Anakin cries, and he sheds a piece of himself with each scalding tear. He cries, and he willfully suppresses the disappointed, horrified faces that comes to mind.

Mother.

Qui-Gon.

Yoda.

Windu.

Ahsoka.

Obi-Wan.

Padmé.

Anakin dries his tears, holds his head high. There is no use in weeping over what has been done. His future lies ahead, bright and open wide. He forces himself to believe in this mantra, forces himself to discard rationality and reason. What else can he do?

Then he loses everything.

He loses the battle. He loses his limbs. He loses his sight, his hearing, his voice, his soul. He loses Padmé.

And for what? What was his sacrifice all for?

Master was right, it is ironic. Anakin never betrayed the Jedi for Padmé. He did it for himself, and he loathes himself for it. Anakin is alone, locked in a prison of his own making. Anakin is but scraps of the man he used to be; a traitor, a coward and a monster. He suppresses himself, relying solely upon his hatred. There is an endless supply of that, now. He is despicable, and thus, there will forever be a steady stream of loathing to feed off of. He needs no one, he deserves no one.

Does Anakin deserve such a fate? Yes, his brain whispers. He deserves all of this, and more.

Does Anakin deserve to die? No, the same voice concludes. Death would be relief, a sweet blissful slumber to save him from his demons. He deserves no such relief, he must be punished and tormented.

Anakin killed Padmé, and this is his reward. He knows this. He accepts this. Anakin burns in his own flame, he has flown too close to the sun. He has snuffed it out by his own hand, and all he is left with is an endless night. All his fears have been realized. All his dreams have been crushed. He has done it himself.

Anakin feels nothing. He is a husk of a man, more cybernetics than living flesh. He has no autonomy left, he lives only to serve his master. He locks away his past, refuses to look at it, refuses to sifle through it. It brings only agony and suffering. He refuses to retread his steps, to reconsider his choices. If he did, the guilt would eat him alive. If he did, he would succumb to his own unbearable, irrefutable remorse.

Anakin Skywalker is consumed by regret. In his heart, he knows this.

Anakin Skywalker deserves no less.

***

You can probably tell I was very much inspired by Matthew Stover’s writing style in the RotS novelization, though much less poetic. I had fun however, and it was nice exploring a different style. Hope you enjoy it too! It’s an addition to The Mask of Death  series on Ao3, link below.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049894/navigate

[stiltonbasket]

for the qin su!wwx verse: i would love to the either the conversation where wangxian decide to have a biological kid, or the conversation where they find out they’re Having xiao-yu, whoops 😄😄😄

After Lan Xichen gives them the news, Wei Wuxian sits mutely on the sofa and tries to wrap his head around the three words that just left his would-be dabaizi’s lips. Next to him, Lan Zhan looks like a stunned fish, gaping at Zewu-jun like a trout out of water, and even Nie Mingjue blinks in astonishment before glancing back at his husband.

“Xichen, you’re absolutely sure he’s--?”

“We have five children,” Lan Xichen says in a strangled voice, sounding as if he would dearly like to scream. “Trust me, I can recognize the symptoms better than most. Wei-gongzi, do you remember when you last had your monthly courses?”

Wei Wuxian jerks back to life and shakes his head. “I’ve never had them,” he says faintly. “Qin Su never needed to keep track of her cycles, so she took thistle tea to stop them from happening, and I kept on drinking it after she summoned me. I thought--Zewu-jun, don’t women need their monthly courses to conceive? How could I have possibly...”

“It only stops the bleeding,” Lan Xichen corrects him. “That particular medicine is usually prescribed to young girls, not married women, lest a pregnancy go unnoticed for longer than normal. It’s not a contraceptive.”

Wei Wuxian fights the urge to claw at his robes and shriek. Of course he always knew that Qin Su had no need for contraceptive teas, since Jin Guangyao never came to her bed, but surely it was reasonable to think that preventing the monthly blood would also prevent a--

A baby, he thinks dumbly. Lan Zhan and I aren’t even married, since the year of mourning for Qin-guniang isn’t up yet, and I’m expecting a child in her body.

“You must go to the healers as soon as you can,” Lan Xichen urges, while Wei Wuxian has a miniature breakdown on the sofa before putting himself back together again. “There are certain foods that must be consumed while with child, and some things that you must not touch at all, like alcohol and raw meat. Young Master Wei, are you listening to me?”

“Hah,” he croaks. “Lan Zhan, I need--some fresh air, I--”

Hardly a split second later, Lan Zhan picks him up and whisks him out of the hanshi, carrying him down the hill towards the jingshi so he can catastrophize in peace and quiet. Or at least quiet, since Wei Wuxian supposes he won’t be getting any peace for the next twenty-odd years, now.

“Why do you think so?” Lan Zhan frowns, bringing a basin of cold water for his feet. “Wei Ying, talk to me. Are you well?”

Wei Wuxian tries to wrestle his tongue into something resembling coherent speech, and fails. Beside him, Lan Zhan’s cheeks go a chalky white, and he suddenly looks as if someone had slapped him across the face--and then Wei Wuxian hears him take a great gulp, as if to strengthen his will for the conversation ahead.

“If you do not want this child,” he whispers, “I know you are not--this is a difficult thing for women, let alone men in bodies unsuited for their souls. It cannot be too far along yet, since we--I mean, it can only be three months at the very latest, so perhaps--”

The very idea of it is enough to stop Wei Wuxian’s breath. “Are you mad, Lan Zhan?” he demands, in a near-shout. “How could you say such a thing? I would never--Lan Zhan, that’s your child! Our child! Say you’re sorry, right now!”

Lan Zhan frowns. “You want the baby?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I do!” Wei Wuxian cries, valiantly trying to blink back a tear as Lan Zhan takes his hand. “Haven’t you heard me talking about adopting more brothers and sisters for Sizhui? I’ve certainly been thinking about it ever since you told me he was still alive! How could you think I’d ever want to get rid of--do you not want our little one, Lan Zhan?”

“I loved this child the moment Xiongzhang told us of its existence,” Lan Zhan says, his voice breaking like a piece of sugar candy snapping in half. “But I had to tell you, Wei Ying, even if it killed me to do so. I can bear anything but the thought of you suffering, now.”

“Well, I’m not suffering,” Wei Ying chuckles wetly. “We’re going to have this little cabbage, and A-Yuan will have a didi or a meimei, and Lan-xiansheng will have another niece or nephew to try to shave his beard off. All right?”

(As it turns out, it is very much all right, and the look Lan Zhan gives him is full of such radiant happiness that Wei Wuxian falls head over heels in love, all over again.

Half of that love is for the new tiny person sleeping under his heart, and Wei Wuxian suddenly wants more than anything to hold his child in his arms.)

___

Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan to the Jinlintai, Lanling Jin

Peacock,

I know for a fact that Shijie didn’t choose Ling for A-Ling’s birth name, so you must be pretty good at picking names for babies. What would you name a child that was half of Yunmeng Jiang and half of Gusu Lan, and due around the middle of this fall?

  Your best brother-in-law,

     Wei Wuxian.

___

Jinlintai, Lanling Jin to Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan

Wei Wuxian, you utter menace--

  Please tell me this isn’t for your child. If it is, Jiang Wanyin will hunt me down and beat me to death with Zidian for failing in my duties as a chaperone, and then I’ll have been killed by both of A-Li’s brothers.

  Yours in great distress,

     Jin Zixuan.

___

Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan to the Jinlintai, Lanling Jin

Sect Leader Jin:

  My husband spent the whole morning crying after receiving your letter. Count yourself lucky that he did not let me read it, or I would have been making you a visit later today.

  Regards,

     Lan Wangji.

___

The Hanshi, Cloud Recesses, to the Jingshi, Cloud Recesses

(delivered by Young Master Nie Yunhai, minus the rice-paper envelope--which was probably eaten on the way, according to Lan Jueying. No one knows what happened to the enclosed sweet buns, and Lan Jingyi and company cannot be reached for further comment.)

A-Xian,

  Will you come up and have tea with me? The little ones miss their Xian-shushu, and all of us are worried for you.

  All my love,

     Xichen-ge.

___

“Lan Zhan?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to tell your brother that you haven’t let me out of bed for the past three days? He probably thinks I’m still crying over that letter from Jin Zixuan.”

“Mm, if he asks. But Wei Ying needs to rest and eat nourishing foods, and remain still until the dizziness passes, so Xiongzhang will understand. Go back to sleep, my love.”