#now i get to nap

[separatist-apologist]

Lying In Between The Memories

You could call it paradise but it looks just like hell to me

Summary: Following the blood rite, Gwyneth Berdara can't shake the memories of a life long-gone.

The shadowsinger can't seem to move on after five centuries of loving the same woman.

Together, they'll have to carve a new path forward.

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter

[ongoing TW for Sexual Assault]

Azriel couldn’t say what woke him. Something was wrong���Azriel could taste fear in the back of his throat. It was enough to sit him up in bed, one hand flung out for Gwyn. Her side of the bed was empty and cold, telling him she’d been gone long enough for her warmth to evaporate, too. The mating bond was still new to Azriel—and yet he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to ring like an alarm bell in his chest.

Dressing quickly, Azriel made his way into the living area to find it utterly wrecked. With a deep inhale, Azriel noted that Gwyn’s scent was stronger than the underlying vanilla one just beneath…and something spicy and hot lingered just at the door.

Eris. 

A growl rumbled in his throat even as he tried to reassure himself that she’d likely just walked off with the Autumn Court heir. That seemed like the kind of thing she’d do given how unconcerned for her own personal safety she was. Azriel swallowed, hand hovering over the handle of the door. In his mind, he saw that flame licking over her fingers.

Had Eris recognized something in her? Some magic that belonged to his family, some claim he thought he might have? Azriel swore, right then and there, that he’d kill Eris if he so much as shot Gwyn a dirty look, Rhys’s politics be damned. 

Just outside the door, Azriel found a scene far worse than anything he’d been imagining. Guards swarmed the body of the prince, still smoking and charred from whatever had touched him. It was Eris, he lied to himself. He knew it wasn’t. Standing there, the guards all turned to look at him and Azriel knew there would be no easy escape. 

Which was why he allowed them to “escort” him to the dungeons before helpfully disarming him. He wasn’t alone—in the cell that was opened for him, a familiar blonde was curled up on the floor, knees touching her chin. It was the Day Court scholar, rumbled and streaked with dirt, but otherwise unharmed.

“Where is Helion?” Azriel asked, not bothering to introduce himself.

“Gone, if he’s smart,” she replied in a sad voice. “They all are.”

They all are.

“The female I came with—”

“Gone,” the blonde informed him in that despondent voice. “Eris took her.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Azriel demanded, turning the full force of the spymaster onto the female before him.

“Because I saw him, you overgrown bat,” she snapped in response. “He shattered the wards in the palace—letting them think I did it—and raced off to Prythian before he could be blamed for what he did to the prince.”

“I��ll kill him,” Azriel swore, running a hand through his hair.

“You can get in line,” she replied, words dripping with fury. Azriel didn’t bother responding to that. Where the fuck were his shadows? He wasn’t used to such silence, to not knowing everything happening around him. Had they all left with his mate? And would he be mad if they had?

Maybe a little. 

Azriel wasted the morning pacing back and forth, planning his escape. He’d take the Day Court female with him, deposit her before Rhys, and then march himself into Autumn, consequences be damned. In his mind, the whole thing was a little glorious—not only did he avenge Mor by killing Eris, he killed Beron, too. Perhaps Lucien would be named the new High Lord which seemed acceptable enough, though still irksome. 

He hated to see the people he disliked get something good, after all. 

“They’re going to torture answers out of us,” the blonde whispered when the sounds of metal scraping against metal filled the otherwise gloomy darkness. “I’ve never been tortured before.”

Pity squeezed at him. “Whatever secrets matter to you, guard them—weave truth with lies and no matter what, don’t tell them anything to make the pain stop.”

“Why not?”

“Because the pain will only intensify,” he promised, thinking of his own methods. “If they’re going to kill us, nothing we say will convince them not to. Might as well take your secrets to your grave.”

That didn’t make her seem to feel any better. In truth, Azriel couldn’t focus on this female. Not when the door was wrenched open and the two were dragged out by guards wearing chain metal gloves. The female dug in her heels, kicking and thrashing which was, in Azriel’s opinion, a waste of time and energy. She’d wear herself out before the actual torturing even began.

Azriel was joined by all but one of his shadows just in time for his wrists to be shackled over his head.

Eris took Gwyn, they whispered frantically. Azriel needed to free himself to get to her—and in order to free himself, he needed to be alone. He met the blank, bored stares of the Fae males before him and he knew, without needing to ask, that he was going to be suspended like he was for hours. 

Grit your teeth, he told himself, remember you have had worse.

Nothing King Gunnar subjected him to could be worse than what he’d endured at the hands of his fathers. And if it was, it certainly wasn’t worse than what he’d been subjected to at the hands of Rhysand’s father. Azriel could withstand immortal levels of pain without cracking and as the door swung shut behind his torturers, Azriel opened a long forgotten door in his mind.

It was where he’d once hidden as a boy, shielding his mind from the pain of his body. He could get through anything so long as he had that little retreat, along with the reminder the pain was merely temporary. 

No questions were asked at the beginning. Azriel had been prepared for that. Better to merely hurt for pains sake and then, once the subject was desperate, begin asking casual questions. What Azriel hadn’t expected was the King himself to enter, drinking in the sight of his sweaty, bloody form. The only thing keeping Azriel on his feet was sheer will—the restraints holding his arms up were useless at that point.

Were he to slump, he’d break both his wrists and dislocate his shoulders. Azriels shadows, hidden in the dark, swarmed in that unseen space, whispering a warning only he could hear. 

Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, don’t trust him—

Azriel didn’t need to be told as much. 

“Your…friend…was she? Gwyneth? Killed my son.”

Azriel didn’t react at all, unwilling to betray Gwyn at all. If she had killed Kai—and he knew she hadn’t—Azriel assumed her reasoning made sense. And if her reasons had been nonsense, he still would have stared that ancient male down and dared him to do his worst.

Azriel would go to his grave before he betrayed his own mate.

“Tell me where she is, and I’ll release you to your lord.”

Azriel inclined his head to the side and then, as Gunnar approached, spat on his boots. Blood splattered against the crisp white of his trousers, filling Azriel with animal pleasure. Next time it would be Gunnar’s blood, and not Azriel’s, that decorated his clothes.

He merely needed a reprieve.

“Do you hear that?” Gunnar asked, ignoring the insult as the Day Court female’s screams echoed around them. “I don’t think she’ll hold up as well as you have. You can do this for days, can’t you?”

Again, Azriel refused to respond. 

“You know, I heard a rumor about your kind,” Gunnar continued, sidestepping Azriel. He reached for one of his wings before Azriel could stop him, slicing with a knife held in his hands. The pain was white hot like a branding iron was taken to his flesh and his mind. He couldn’t help but jerk away, causing the metal rings to clank loudly overhead.

“I guess what I heard was true,” Gunnar said, watching red blood streak down the onyx wings. “Would they grow back if I cut them off?”

Azriel’s heart splattered at his feet. No, they wouldn’t. If Gunnar ordered his men to cut Azriel’s wings at the root, he’d spend the rest of his life without them, wishing he did. The thought of being an Illyrian without wings—of the disgrace—made bile pool in his stomach. Before that moment, Azriel hadn’t been afraid, only angry.

But now he was scared. Losing his wings was worse than death. For the first time in his life, Azriel was tempted to beg—to plead. 

And still, he refused. 

“I’ll need a bigger knife,” Gunnar mused, looking at the rather pathetic blade in his hand. “Maybe yours?”

Nothing. Azriel didn’t care if Gunnar had truthteller, didn’t care if he decided to hack at Azriel’s wings. He focused himself with the reminder that if Rhys knew what was happening, he’d be coming. And the moment Rhys and Cassian and Feyre and Nesta descended on this place, they’d leave it in ruin. They would come.

They would come. 

Even for him. Even though he didn’t deserve it, even though he’d made a mess of everything. Azriel lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, willing his traitorous heart to slow. 

“You could avoid all this, of course,” Gunnar continued, ever reasonable even with Azriel’s blood splattered against his clothes. “Tell me where your female companion has gone.”

Azriel nodded his head, beckoning for the king to come closer. Gunnar did—the utter fool. Azriel couldn’t help his laugh when he smashed his face against Gunnar’s, forehead colliding with the kings very fragile, very breakable nose. Gunnar swore, stumbling back with one hand covering the injury as Azriel threw his head back in a hoarse laugh. 

He’d die before he told the Montessere royals anything about Gwyn. 

“You’ll regret that, brute,” Gunnar snarled, beckoning for the heavy door to be opened. Azriel let his laugh trail after the king like one of his shadows, silenced only when the heavy, iron door slammed shut behind him. Mercifully, Azriel was alone.

He counted in his head, forcing himself to go slow even when he wanted to race through the numbers and free himself. He wasn’t going to show his hand only to end up shackled all over again. When he emerged, it would be like death itself.

And Azriel’s retribution would be vicious in its intensity. 

No one came by the time he finished.

“Now,” he whispered to his shadows. They darted and swirled around him, slipping through the cracks of the locks holding him. He heard them whispering to each other before the locks clicked and he was freed, knees buckling beneath the full weight of his body. It was tempting to sink to the floor and regain himself and Azriel knew if he did, he might not get back up.

All he wanted was to sleep. His wing burned from the wound, still knitting itself together. He’d be able to fly on it, but it would be excruciating. Telling himself he’d suffered far worse, Azriel pushed his way into the dungeon to follow the sounds of pleadings and screams. Helion might have been content to leave this female behind, but Azriel was not. 

“Cover me,” he murmured, fading into the darkness as his shadows obscured his form. All Azriel would allow himself to focus on was escape, forcing him to push all thoughts of Gwyn aside. She would be fine, he told himself. He’d trained her well. And still, fear tried to grip his heart, icy cold and unyielding. She’d suffered enough and he’d sworn no more harm would come to her.

He’d failed her already. No wonder she couldn’t feel the bond between them. Maybe she recognized she deserved better than a male that couldn’t even keep her safe. Shaking his head, Azriel banished the thought. There would be time enough for her to break their mating bond but for now, she was stuck with him whether she liked him or not. All he needed to do was get out and find her—and bring her home.

But first, a little bloody revenge. Peering into the other holding cell, Azriel found the blonde hanging from the chains by her wrists, blood pooled around the white of her dress. She was merely whispering, “please stop,” over and over through raw, chapped lips. Even Azriel would have quit by then, satisfied she knew nothing of use. Now they cut at her simply for the sake of hurting her—a lazy brutality Azriel couldn’t abide by. 

He didn’t need his dagger to kill the three males inside. All Azriel needed was his own hands, darting from the shadows to rip open their throats in a violent display of fury. The Day Court female didn’t scream, lifting her head to watch with what he swore was approval. Perhaps this was revenge for her, too—though in truth, Azriel only thought of his own anger, his own retribution. 

“We need to go,” Azriel told her once three headless bodies lay broken at his feet. He didn’t dare look at the heads, uninterested in seeing the bloody pulp that remained. There was enough tissue splattered against the wall, besides. No one would be getting up anytime soon.

“Arina,” she whispered, crumpling into his arms once she’d been freed. Azriel merely hauled her up against his chest, undeterred by her weakness. He merely strode out, snatching up his dagger from a nearby table as he did. It was almost laughable how easy it was to get outside, slipping through a servants door in the wall straight into a courtyard. 

Of course, the sight of the pair of them sent everyone into a frenzy, but Azriel was as quick as he’d ever been. Groaning slightly, he kicked off the ground before anyone got within a hundred yards of him, airborne before they could scramble for arrows. He’d told himself he was prepared for the pain, for the strain his injured wing felt beneath their combined weights.

He needed only to get far enough away he could winnow. 

“You’re falling!” Arina cried, arms around his neck.

“Stop talking,” Azriel ordered, aware his voice sounded disoriented. With his vision blurred at the edges, Azriel took them higher into the clouds, blinking against the blinding sun overhead. Wind pushed them along, helped by the female he carried. He wanted to thank her for blowing it against his dripping face but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

They weren’t going to make it. 

Screwing up his face, Azriel thought of home. He thought of Rhys and Cassian drinking on the steps to the River House, laughing in a heap over some inappropriate joke. He saw Feyre holding Nyx who fisted at her hair, a smudge of blue paint on her cheek. Mor was there, grinning ear to ear while Amren scowled, telling Mor of all the ways he, Cass, and Rhys had been a disappointment in recent days.  He saw Nesta sitting just inside, one leg crossed while the other bounced, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

And he saw Gwyn, perched on the edge of Nesta’s chair, talking a million miles a minute to Emerie, who was seemingly the only person in the world who could understand every word spilling from her lips.

Home. Azriel thought about home. 

Take me home.

Shadow enveloped them both, sending them careening wildly before they collapsed against grass in a graceless heap. Blinking, Azriel recognized the hazy mountains half hidden in fog in the distance. And he recognized the female voice crying his name.

“Azriel,” Feyre cried, her soft hands touching his face. “Get Rhys—bring me the High Lord—!”

Her words blurred along with his vision and try as he might, Azriel couldn’t get any of the words out. He could feel her soft presence in his mind, could hear her speaking to him.

Show me what happened, Az, Feyre murmured lovingly, fingers still caressing his cheek.  Let me in.

Rhys would have merely shattered Azriel’s defenses but Feyre, ever cognizant of what it felt like to have no choice at all. She’d let him take his secrets to the grave if he wanted and would have advocated for Rhys to leave him be, as she’d done so many times before. Azriel let her in gratefully, rolling onto his back while Feyre pressed something wet to his lips.

It was blood. 

He tried to push her away but the High Lady ordered, “Drink,” and Azriel’s body complied before he could balk. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Azriel remembered her blood was the very same that ran through Thesan and Feyre was trying to heal him. He was too focused by her presence in his mind, flipping through the day's events frantically. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered just as she stumbled into Azriel’s memories with Gwyn. He snarled without meaning to, elicting a louder, angrier roar from the descending High Lord.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Feyre breathed as Rhys dropped to his knees beside them. “I should have—oh, but Az that’s so wonderful—I should have asked first, I didn’t know, didn’t think…”

“I want her back,” Azriel whispered, his consciousness fading. Forcing himself to look Feyre in the eye, Azriel said, “I want her back.”

It was the last thing he remembered.

GWYN:

“You don’t have to do this, Eris,” Gwyn said for what must have been the millionth time that day. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone anything.”

“Liar,” Eris replied smoothly, fingers grazing the small of her back as he pushed her forward. 

“You’ll regret this,” she warned, certain Azriel must be awake by then. Was he looking for her? Did he even care? 

Yes, she thought firmly. Even if he didn’t know what she was to him, Gwyn was certain her disappearance would matter to him. Even if his only fear centered around Nesta’s fury, Gwyn believed Azriel would come for her.

“You’re not the only one with loved ones on the line. The easier you make this, the faster we can  be done with the entire thing,” Eris warned, stopping her before two massive, wooden doors carved with an image of a terrifying dragon bellowing fire. The Vanserra crest? She couldn’t ask Eris, though she wouldn’t have even if she’d had the time. The only thing Gwyn wanted to ask Eris was where his heart—if he had one—was so she could rip it from his chest and shove it down his throat. 

Eris was bringing her to Beron Vanserra. Seated atop a massive, hollowed out oak tree, the High Lord of Autumn was a terrifying sight. The rest of his sons stood just beside him, stairstepped in height leading up to the dais their father was perched atop. The Lady of Autumn sat beside him in a smaller, less ostentatious throne and crowned in burnished leaves wrapped around her pretty, auburn hair.

She leaned forward when Gwyn was pushed in, russet eyes shining. Gwyn searched her features for a moment, looking for anything of Catrin only to be left wholly empty. Their mother had always said Catrin came from Spring—moody and turbulent—and Gwyn from Autumn—firey and brash. She could see herself in the Lady of Autumn which did nothing to temper the fear running rampant through her.

Beron Vanserra didn’t move when Gwyn arrived at the foot of the dais. She wasn’t so rebellious she couldn’t bow, a show of self-preservation rather than deference. Eris’ knee hit the wood floor beneath them, eyes averted while Gwyn remained on her feet.

Rhysand was her High Lord—there was no law that said she was required to reside where her ancestors had, and no law that forced her to acknowledge a foreign High Lord as her own. Beron must have wondered, too, because he barked out, “Kneel.” The punch of magic made her chest ache though Gwyn was able to withstand the onslaught and remain as she was. 

“Why am I here?” she asked, terrified to look up.

“My sister,” the Lady of Autumn breathed to the room of Vanserra’s, “had a son.”

Gwyn only sighed. 

“He died in the war,” the Lady continued, her voice rich with her regret. “They all did. I thought they’d all been lost and then Eris said…”

Gwyn dared to look up at her, wishing this could be a happier reunion. All she could think about was Azriel—did he think she’d left him? That the night they’d spent together meant nothing to her and she was merely bored? The fear she might hurt him clawed at her chest, making her desperate to return to him. Maybe once things were settled on the continent and with her mate, she could return to Autumn and sort the entire mess of her lineage out. 

“You’re certain she was Cyra’s?” Beron Vanserra asked his wife, his voice softening around the edges.

“I’m certain.”

“Then she stays,” Beron announced, not bothering to consult with Gwyn at all. A scream all but erupted in her throat, swallowed when Eris’s hand snaked beneath her dress to squeeze her ankle in warning. Shut up, he warned silently. Gwyn did as she was told, daring to look up at the High Lord. “At least until we can make a proper exchange for her. Give her comfortable accommodations and instruct her on how females conduct themselves within the walls of the Forest House.”

And that was that. Gwyn was swept out of the room by Eris, fingertips pressed into the small of her back. Neither of them spoke until they were back in the hall, and when Gwyn attempted to tell Eris where he could shove his hospitality, he said, “Watch your mouth.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” she replied, petulant and frustrated. 

“I know that look on your face,” Eris replied smoothly, running a hand through his perfect hair. “You should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you for what? Kidnapping me? Holding me captive while you try and hold your brother captive? Rhysand will never—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Eris hissed as they passed a group of silent courtiers, all staring at the pair. Fine, she thought, privately seething. Gwyn said nothing until Eris all but shoved her into a bed chamber she didn’t bother observing. All she saw was a glass door leading toward the woods and the escape route she’d take the moment Eris stopped talking. 

“You can’t say whatever you want here. People are listening,” he told her, fingers curled around her upper arm as he led her deeper into the room. “You can do nothing but sit here and wait. If you do what I know you’re thinking about, twelve dogs will rip you to pieces before you ever get close to another Court's borders. There won’t be enough pieces to burn.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Gwyn threatened, rounding on him.

“You can get the fuck in line,” Eris retorted hotly, cheeks flushed red with anger. “I’ll be dead before you ever get your turn. I saved you from the wrath of Montessere.”

“Why?”

Eris merely stared her down. “My reasons are my own. There is no where to go—”

“When Azriel finds out—”

“He can get in line, too. Right behind you,” Eris all but snarled, turning his head angrily. “I left things behind, too. People I—” he took a breath rather than betray himself. “All in due time.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t care,” Eris replied in that irritating way of his. “If you make me chase you down tonight, you’ll live to regret it—”

“No, Eris Vanserra, you will live to regret bringing me here,” she retorted, rising to her full height. It didn’t intimidate him in the slightest but Gwyn meant every word she said. She had never bowed before the whims of more powerful men, even if it meant endangering her own life. She wasn’t about to start now, either. Eris had taken it upon himself to get her out, but Gwyn needed to go back. She needed to get Azriel and she needed answers.

What had that creature been? There had been no time to truly think about it given how quickly everything happened and yet Gwyn knew she was close. It had been that damn Day Court scholars fault, really—if she hadn’t stolen Gwyn’s cipher, Gwyn would have gotten back into bed with Azriel and everything would be fine.

Maybe even Kai would be alive. 

“I already regret bringing you here,” Eris grumbled, turning his back on her. “Don’t try and leave, Gwyn. I swear to the Mother above, you will not make it out alive and I do not want problems with Night.”

Eris turned to leave, confident he’d gotten the last word. Gwyn wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Eris didn’t know to be afraid of her—yet. But she knew he was afraid.

“He’s my mate,” she whispered, delighted when Eris froze, his whole body going taut. “And when he finds you…”

Gwyn didn’t need to say. Eris merely glanced over his shoulder, strange look on his face. “Then he knows how I feel right now.” Eris still got the last word, cryptic as it was. Gwyn didn’t have it in her to care, either. Whatever inner turmoil he had wasn’t her problem. Maybe she would have cared had he come to her as a cousin interested in reconnecting rather than kidnapping her. Gwyn merely waited, deciding she’d do what Eris had warned her not to, and make a break for it.

Pacing, Gwyn waited for the sun to set. She ignored servants who slipped in and out, turning down her bed and fussing with her clothes and hair in an attempt to make her look nice. Gwyn was impatient with the whole affair—how did people like Eris stand it? She imagined this was the life Nesta had once been used to. Gwyn could picture imperious Nesta here, looking down her nose at everyone and making even the terrible Eris Vanserra shake in his expensive, polished boots.

No one had ever waited on her hand and foot—she’d always been responsible for herself. As nice as it would have been to be doted on, she didn’t think she could stand a lifetime of people bowing and scraping. 

The moment the moon replaced the sun, Gwyn yanked open the door that led outside. Cool air curled around her face, the smell of it all wrong. Perhaps her grandfather had lived here, and some memory of this place lingered in her blood. It wasn’t strong enough to make her want to stay, or to feel like home. She felt like an intruder, an outsider trapped among the rot. She was a shadow among the leaves, ancient among new death. 

And she wasn’t alone. Gwyn made it to the treeline with massive wings spread themselves out, blotting out the sliver of moonlight spilling among the grass.

Emerie grinned at her as Nesta appeared, sword casual over her shoulder. “Heard you needed a rescue.”

Gwyn’s relief was palpable. “You found me.”

“Did you doubt us?” Nesta asked, pulling Gwyn into a hug. 

“Never,” Gwyn said, blinking rapidly against the hard leather covering Nesta’s shoulder. “But I was starting to worry.”

“Well, cast your worries aside because the cavalry has arrived,” Emerie said, resting her chin atop Gwyn’s head. 

“Will you take me home?” Gwyn asked them.

Emerie and Nesta held out their hands and Gwyn took them like a lifeline.

“Let’s go.”

[hinamie]

shhhh

[verflares]

new link design goes crazy

[angelnet23]

falin from dungeon meshi doodle

[lightbulb-warning]

napscallions

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 187

Clockwork would openly admit that he couldn’t see Danny’s timelines. Not since the moment he stepped into that portal and became something more. A child of Infinity, of the very Realms itself. 

But he’ll also admit that it always meant that the child surprised him all the time. This just happened to be a startling surprise, and an admittedly amusing one, even if Danny was openly complaining about the situation. 

“It’s not fair! You have to be able to fix this, right? Right?!” the ghostling, quite literally now, practically yanked at his cloak. “Clockwork, I was going to graduate, I can’t be two! Please, you’re the master of Time, you can fix this right!?” 

No, no he could not, seeing as young Daniel was in fact, immune to timeline machinations, doubly so for his own. To the ghostling’s open distress, which he did his best to soothe. What he could do instead, was stop time in his home dimension, and instead let him age back up again. 

Which the young halfa wasn’t happy about, but it was the best thing they had, so Clockwork supposed he had a ghostling now. A tiny adorable ghostling who kept pouting each time his much younger body had any sort of effect on his behavior. 

He’d never exactly had a ghostling before, nevermind one who was part human, but he would admit he honestly was enjoying it. Most time was spent alone, something he hadn’t realized until Danny ended up crashing into his unlife. 

Honestly he would openly admit that he absolutely adored his little ghostling. Who was now around four, at least physically, and had gotten into the adorable habit of curling up in the pendulum in his chest. Which was honestly the safest spot in Long Now, he’d admit. 

The singular issue however, with this habit, was that when someone attempted to summon him, they got his ghostling as well. And well, normally he could very much control himself for these summonings that happened every few hundred or so years, but well. There was a reason why even the Observants had stopped popping in the moment they realized he had a ghostling. 

Nesting ghosts do not mess around should they feel one is messing with their very vulnerable child, and really it’s not his fault the mortal cultists woke up and startled Danny. Perhaps deleting them from the timeline was a bit too far, if the other mortals rapid paling was to go by, but oh well. 

[knight-of-aether]

"He sits there for another two hours, with Legend cradled tightly in his arms, the lantern glowing in his grasp, a small island of warmth and light in the cold darkness. With nothing but his memories, and the slow, quiet draw of Legend’s breath, to keep him company."

First time sharing my Linked Universe fanart here, after lurking in the fandom for years - I was emboldened to do so by @kikker-oma 's lovely Fan Joy July event. This illustration is for Clearing the Air, a story by Sinnatious which has embedded itself deep into my psyche and refuses to leave. It's genuinely great writing - go read it if you haven't and enjoy heavy angst, wilderness survival, and old men being absolutely, perfectly, 100% fine, thank you very much.

[quirinah]

oomfs started playing a certain visual novel recently

[napping-sapphic]

Good luck trying to casually cuddle with me if we date we’d lay down and get nice and cozy and then i would fall asleep in two seconds flat and trap you for four hours

[cosmicwhoreo]

SO, I made my own tragic legendary sea cookie since that seems to be the theme for devsis in between comms-

Beneath the dark, forgotten waves of the west sea, amongst a once bustling and colorful coral forest is it's sleepy monarch; Grand Reef Cookie. A jolly, yet strangely complaisant individual who spends his frail, doddering years tending to the decaying remains of his children's once proud homeland.

They have all left, of course. Some more hesitant than others to leave their loving father's side. But, Grand Reef Cookie was insistent of their retreat. That, unlike him, they were not bound to their namesake in soul and body. That the ocean held much more plentiful and vibrant sights that were not to be wasted fretting over a forgotten relic of the past. That doesn't stop many from visiting though... Bringing with them trinkets and offerings to help alleviate his wistful loneliness.

But, unlike some of his children, Grand Reef doesn't harbor any resentment for cookies. It's just not in his nature to harbor any hatred for... Well, anything, really. A reef is meant to be a nurturing and peaceful place for even the most ruthless apex predator, to be unwelcoming and unkind to even one creature would go against his very nature. ________

Why be a betrayed and/or volatile tragic, when you can be a sweet, hospice patient kind of tragic? That, and sea pollution and global warming tragic, I mean it's right there-

[introspectivememories]

okay so i know that dash baxter barely gets any character development in the show but like the idea that danny hates dash? boo, lame, overdone!!!! danny who can beat dash up and dash knows this and everyone knows this but by god danny needs something normal to cling on to so dash shoves him in a locker everyday?? yeah that's the good shit

[kitocrystal]

Checking out other Quest AUs as I wait for my will to come back to continue with Inky Mystery.

(The conflict has not let down yet and I’m starting to feel dread)

Anyway, go check out this neato retell of the og Quest story by @thequestfortheinkmachinecomics. The characters’ designs are nicely touched up, their personalities seems more natural now, the art is really cool and oh no, I’ve run out of juice for words… I just know that this retell will be good so I’ll be on along for this ride.

[merlins-strawberriesandroses]

The thing no one ever considers while writing up character analyses about Merlin is that. he must have been sooooooo sleepy.

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 4 ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, furina, lyney {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood {☆} word count 3.7k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

Fontaine was bathed in darkness, not even the moon daring to illuminate where the common man fears to walk. The streets were bleak and empty save for the constant, rhythmic ticking and clanking of machines marching on endlessly, dauntlessly wading where even the bravest dared not to venture. Not even the sharp click of the Gardes boots followed the occasional hisses of steam as they walked the barren streets.

It was haunting, and it'd been like that for days now. It showed little signs of stalling in the slightest, too. Every inch of Fontaine was practically crawling with Gardemeks– like a swarm of rats skittering about.

Arlecchino had secluded herself in the Hotel Bouffes d'ete for days at this point, waiting– biding her time. Her nails clicked against the wood as she tapped at the table in a stilted rhythm, the subtle click of the clock mixing into the clanking outside, weaving in and out of earshot as the patrols slipped by. She reached forward after a moment of thought, reaching for the white king.

She leaned back against the chaise, tilting her head just enough to catch a glimpse of a patrol of Gardemeks as they vanished behind the rows and rows of buildings. It wasn't enough to keep her attention for long, however, her features twisting in disinterest as she glanced back to the chessboard– and the letter neatly resting beside it. The seal was unmistakable and a sobering sight, demanding her attention– the soft hues of blue etched into the shape of a dragon stared back at her in a way that almost unsettled her.

She had already parsed through it's contents hundreds of times, but she was met with only vague, flowing script that only served to irritate her more then anything– it filled the page top to bottom yet managed to say nothing at all. Her hand reached out again, but instead of reaching for the letter she plucked the black rook from the board, setting it down with a soft click.

Arlecchino had all the time in the world to sit back and observe her prey, but all that time would be useless if she lacked the information to act.

And he was quite tight fisted about it, evidentially. None of her inquiries or attempts to decipher any potential codes in the letter left her empty handed. She could not act without even knowing the reason for his summons– it was almost worded like a personal affair rather then one would expect for a foreign diplomat. In truth, she'd expected a scalding report on her operatives, but it lacked any mention of anything of the sort.

She was no stranger to people masking hostility behind pretty words and compliments, not that it was ever unwarranted per se– the Fatui did not create connections through honesty and genuine kindness. They have strong armed more then their fair share of people into cooperation to the point distrust is all the Fatui are met with outside of Snezhnaya. Every word was meant to conceal the deceit, every action meant to conceal the price later paid.

So she had been..skeptical of the letter, to put it lightly. She doubted the Iudex of all people would offer a hand to the Fatui without a price attached– a trap, perhaps, meant to lure in the most powerful piece left on the board. Her eyes narrowed, reaching for a white rook and moving it to the right.

Or he was hiding something. Something that he simply couldn't risk getting out to anyone, not even the Divine themself. A tempting prize, whatever it was.

..A dangerous prize, too.

She'd considered burning the letter and forgetting it all together– the risk was great, and she couldn't risk getting caught up by whoever else the Iudex may have on his side of the board. But she could hardly pass up the challenge and the prize that he fought so hard to keep from prying eyes and ears. Even her agents came back empty handed each time. She lazily picked up a black rook, sliding the white pawn aside.

"Lyney," Arlecchino drawled, crossing one leg over the other and turning her gaze to the door as it slowly creaked open. The pale visage of Lyney stepped through, though his siblings were noticeably absent. The weariness that weighed down on his shoulders was apparent in the slightest furrow of his brows and the subtle creak of leather as he clenched his fists behind his back. "Father." He choked out, the title dragged out by the sharp inhale and shaky exhale.

He looked out of breath, she noted.

The silence that lingered after the small exchange was punctuated only by the click of another chess piece being moved. She sets aside the black rook, letting it sit among the dozen other pieces that had been wiped off the board. She can see the conviction glinting beneath the fog of exhaustion, but if he would utilize it was another matter all together.

He had seemed to make his choice quickly, at the very least.

"Our contacts and operatives within the Fortress of Meropide have gone silent– all we have is their final confirmed missive.." His voice is confident, but it is rigid as the words spill from his lips. He takes a sharp step forward, unfolding his arms from behind his back and opening his hands– the small, water stained and messily folded note catches her eye, plucking it from his palms with a half hearted interest. "They believe the Duke left the Fortress of Meropide..and that he may be coming to the Court of Fontaine."

Her eyes narrow dangerously, nearly crumpling the thin paper in her hands– yet just as quickly, she collects herself.

But she cannot get rid of the bitter taste on her tongue, lingering as she sets down the note and slides it to the side, her lips pursed into a thin line.

So the Iudex had shown one of his pieces..she tightly grasps a black rook, tipping over the white rook, letting it roll against the board.

If the Duke was involved, things were much more complicated then she expected– he would be a problem, she was certain. She couldn't blame the lamb for fearing the wolf, either. Whether her agents had been killed or captured by the man mattered little. He had his ways, and he was a force that could instill fear in even them.

Which meant the possibility that her operation was already compromised was far too real.

What had the Iudex so concerned he had gone through the trouble of bringing in the Duke and herself? The Fatui was one thing, but to specifically request one of it's Harbingers..

The Prophecy? The thought had her clenching her fist, but..no. If it were to rear it's head now, the Iudex could simply not afford to waste time on his contacts deciphering his nonsensical script– If the prophecy were to be the issue, there time would be limited to mere minutes in the worst of cases. Which meant it was worth biding his time in order to ensure absolute secrecy.

So if not the prophecy, then what?

Her next moves were..limited. She was already walking on eggshells considering her position and the reputations of the Fatui– especially with a Harbinger in the midst. If they caught wind of her operations, they'd weed out her operatives and be on guards for any snakes that lingered in their garden.

She reached for the chessboard again, picking up one of the white rooks from the board with a scowl. The sharp click as she sets down the white rook and sets aside the black pawn draws a shaky inhale from Lyney as she moves another black pawn, the dull click of the pieces drowning out the distant clinking of machines.

..A draw, perhaps.

The pieces were all falling into place– the players of this game were slowly being revealed. Whether she could secure her victory..she was unsure.

She wasn't even sure who her opponent was. Only that the Iudex himself was but another piece in their game.

Arlecchino reached for the board again, yet this time she hesitated. Perhaps she could still swipe the win from beneath them, if she played her cards right.

She would simply have to capture the king– or, if need be, let it end on a draw. Either way, she would not concede. She could not afford to concede. Down to the last piece, she would drag out this match until she was in a position to force their hand into the outcome she desired.

She stood slowly, picking up the king piece and observing it for only the briefest of moments before she set it down on the table, taking measured steps around the table and across the room. She was hunting a much more dangerous quarry today– it would be no simple runaway traitor this time.

"Do you remember the directive?" She inquired coldly, her hand lingering on the door for that long, tense moment. "..Yes, Father." Lyney faltered, taking a hesitant step back and bowing at the waist. "Then do not stray."

All that was left was the silence and click of the door shutting behind her as she disappeared down the hall, her boots clicking harshly against the floorboards. The rest of the agents knew better then to linger in her path as she stepped down into the lobby, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves. She barely even acknowledged the Fatui agent standing at the ready by the heavyset doors, their gloves hands held out with her cloak held loosely in their palms. She quickly snagged it from them, tugging it over her board shoulders and clasping it around her throat.

With a quick tug, she brought the hood up over her head to conceal her sharp features, lifting her hand and placing a neatly folded note within their waiting hands. She had only one chance to make the right moves and secure her victory– no matter the cost.

Each piece had it's purpose.

Oft, that purpose was a bloody and horrible end– but for the grand goal of the Fatui built on the backs of the dead, it was an honor.

She didn't bother speaking a word as she dismissed them with a wave of her hand, pushing open the heavyset doors and stepping out into the barren, damp streets. The rhythmic clink and whir of Gardemeks was still distant– she needed to move. Her boots clicked and splashed in the rain soaked stone of the streets as she slithered between the buildings, ducking through the openings in the patrols.

It was almost too easy.

She tilted her head back, taking in the towering Palais Mermonia with a scowl, her hands clenched into fists. The final moves were being played– the king was within her reach, yet she felt no more confident then when she began.

The air carried a sense of unease, thick and heavy, filling her lungs until she felt her breath still in her chest– listening to the empty, bleak night that seemed so..quiet.

She'd done her fair share of research, had more then her fair share of her agents try to peer into the Iudex's office or the Archon's supposedly hidden chambers, but every attempt was a failure. She had to give them credit, they were quite elusive when they wished to be. Though now she only thought about it bitterly– this was all a risky gamble, in the end, and only time would tell if it paid off.

With minimal effort, she'd managed to pull herself to the flat, tiled roof, eyeing the massive tower peaking out of the center cautiously. At least here the wandering patrols down below weren't likely to notice her..she could hear them passing by the spot she'd been in only a few minutes ago, just beneath her. She pulled the hood further over her face, peering through the sheer darkness of the night for any oddities, but it was almost impossible to see in the dark.

Her boots clicked softly against the tiles as she approached the tower jutting out from the Palais, her hand gliding along the smooth stone, pressing against odd indents or crevices. If it was for the Archon's chambers, she doubted they made it very difficult– she'd only met the woman once, but she doubted the Iudex make it all that complex just from a brief glance. And it surprised her little when one of the stones sunk into the wall, gears whirring as the walls split open to reveal a stairwell straight into an inky black hall. Only the barest hint of light peaked under the door at the bottom, but it's occupants must have heard her, considering it went out not a moment later.

She cautiously stepped down into the small crevice, her breath visible in the bitter cold air– her shoulders tensed at the subtle sound of muffled footsteps behind the door, her vision flaring with a molten heat between her shoulder blades as she reached for the worn handle of the door. The heat of her vision was enough to just barely heat the metal, her vision flaring like a quickly building inferno.

Arlecchino was prepared for a fight, if it came down to it.

The door creaked as she pressed against it, shoving it open with a grunt of effort and surveying the room with narrowed eyes and a biting remark on the tip of her tongue– the lavish opulence was expected, she supposed, but the lack of the towering figure of the Iudex was not.

Yet before she could get a word in or even take in her surroundings properly, the light flickered back on and she had to squeeze her eyes shut with a hiss at the sudden brightness. She could hear the door being shoved closed behind her, the hurried footsteps retreating just as quickly as her eyes adjusted to the light.

..This was a joke, wasn't it? It had to be.

She'd expected the Iudex, perhaps even the Duke if she'd been unlucky, not the Hydro Archon. She had half the mind to test her worth as an Archon then and there, her temper flaring like an uncontrollable blaze, barely kept at bay. It took all her self control to force herself to smile politely at the woman rather then snarl.

"Miss Furina," She sneered beneath her hood, x shaped pupils locked onto the startled, trembling Archon with thinly veiled contempt. "What a..pleasant surprise. You'll have to forgive my manners, I assumed I was meeting with the Iudex." She observed her body language carefully– the way her eyes darted about like a frightened rabbit seeking escape, the slightest tremble of her lips..

Arlecchino opened her mouth to offer another scathing remark, but her jaw audibly clicked shut as her entire body seemed to lock up. Even her vision went cold against her back, a chilling feeling creeping up her spine as someone, or something, crept up behind her. Their footsteps were almost silent, the slight rustling of their clothes the only thing she could hear over her heart pounding against her ribcage.

Arlecchino had always prided herself on being on the other end of that sensation– she was the monster, and her target was the prey frozen like a deer between the hunters crosshair.

It was a chilling feeling to have the dynamic shifted on it's head.

She couldn't even swallow, her jaw clenched so hard she could hear it creak as she tried to reason with her quickly splintering mind– a futile effort, her joints locking up almost painfully. Black spots were quickly swallowing her vision from the lack of air in her lungs, the sound of shuffling behind her barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

For a moment – a moment too long to have only lasted the seconds that it did, yet so quick it gave her whiplash – she thought she would hit the floor dead before she could even glimpse her assailant.

And then it was gone. She came crashing back into reality with a startled inhale, her lungs burning and her knees nearly buckling under her. The instinct to lash out and kill whoever had done it was intense, yet she couldn't bring herself to move even a finger– it would be so easy to twist around and ignite them with searing flames, but her feet were rooted in place.

She almost didn't notice the surprisingly gentle hands unclasping her cloak, tugging it off her shoulders, if not for the sheer intensity of the presence still lingering behind her. Her mind was still fractured, struggling to right itself after the ordeal, and it had her seething.

"..Are you certain you held back enough?" Furina croaked, the normally soft lilt raspy and almost hoarse. "Not– not that I doubt your capability, most Divine!"

Arlecchino felt her nails dig harshly into her palms, heat swelling beneath her skin– Divine? Had she lost her mind? The Divine was..

The Divine was upon their throne where they belonged. She'd seen them!

"Hm. Well, maybe? Sorry, I didn't think it'd affect you too." Their voice was sickeningly soft as they stepped around her like she wasn't even there, focusing their attention on the Archon who seemed more then delighted about it. "What gave you that impression, most Divine? Aha, I..was completely unaffected, as you can see! Perfectly fine."

Furina let out a small squeak when they pinched her cheek, but the almost affectionate smile that tugged at their lips revealed the lack of malice behind the action.

"You're a bad liar, Furina. You might want to sit down..please?" They didn't take her protests for an answer, gently pushing her to sit on the bed before abruptly turning to face Arlecchino once more, a forced smile on their lips. "Oh, good, you're..uh, not dead. That's good. I thought I fried your brain. Sorry?"

..Had she hit her head on the way here? The Divine should still be on their throne, yet she couldn't shake the weight of their stare– it felt tangible. She felt like she was standing face to face with the stars– galaxies and constellations bearing down upon her.

She grit her teeth and clenched her hands until she felt the sting of her nails against her palms, grounding herself in the pain through the sheer overwhelming nature of their existence.

"You.." She croaks, reaching out with a shaky hand and grabbing them by the collar of their shirt, lifting them up until their feet left the floor– she pays no mind to the startled protests of the Archon. Arlecchino would crush her like a bug before she even got the chance to intervene and they both knew it. "You shouldn't exist– you aren't them, and yet you..you're the imposter, aren't you?" Her grip tightens yet they face her without an ounce of fear, meeting her unyielding glare with a pondering look.

Arlecchino wanted to make them bleed just to see if she could, the urge to sink her teeth into skin welling up in her chest to the point she visibly snarled, her mask of politeness long . "You're the imposter." Her expression falls for a moment before she schools it into one of apathy, setting them back down and holding them there for a moment, finally releasing them after a tense moment. "Or you were supposed to be."

Hers brows furrow– she wants to demand answers, to throttle them for damning them to being nothing more then dolls for the supposed Divine to break at their whim, but none of the words come to her.

"..Why now? The current Divine has been in power for years, yet you descend now?" Her shoulders tensed, lips pursed into a thin line– it's impossible to ignore the truth that lay before her. The Divine is a fraud and this..imposter is the true Divine. How many years had they been in power, now? How many years were they waiting? Why did they wait? Was the suffering of Teyvat not enough? Was the blood that painted the steps of their stolen throne not enough?

She'd personally been on the wrong end of the Divine's wrath– she wonders..had they watched? Had they seen the cruel hand of their imposter and turned their back on Teyvat?

"I.." They hesitated. It made her seethe, her hands clenching into fists at her sides– her vision flickered, flames swelling within it's casing just to be smothered by the presence of the Divine. But once that spark had been lit, she refused to let it go out. "I didn't know."

The answer does not satisfy her. There is an itch beneath her skin that she cannot scratch, a fire that burns in her chest so hot it scorches even herself.

"And what about now? Are you content to cower like prey in the safety of the Palais Mermonia?" She snapped, taking a step forward, her brows furrowed and her glare intense– she can see the slightest bit of worry in their eyes. She revels in it. "Will you let them use your acolytes like pawns? How many more need to be broken on the steps to your throne before you act?"

Again, her vision flares and dims– it refuses to be used against the Divine that created it.

"Have you no answer?"

The room is silent. They do not speak and neither does she.

Even the world itself seems to quiet in the face of her accusations, fury boiling to the surface so hot it incinerated all it touched.

"I will kill them myself."

Their words are quiet, but they are not soft– there is a vindictive, searing anger that explodes out like dying stars within their eyes. The sight of constellations replaced by a void that would not be . The smell of ichor grows stronger– to the point she feels almost lightheaded.

"..I am aware that I have failed in preventing this, but I had no choice in the matter. Still," They muse, their voice like the tolling of bells. A solemn melody that stills the swelling fury burning in her chest, if only for a moment. "I will rectify it– I will tear down their throne of lies and let not even the earth tarnish itself by burying their corpse among it's soil."

They pause for a moment, holding out their hand– scarred and bandaged by the weapons of the devout, yet still they take upon the burden of dirtying their hands to save those who did not save them.

"Do you trust me, Arlecchino?"

Did she?

"Will you help me?"

She exhales heavily, meeting the starry iris' of the Divine with a scowl still tugging at her lips. Arlecchino trusted no one but herself.

"..Yes."

[julykings]

summer’s end

[sollucets]

favorite characters x favorite color: yok