#of strength but only one of you has died in a tomb and can walk back out alive

[age-of-moonknight]

“Pathfinder,” Moon Knight: Fist of Khonshu (Vol. 2/2024), #3.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Domenico Carbone; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[fatedbutblinking]

jason grace x egyptian daughter of isis story idea

when jason dies, his fate angers him more than it should. he died a hero's death, and can now live in peace forever, but he still feels like he never got a choice in the matter - like he never got the chance to live normally, fully, in a way extrinsic from the gods.

iris, egyptian goddess of magic and all sorts, resurrects him on one condition. that he help bring peace and strength to the egyptian spirits still occupying the pyramids - the ones who can't move on. he finds it an odd task, but he agrees.

suddenly, he is dropped in the desert. he walks and walks for hours, trying to find food or water or any sense of civilisation. he starts to think it's a game that the egyptian gods are playing on him - making a roman demigod die all over again just to laugh at him.

he gets knocked out cold. he wakes up in what looks like a tomb. standing around him are several of these egyptian spirits that iris was talking about, all laughing at him, throwing drink at him, making fun of how supple and pale his skin is - marks of roman privilege, they say. it is the first time that people have made him out to be inferior as a warrior.

then she walks in. she's different from the other spirits. the spirit labourers stop gallivanting around him and go silent as she enters. she is hauntingly beautiful: long, silky dark chocolate hair, almond-shaped black eyes, intricate gold jewels woven through her hair and her clothes. she's like cleopatra incarnate. except stunningly scary.

'what are you doing here, roman?' 'change of scenery.' 'funny.' 'thank you.' 'i don't like funny.' jason isn't sure whether he's allowed to say why he's there, especially if it's a matter of life or death for him. so he chooses the safe option: not to say anything. 'i left my camp.' 'and wandering around the desert was the second best option?' 'seemed it.' 'you have no loyalty.' 'i only have loyalty. just not to romans or greeks. not to the people who kill me everyday. i could to you, though.' 'how do you know i won't kill you either?' 'i don't. but if you do, i'll be one of them.' he nods his head to the spirits. 'not a bad fate.' 'you seriously want to join?' 'i do.' she thinks it over for a long while, watching him with intensity. he matches her. in the roman world, everybody thought he was the intense one. 'okay,' she says. the corner of jason's lip turns up slightly. one of the spirits pipes up: 'okay? okay? he's roman.' 'precisely. it's what cleopatra would have done.'

spirits and her all have dinner together. he's stuck with the labourer spirits because he has to build himself up the ranks. one of them reveals to him that she's the daughter of iris and a mortal. he says that's impossible. there's no such thing as demigods in the egyptian world - only partnerships, hosts, like sadie kane. they tell him that she's the only one. and that she's here to lead them in preserving the pyramids and the legacy of the egyptian gods. the whole of the egyptian world rests on her shoulders.

they steal jewels back from thieves lurking around the pyramids. they re-mummify and look after previous pharaohs. jason slowly but surely starts to gain the trust of the spirits around him. but with her? nothing. she gives him every dirty job, every job that doesn't require him to use any of his godly abilities. she does it on purpose, he thinks - to make him an example. to make him earn it, without using his jupiter name.

they have these little moments. he falls for her fast. he thinks he was always a little bit in love with her, but it comes crashing down onto him one night as she talks about her duty to her people, her culture. she starts to remind him so much of himself in that way. he can't but want the best for her - want her to embrace her human side and leave this place, where her duty to her culture surpasses her duty to herself. so he tells her:

'you're forgetting that you're human.' 'that's not worth remembering.' 'why not?' 'it's not useful to my duty to be human.' 'it's not a matter of duty. that's just what you are. isis is your mother, yes. but your father - do you not think about who he is?' she laughs shortly. 'my father. heritage like that is trivial. i forget how soft you romans are.' 'but your mother's heritage isn't trivial? it's so significant that it dictates everything you do for the rest of your life? that is something you're okay with.' 'yes.' 'every friend you've ever known is dead. a spirit. that is something you're okay with.' 'you are way out of line, jason grace.' 'you should want more.' 'no, i shouldn't. i wouldn't expect you to understand. you left your camp to come here. i put my duty above any selfish desires. this is it for me.' 'it wasn't for me. i found you.' 'you found me,' she scoffs. 'maybe i am selfish. but if i can afford to be selfish then so can you.' 'what does that mean?' 'come with me.' 'what?' 'to camp. to meet demigods like you. to meet real people - people like us - ' 'you are beyond out of line. hear my words, jason grace, because i won't repeat myself. this is my home. this is my family. duty is family. i would never leave it behind - especially not alongside some flippant blond jupiter boy. you wave the wind around, but you know nothing of real, honest work. and to speak of leaving? after we have accepted you, helped you? there is so much more that you have to learn here. it is not the other way around. and if you don't want to learn, then i will kill you. i will kill you so many times that you cannot return. the spirits that you don't believe are real people - i can make you smaller, emptier, more lifeless than them. but i don't have to. the way you act proves that you already are.'

then jason reveals it to her. that he died and came back because her mother resurrected him. that her mother made him promise to help the spirits move on. he asks her why isis would want him to make the spirits move on if her daughter was supposed to be here alone. he says that it is time for her to move on too. she smacks him and walks away.

at this point, jason hasn't made it explicity clear to her that he's in love with her. but the things he does show it - to an extreme degree. even when she's extremely annoyed with him and avoiding him. he watches her every move with such gentleness, to the point where the spirits are making jokes about it to her. usually she complains about the state of cleanliness of the statues of isis and other egyptian gods, but jason polishes them everyday without fail, even if she isn't going to pass that corridor or that room.

the spirits make comments about this to her, but she shrugs them off. it becomes harder and harder for her to ignore him. to watch him make the spirits laugh. to watch him fly to the top of two opposing pyramids and plant flags, encouraging the spirits to play some greek game of 'capture the flag.' at dinner, he speaks of his war stories, the times he spoke back to the roman and greek gods, the times he obeyed them. he speaks of those he loves and those he lost. he speaks of the bestfriend that he died before getting the chance to see again. they watch him intently. and all he does is watch her.

it would be impossible to ignore the way everyone is falling in love with him.

that's what makes it so difficult for her to agree with him - that it's best for them to all move on. everything seems so perfect the way it is. and to say goodbye to them, to pull jason away from them with her selfish thoughts of leaving, to avoid her duty to her home - the thoughts make her heart sink to her stomach.

he makes her heart sink to her stomach.

'you're distracting everyone. i caught a thief while everyone was playing that awful game.' 'a thief? or a tourist looking around?' 'same thing.' 'what are you protecting, y'n?' she stands there, her brow furrowing slightly at his words. his eyes, those familiar storm-grey eyes, seem to pierce through her, and for the briefest of moments, she feels as though she might be stripped bare of all her carefully constructed walls. 'artefacts,' she says shortly. 'artefacts,' he repeats slowly. she grits her teeth, already turning to storm off. 'you are insufferable, jason grace.' he pulls her back. 'i'm not the insufferable one. you're the one making everyone perform duties that don't have to be performed. they have people who preserve these pyramids, y'n. let down the mist and let them.' she turns back around viciously. 'you think this is performative. you think what we do here doesn't mean anything. but it is you that's done this - made it nothing. you came here and turned it all upside down. you make them question their duty. you let them - ' 'have fun?' 'you let them forget.' 'nobody will forget. they can remember, and move on.' 'you - you - it's always you with this moving on stuff. nobody wants to move on. i don't want to move on. i'm content. i'm happy.' 'sure seems like it.' 'the only time i'm not happy is when i'm around you. when your annoying lightningy roman little face is in front of me, trying to tell me what to do, acting all better than me. if you want to move on so badly, then go. leave. i won't even bother trying to kill you if you do - i don't want your body resting anywhere near my ancestors.' 'not without you.' 'why?' she shouts, exasperated. jason pulls her back by the elbow, forcing her to face him. 'because i care about you.'

he kisses her. she groans and pulls away, anger in her eyes. he lets go of her elbow and clenches his jaw, staring at her lips. he won't make another move. her lip quivers. she smashes her lips against his. all of her emotions are let out, and she gives in. she gives into him, into the idea of moving on, into the new dawn. tears fall down her cheeks as she kisses him. gently, he pulls back. he watches as she breaks down - years and years of walls falling to the ground. he pulls her into his chest, stroking her hair.

it's the start of a long road for them, but they're doing it.

jason's eyes soften at the sky. it never rains in the desert, but it does now.

he was going to see his best friend again. his family. and he was going to bring his favourite addition.

[allthelittlecreepycrawlies]

With A Flap of Wings, Part 5

After another day of discussion, it is decided that the safest option for everyone would be to move their ghost within the fortress walls. By then, all of the residents within the Unclean Realms have learned just who is haunting the tombs up on the ridge, and everyone with any potentially useful knowledge is eager to help bring their lost young master home. 

It takes the rest of the week and two more days of the next to solidify a plan for how to capture him without harming him and prepare a place for him to reside. 

At Nie Leiyun's insistence, her favorite garden is modified to contain a small table shrine with a sturdy wood and stone roof to protect it from rain and snow. Settled against one of the stone walls so that it will be shielded from wind as well, it sits directly behind the pear tree that is the focus of the garden, providing a safe, private place for a wayward ghost to rest.

When Nie Huaisang, having tumbled out of the spirit pouch that carried him there, looks up in a daze to see the tree, Nie Leiyun's heart aches at the expression that blooms on her son's face, and she immediately rushes to hold him as he hunches into himself like a wounded animal and begins to cry silently. 

"It's okay, Sang-er," she whispers as she rocks him and strokes hair that slips through her fingers like smoke. "It's okay. You're home... Everything's fine now, you're home."

—

Nie Jinghe observes all the chaos of the preparation with the sort of detached confusion that only a six-year-old can muster. 

Her mother has told her that they have brought her older brother home. 

Her older brother who never made it into the world like she did. 

She wonders for a while if she should be scared of him… then decides that’s dumb. Even if he is something weird now, even if he is something the picture books say is scary, he is still her brother, isn't he? Besides, all three of her parents and her other brother all agree that he’s to come home, and they wouldn’t let him in the walls if he was really scary.

Her mother comes to her a little while after all the noise and bustle dies down, and Nie Jinghe can tell that she has been crying. But she seems... lighter now. Happier, despite the dried tears. 

If her brother being brought inside the walls can make her mother happier, then Nie Jinghe will be happy to see him too, she resolves. "Is he here?" 

Her mother nods and offers a hand. "Would you like to meet your er-ge?" 

She fidgets with her stuffed cloth bird, debating on whether or not to bring it with her. Normally, when meeting new people, she’s supposed to leave it behind. 

But this isn’t really a new person, is he? He’s her brother. 

And maybe he’ll like birds. 

Maybe he’ll like Huahua.

Clutching the toy tightly, she rushes to take hold of her mother's hand. 

"He-er," her mother says softly as they walk through the halls. "Be gentle, alright? Sang-er is..." 

"Is he sick? Like when he went away?" 

Her mother smiles, but it's a little unsure. "Something like that. He's probably not ready for the kind of hugs you like to give."

Nie Jinghe frowns at the floor as she considers that. "Can... can I hug him like I hug Mingming?" she asks, referring to her favorite among the cats that roam the fortress as resident mousers. 

Her mother's smile gains strength. "I think that would be fine. And... don't be too alarmed when you see him, alright? We aren’t sure yet why he looks so much older than he should be, but he's still Sang-er." 

She doesn't understand what that means until they step outside into her mother's favorite garden and she spots the ghost kneeling silently among the roots of the pear tree. 

Oh.

Meeting a grownup instead of another child makes her hesitate, clinging to her mother's skirts with the arm her bird is tucked into, until he registers their approach and opens his eyes, turning his head to look at them. 

Oh.

"Sang-er, this is Jinghe," her mother says, putting a hand on her head. "Your meimei.”

The tears are back in her mother's voice. "He-er, this is Huaisang. Your er-ge." 

Nie Jinghe doesn't wait for him to react, quickly shuffling forward to thrust her toy bird at him. "And this is Huahua! She's my best friend. My best bird friend, anyway. I have best cat friends and best people friends too. Do you like birds?" 

She knows she's chattering but she doesn't care. That's just the way she's always been; nervously spitting out the things she needs to say as fast as possible once she can get them out at all. 

Nie Huaisang blinks at her, and she tries not to fidget at the emotions that flicker across his face with the speed of shadows in a fire. 

Then he gives her a soft, sad smile and reaches out to pat Hua-er on the head. Something... something... something flutters through her mind… the beating of dozens of pairs of wings in different stages of healing, tended by careful hands. 

He likes birds. 

Remembering her mother's earlier warning, she is careful not to hug too hard when she flings herself into her er-ge’s lap with a squeal of glee.

[queer-as-used-by-tolkien]

Okay so I LOVE this but it's even more than that!! You downplay some stuff here and I love the timeline you've put here and don't want to ruin but I HAVE to mention -

It's not just 'uncanny' that he says 'it is finished' and dies immediately after.

How do you die in a crucificxion? Asphyxiation. You stop having the strength to push yourself up to breathe. If Jesus was about to die, he would not have the strength or the breath to groan, much less say actual, intelligible words ('tetelestai' in the Greek). Secondly, it takes a LOT LONGER THAN THAT TO DIE in a crucifixion. (IIRC it can take days to die in a crucifixion.) The thieves were still alive and kicking, one of them spoke to Jesus earlier, they're nowhere near the point of death yet. There was a reason the Jews wanted to break their legs - because then they wouldn't be able to push themselves up to breathe, they'd just suffocate right quickly. And the Jews wanted to not have to worry about all this on their holy day.

But before that, the Roman soldier is standing there, expecting to rotate out and probably back in again a few times on this particular crucifixion, this Jesus fellow speaks (not strange at all, he still has the strength and breath for that although why he'd spend it is a mystery) and then just dies. Just slumps over limp, just like that. Dead? Really? Already? Seriously? Is he just faking? What's going on?

There's the earthquake, the darkness lifts, what? VERY confused and not a little bit scared. This is insane. The two thieves are glancing between Jesus and each other and the Roman soldier, they're still very much alive and kicking, this Jesus should not be dead yet, that's not how it works!

There are dead walking. (Matthew 27:50-54) There are dead people walking around, empty graves, people in the crowd nearby screaming in shock. You see your own dead mother standing a little way off.

"Surely, this was the son of God!" your fellowsoldier exclaims.

You nod in wholehearted, fervent agreement. You don't want to touch the body.

And yet the Roman soldiers poke him with the spear and... yeah he's dead. You don't believe your eyes at first, although years and years of experience tell you otherwise. What you just saw trumps all those years of experience. But you handle his body, he's stiffening up already, there is no breath, no heartbeat. Things are... deceptively normal, you think. He's dead, no doubt about it, but you are definitely afraid of this dead body. Any other time you would have thought get ahold of yourself you great ninny, but not this time.

They want a guard set, but you don't want to be anywhere near that tomb. And yet, by the time your shift rolls around days have passed and nothing has happened. You think about relaxing.

Early early morning, just before sunrise, they come. Three glowing beings of light, and beings like you've never seen - terror strikes your heart and in that moment you believe, you fear, you faint.

When you are awoken and money is pressed into your hands you're in a daze, you go along with what they tell you but you feel guilty about it. So guilty. You're not sure why but you know that man was holy, righteous, good in a way you can only half-imagine.

And what now? A few weeks pass. You - you yearn to see that man again. To know what happened. To be in his presence. You've never felt this way before, not even about the gods you already worship. (And worshiping them feels like going through the motions, feels vaguely... unclean.)

You talk about it with some of your fellow-soldiers. There seems to be something waiting,... or are you supposed to go out and do something? You don't know. You just know life can't go on like before. Some of the others try to forget. Some demand you forget or at least stop talking about it.

But what can you do? What can you say? You're waiting.

And then you see him. You already believed, believed something, but now you know what it is; now you rejoice. He looks at you with knowing eyes and you know he knows who you are, and he welcomes you.

Imagine being one of the Roman soldiers though. Imagine having to do what you thought would be a normal execution one day.

Three convicts, two of which are thieves. As for the third… I mean, yeah some people say this guy is the “messiah” (whatever that means, you’re no Jew) and there is talk of miracles and the religious nuts really seem to hate him, but you have him nailed to a cross all the same, so what? If he is a god then he can join the club; Caesar knows that the Romans have enough gods to fill their pantheon and then some. Most likely he’s just a man with some hefty delusions that cost him his life.

But then earthquakes happen. Weird but can be written off as chance, right? Then the sky goes dark midday. A blood moon rises.

That ain’t normal.

Feelings unlike anything you’ve ever felt arise in your gut. The man cries out with a loud voice “It is finished!” and dies immediately after. You shiver. Uncanny, that is.

“Surely this Man is the Son of God,” a fellow Soldier exclaims beside you. At this point you might agree, but the spear still pierces through his skin all the same and you think (hope) that whoever this God-Man was that he isn’t your problem anymore, seeing as he’s dead. Hopefully you can forget the whole thing. (Somehow you feel that this scene will haunt you for a long time)

But the debacle is not over with the burial, as you had assumed. The religious nuts get real anxious and noisy, so to shut them up Pilot has a watch set to guard the body of a dead man. A dead man.

You personally have seen many dead men in your time, but never have you seen one move. Never have you seem or heard of people particularly wanting to touch dead bodies, either. You almost say as such when you are one of the men assigned the last watch, but decide you’d rather like to keep your tongue than chance losing it. You expect it to be rather a boring job, all told.

And it is. Until these, these beings of light and lightening descend on top of you from the Heavens and the last thing you can think before you know no more is whatever god whose body I’ve been guarding please spare me

You wake up, despite all your expectations to the contrary. You almost wonder if it would have been better if you died.

Those religious nuts come to you and your fellow guards and give you some coin along with a fake story to tell. They offer to save the skin off your back so you are not put to death like others who’ve been killed for less. You go along with the story because to be honest there is still a part of you that hopes this was all a dream. But the borrowed words taste like ash in your mouth and the coins jingle in your pockets with all the weight of a chain.

You go through the rest of the day (and night, and the day and night) after the event in a haze. Your feet walk where you know not and you don’t care to correct them.

But then you see Him.

The same Man you saw die.

The same Man whose body you guarded.

This Son of God, in the flesh, you see stand in front of a crowd with your own two eyes and you can scarce believe it but all the same you know more than you’ve ever known anything before that this is real, that this Jesus is truly not just a god, but The God.

And so you decide to follow Him.

Just imagine that for a minute.

[seekfirst-community]

The following reflection is courtesy of Don Schwager © 2023. Don's website is located at Dailyscripture.net

Meditation: Do you listen to Jesus' words as if your life depended on it? Jesus made a claim which only God can make - "if any one keeps my word, he will never see death." St. Augustine of Hippo (354-430 AD), explains this verse from John 8:51:

"It means nothing less than he saw another death from which he came to free us - the second death, eternal death, the death of hell, the death of the damned, which is shared with the devil and his angels! This is the real death; the other kind of death is only a passage" (Tractates on the Gospel of John 43.10-11).

When God established a relationship with Abraham, he offered him an unbreakable "everlasting covenant" (Genesis 17:7). Jesus came to fulfill that covenant so that we could know the living God and be united with him both now and for all eternity. God made us to know him and to be united with him and he gives us the gift of faith and understanding so that we may grow in the knowledge of what he has accomplished for us through his Son, Jesus Christ.

Jesus challenged the people of Israel to accept his word as the very revelation of God himself. His claim challenged the very foundation of their belief and understanding of God. Jesus made a series of claims which are the very foundation of his life and mission. What are these claims? First, Jesus claims unique knowledge of God as the only begotten Son of the Father in heaven. Since he claims to be in direct personal communion with his Father in heaven, he knows everything about the Father. Jesus claims that the only way to full knowledge of the mind and heart of God is through himself. Jesus also claims unique obedience to God the Father. He thinks, lives and acts in the knowledge of his Father's word. To look at his life is to "see how God wishes me to live." In Jesus alone we see what God wants us to know and what he wants us to be.

When the Jewish authorities asked Jesus who do you claim to be? he answered, "before Abraham was, I am." Jesus claims to be timeless and there is only one in the universe who is timeless, namely God. Scripture tells us that "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever" (Hebrews 13:8). Jesus was not just a man who came, lived, died, and then rose again. He is the immortal timeless One, who always was and always will be. In Jesus we see the eternal God in visible flesh. He is God who became a man for our sake and for our salvation. His death and resurrection make it possible for us to share in his immortality. Do you believe the words of Jesus and obey them with all your heart, mind, and strength?

"Lord Jesus, let your word be on my lips and in my heart that I may walk in the freedom of your everlasting love, truth and goodness."

The following reflection is from One Bread, One Body courtesy of Presentation Ministries © 2023.

god or something?

“Jesus answered them: ‘I solemnly declare it: before Abraham came to be, I AM.’ ” —John 8:58

Jesus is blunt. He does not beat around the bush. He is far from diplomatic. He called people “liars” (see Jn 8:55). Then He openly and clearly called Himself “God” by using the title “I AM,” the name God had given to identify Himself (Ex 3:14).

It’s not surprising that people tried to stone Him and eventually succeeded in crucifying Him. Jesus ruffled a lot of feathers, overturned the money-changers’ tables in cleansing the Temple, and unabashedly called the Pharisees “blind guides,” “fools,” “frauds,” and “whitewashed tombs” (Mt 23:13-36). Jesus was asking for trouble.

Jesus acts like He’s God. If He were only a man, He would be unreasonable, arrogant, and insensitive. However, He’s not only a man; He’s God, and therefore His conduct is justified. His behavior is abnormal for a mere man but normal for God. We will resent Jesus’ message and manner unless we acknowledge Him as God. Like people of Jesus’ times, we will be in constant conflict with Him until we bow before Him as the great I AM.

Because of the way Jesus acts, He can’t be merely a good man. He’s either a bad man or a good God. His demeanor can be reasonably interpreted in no other way. We must either adore Him or hate Him (see Rv 3:15-16).

Prayer:  Jesus, “My Lord and my God” (Jn 20:28).

Promise:  “No longer shall you be called Abram; your name shall be Abraham, for I am making you the father of a host of nations.” —Gn 17:5

Praise:  Helen asked her friends to pray a novena for the discernment of her vocation.

Reference:  (For a related teaching on Accepting Jesus as Lord, Savior and God, view, download or order our leaflet on our website.)

Rescript:  "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for the publication One Bread, One Body covering the time period from February 1, 2023 through March 31, 2023. Reverend Steve J. Angi, Chancellor, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio June 15, 2022"

The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements

[feirceangel]

Imagine | Awaken

Imagine being there when the Pillarmen wake up.

Word Count: 1072

~

Archeological digs have always interested you. Delving into the past to uncover secrets of humanity from long ago never fails to bring a smile to your lips.

You were the one to find the mysterious 'statues' beneath the colosseum in Rome. Fascinated by the perfection of the three forms displayed, you were quick to start sketching them.

Through your scientist friends, you heard that they found another so-called 'Pillar Man' in Mexico. The thing that really stunned you was that fact that he was still alive after being encased in stone for hundreds of years.

And it looks like you've found three more of the strange beings.

Your little secret didn't stay a secret for long, German soldiers and scientists raining on your parade, confiscating your find.

Graciously, they still let you observe and take notes, but treated you rather poorly. You keep to yourself, knowing that your input would only be ignored by the others.

At the moment, giant UV lights are shining on the Pillar Men, courtesy of the Germans. You're to the side, not truly paying attention as you finish your sketch of the area.

"Something's amiss, ja?!"

"W-what's with that hole?!"

You sigh. What are they going on about now?

"Keep calm! They're trapped under UV ray exposure and cannot move!" The commander orders loudly. "Analyze the cavity, but with the upmost caution."

Interest piqued, you glance at the soldiers approaching the wall where the beings rest. You're hidden behind a small outcropping of rocks, as an attempt to stay as far away from the others as possible.

"How did this cavity appear?"

You examine your sketches, not seeing a hole and look back at the hole in the forehead of one of the Pillar Men. Curious.

"There's not enough light to see inside."

The hair on the back of your neck rises, a bad feeling overwhelming you. Your heart starts to beat faster.

Maybe you should make a quick exit now, before it's too late.

"I-I can hear something..."

A sudden sound startles you. The man examining the hole has been impaled by some sort of... horn?

Horrified, you watch as the man dies right before your eyes.

"Impossible! The subject couldn't have awakened!"

Terrified, you can't look away from the horrific events taking place before you.

The horn spins and slashes through multiple soldiers, spraying blood over the lights. You scream in fright before biting your hand to mask the sound.

The middle Pillar Man breaks from his stone tomb with a loud rumble, striking a pose as he cracks his neck.

He's glorious, dressed in the bare minimum of purple fabric with various pieces of gold jewelry adorning him.

"I pondered the state of man's strength after two millennia of slumber..."

His voice is deep and stern.

"But dependence on such lacklustre luminance imply declination. The lucent tools of Teutons mayn't withhold the will of Wamuu!"

Fast as lightning, the large man runs through the crowd of soldiers, as they yell in terror.

"O-our hands are joined!"

You can't close your eyes, stuck watching the frightening display of pure power that radiates off of him.

With a thud, the being stabs his finger into a terrified soldier and starts to drain the men's life force.

Petrified, you let out a squeal of fear as they collapse to the ground, nothing but a pile of flesh.

A soft jingle sounds as the otherworldly man walks back to the wall, his clothing swishing. He turns around and raises his hands, "Wamuu! Awaken, my masters!"

More rumbling sounds as the other two break free from the stone.

These guys scream power and danger, more so than anyone you've ever encountered before. Plus, only one of them managed to kill over twenty soldiers without a weapon.

They haven't seen you yet, so hopefully you can sneak away or wait until they leave. You try to control your breathing as tears dribble down your cheeks.

Please leave, please leave, please leave, you chant in your mind.

"We know you're there, human," the first one speaks.

Your breath hitches and your body shudders. How do they know?! Maybe it's a trap?

Playing it safe, you stay put.

You close your eyes, wishing it all away to no avail. When you reopen your eyes, the man is directly before you.

Stammering, you try to back up but run into another man. Your heart is hammering away, blood rushing through you as you blindly try to run.

You make it one step before a powerful being grabs your hair in a vice grip.

This is it, I'm gonna die here.

They chuckle as they look down at your shaking form.

"Hello," the one with a head wrap says.

You can't speak, and even if you could, you wouldn't know how to respond.

The one with golden hair picks up your sketchbook, gazing at the drawings found there.

He shows the others and you wish the ground would swallow you up.

"I am Wamuu," he says, "These are Masters Kars and Esidisi."

You are paralyzed. Why haven't they killed you yet?

"We recognize you. You were the one to find us," Esidisi states in a slightly higher voice.

Kars looks upon you in amusement, "What is your name, little one?"

Should you answer?

Their intense gazes tell you that it wouldn't be wise to remain silent.

"Y-y/n," you stutter, scared stiff.

Kars releases your hair, observing as you fall to your knees in fear, "Don't worry, we won't hurt you."

"W-What?" You're confused.

Kars gently caresses your tear stained cheek, "We don't hurt our property."

It takes a second for his words to click.

"P-property?!" You hero away from his touch, wishing they'd just get it over with instead of toying with you. "Never!"

Bemused, Esidisi takes ahold of your shoulders, "Cute."

You try to wiggle out of his grip, but of course he's too strong.

"You'll make a great pet," Kars assures, a wicked glint in his red eyes. "Don't disobey us and everything will be fine."

Shaking your head, you struggle again, only to have Wamuu clench his hand around your wrist.

"Let's go see this new world," Kars says, leading the way out of the cave.

You try to resist, but the intense pain in your arm makes you rethink your tactics.

You'll just have to wait for the perfect opportunity to escape.

[aiyexayen]

re: that "I'll live for you post" - WHERE'S THE ESSAY

this post? [innocent face]

alright, alright, JUST TWIST MY ARM WHY DON'T YOU, just force me to talk more about my boys!

4.9k word essay under the cut

Wei Wuxian

Let us take a look at Wei Wuxian first. Wei Wuxian has no problems throwing himself in-between the people he loves and danger, or even certain death. Hell, sometimes he just throws himself into it for fun and profit!

To some extent, putting yourself in danger to help others and being willing to die is something of a cultivator thing in general, a hero thing in general, right? And Wei Wuxian is a prodigy, exceptionally strong and clever, so he has more reason than most to be a little cavalier. But most of the point of training so hard as a cultivator and getting strong and aligning yourself with a sect is kind of so you can be in real danger of dying as little as possible, one would presume.

So we're going to set aside the danger-as-a-profession thing for now, because I think it's only tangentially related.

The real point is, Wei Wuxian is sacrificial to a fault. If there is a problem, he decides he's the one who needs to fix it. And his first go-to solution is to throw himself at it, to give up anything of himself if it's viable. As clever as he is, if he finds a workable solution that involves his own sacrifice, he doesn't stop to look for anything else.

Some of it is pride--not wanting to admit he needs help from anyone else, and the shame of being seen as weak.

Some of it is arrogance--a very natural kind given his competence, the presumption that he knows best in a given situation (neurodivergent arrogance walking hand-in-hand with self-esteem issues is always a fun time).

Some of it is appropriate--ranging from his own moral imperative to protect the weak and do what's right to his understanding of his place in culture and in his own sect and relationships.

Some of it is a natural bent toward caretaking, "fixing," and heroics--someone has to do it, so it's going to be Wei Wuxian. He won't hesitate to take initiative in any other area of life, and this is no exception.

And some of it, yes, is a lack of value placed in his own life--between a more youthful, dramatic perspective on 'I would die for you/for this cause' taking priority in his worldview, and some genuine self-esteem issues. Issues largely stemming from his uncertain place in the world growing up and his uncertain relationship with parental/guardian/master and other familial figures, all stewing under the surface and brought to light sharply when the world went to shit and choices were made and he lost or seemed to have lost everything from his reputation to his home to his extant support structures. The paranoia and voices in his head (the ptsd and resentful-energy-as-ptsd-metaphor both) only drove that home.

Basically, Wei Wuxian was already trending in some unfortunate directions but his circumstances and the people surrounding him kept him grounded, and the events of the story as it unfolded really pushed him all in. No one thing or one person--even Wei Wuxian himself--is really to blame for that, which is the beauty of the story really.

I also think Wei Wuxian started to buy into some of his own stories at his lowest points--the things he said or came up with, lies he told publicly, justifications he made for his choices once the heat of the moment and the panic was over. Justifications he made to himself and to others. He purposefully led people to believe much that was incorrect about him and his character and his status, to which the response was distaste and horror, and even though he planned it that way in order to push everyone away I really think he started to believe it himself. Depression and trauma are just really fun times.

I'm getting a bit off-topic.

The point remains, Wei Wuxian is extremely sacrificial. He comes by much of it naturally, and not nearly all of it is bad or melodrama or angst or even unhealthy or problematic. It's one of his good qualities, too, and it's one of the ways he knows how to love.

All of the threads weaving together to make Wei Wuxian and the situations he finds himself sacrificing things in are all true, but it also really comes down to love. He loved Jiang Cheng enough to sacrifice his everything and risk his life doing so. He loved his sect enough he was willing to sacrifice his right hand. He loved his sect enough to sacrifice his very ties to it. He loved Lan Zhan enough to sacrifice their friendship. He loved Jin Ling enough to sacrifice himself to the curse he got in the Nie tombs. (And more!)

Wei Wuxian loved, and so he sacrificed. Thus, the initial post.

Jiang Cheng

Let's switch gears for a moment and talk about my darling Jiang Wanyin.

Ah, Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng. Taking the initiative and sacrificing at the drop of a hat and so forth are not really characteristics of Jiang Cheng's the same way they are for Wei Wuxian.

And yet, is he not also a disciple of Yunmeng Jiang; is he not also a young hero? Has he not pride, and the incentive to do good?

Does he not also see love as sacrifice?

Zi Zhizhu was his mother. The woman who sacrificed to get Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian to safety. The woman who killed herself and crawled across the ground to hold her husband's hand in death.

You think she wasn't Like That the whole time? You think Jiang Cheng picked up nothing of such behaviours from her, even before that day?

Hah.

Besides which, there's absolutely an underlying theme of Jiang Cheng trying to be like Wei Wuxian for much of their lives.

Partially just...Wei Wuxian, strong and clever and popular shige, always manages to get credit and glory and good stories and good favour, exemplary of the Jiang motto--the one Jiang Cheng's own name is tied to. They were supposed to be shuangjie, besides. How could he not want to be like him at least a bit? If nothing else, it's a little brother's curse.

And partially this is also due to Jiang Cheng's parents and that whole Situation.

It was complicated for so many reasons, and absolutely left Jiang Cheng feeling inferior to Wei Wuxian. As though he needed to be more like Wei Wuxian, to emulate him, in order to be worthy of his title and station and inheritance, something that turned out to be categorically untrue in the end. There are many kinds of leaders, and many kinds of strengths.

As an aside, I personally think that's something Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan knew, themselves, as adults and leaders and political figures in their own rights. Adults often don't realise or think about how the things they say can influence children's entire worldviews and senses of self (why, no, I don't speak from experience, why would you ask such a thing ahaha).

Jiang-zongzhu and Zi Zhizhu got a lot of their own relationship difficulties and misunderstandings and conflicts and conflicting attempts to want the best for their children (and ward) tangled up in everything. I think if they'd ever been able to speak plainly, if they could manifest into the Ancestral Hall and speak to Jiang Cheng, they would say so.

Just as Jiang Cheng would have cause to be horrified by much of what Wei Wuxian believed about himself, I think Jiang Cheng's parents would have cause to be horrified by much of what Jiang Cheng believed. (I mean, and Wei Wuxian, probably.)

Anyway.

Jiang Cheng has plenty of reasons to aspire to those same ideals of sacrifice. And it's not just aspirations, either--we see him follow through.

He walked outside from that inn, saw Wei Wuxian in danger, and made a decision in the space of a single breath--a decision with full understanding, too. He knew he was giving up his entire life for Wei Wuxian's. He said goodbye in his head.

I would argue (and I'm sure I've said this before somewhere too) that his sacrifice was the purest example of this in the entire story.

Perhaps some of it is that many of Wei Wuxian's sacrifices are premeditated and just about all of them have alternative solutions that don't involve him just diving in and giving pieces of himself up.

That isn't to say that Wei Wuxian wouldn't see a sword aimed at Jiang Cheng and take the blow himself. But we never see him do that, exactly. As much as Jiang Cheng has internalised this ideal of Wei Wuxian's, he both encounters fewer of these situations and has other problem-solving tactics in his repertoire.

The way Jiang Cheng hates himself doesn't lead him to think of himself as disposable. I could get into a (very amateur) discussion of negative schemas formed in childhood and their various similarities and differences, and the different ways Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian's brains appear to work (Jiang Cheng sees himself as inferior, while Wei Wuxian willfully dehumanises himself in other ways), but basically, it's simply a different set of psychological issues.

But! When he is faced with the choice, Jiang Cheng absolutely dies for the ones he loves.

He loves his sect and his family, and he internalises love as sacrifice, and when it comes down to an extreme moment he chooses to die for them.

And then he doesn't die.

And then the war happens.

Jiang Cheng's Growth

There are a lot of reasons for Jiang Cheng to grow in this area, and I think it starts with inheriting the sect.

(This leads to excellent thoughts about What If Wei Wuxian Had Somehow Become Sect Leader but that's an au for another day.)

If sect heir was a position full of responsibility and reputation management, how much more so is zongzhu? Jiang Cheng is suddenly responsible for all these people. Whether he's good enough or not doesn't even matter. The job is there and it's inescapable and he's the only one there to do it.

I'm absolutely sure he still has all kinds of inferiority shit he's dealing with by post-timeskip and he only just gets to touch on some pieces of resolution by the end of the story, with the one person still in the world who would even know anything about the life that gave it to him.

Jiang Cheng has been responsible for people before, in small ways--night hunts and such, I'm sure, and he was certainly in charge of the Yunmeng Jiang disciples who went to Cloud Recesses. But being at the top of that hierarchy entirely is such a different matter, and he did so at a very young age and in a very fraught time.

The fact that he had to deal with all this new responsibility and duty to people more than his family and to causes greater than the first people in need he encounters is a huge perspective shift. Especially as a sect with nothing to give and no wiggle room where it comes not only to basic resources post-war, but to things like reputation and political standing. This is, of course, a huge facet to the conflict between him and Wei Wuxian (and the Wen remnants) at that point in the story.

But on a personal level it also speaks to the sacrifice thing. If Jiang Cheng sacrifices his life, he is not just sacrificing his own life anymore.

When he gave up his life for Wei Wuxian, he had not yet inherited. His parents were only barely gone. There was nothing to inherit. There was no surety of there ever being something to inherit ever again. Everything else was already gone. It was only the three of them, barely surviving, running for their lives. It was only him and Wei Wuxian in a street, and one of them had to die.

But once he inherits? He's a commander. He's a leader. He has all the knowledge and all the networking connections. He has the reputation. He has the social standing. He might still have a long way to go in developing his skills, but he has a natural leadership ability and he does have training appropriate to his station.

What happens if he personally sacrifices his life? What happens to all of that? What happens to everyone depending on him?

That's not very satisfying, very epic-worthy. That's not very dramatic or romantic. It's gradual, and messy, that kind of change and realisation. Becoming that kind of person. Making choices based in that reality. Deciding that you do not belong to yourself.

And I think it really comes to a head when his siblings die.

I think it comes to a head personally. Not just in his role as Jiang-zongzhu. We don't see Jiang Cheng choose not to die, in as many words. But we certainly see him choose to live.

Or, perhaps, we see the evidence of that choice.

Jiang Cheng could have faded away. He could have started delegating all his responsibilities, gotten help from other sects, trained up a replacement. He could have made such things necessary by getting more and more reclusive. He could have pulled a Qingheng-Jun.

Hell, with a-jie gone already, he could have just said fuck this and followed Wei Wuxian off that cliff, and if you don't think he wonders about that sometimes--at least at first--then we have very different interpretations of Jiang Cheng as a person.

And no, none of those are sacrifice. But at some point, he still chose to do the opposite.

He chose every day to live for his sect, to keep growing it into something powerful and secure. He took that vow that he made and he fucking stuck to it.

And he chose to live for Jin Ling.

I don't half wonder if that was a bigger driving force at first than anything else.

Jiang Cheng could absolutely have left Jin Ling to be raised by his Jin family in the absence of his parents and fucked off to hide away in Yunmeng and had nothing to do with him. He could have done a lot of things, let himself develop in a lot of ways, unhealthy ways.

But he so very clearly did not.

Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng have a close relationship. Jin Ling defers to Jiang Cheng, is answerable to him on night hunts and beyond them. It's never questioned why he's basically just in the Yunmeng Jiang party by himself. Yunmeng Jiang disciples answer to Jin Ling in turn, follow his orders without question in the absence of their zongzhu. It's a Yunmeng Jiang disciple who hands Xianzi off to Jin Ling outside the Guanyin Temple in Yunping, and Jiang Cheng is intimately familiar with Xianzi's commands and is apparently a trusted person to give them (which, we find out, Jin Guangyao is not.)

As much as Jiang Cheng is not good at saying what he means, and especially after everything he's been through his softer bits have grown harder and harder carapace around them, Jin Ling never seems to misunderstand what Jiang Cheng means. They snipe at each other and snark and bitch and roll their eyes and so clearly love each other.

Jiang Cheng's love for Jin Ling shines brightly the second you know how to interpret Jiang Cheng, and Jin Ling absolutely does. Jin Ling's trust in Jiang Cheng is incredible.

Jin Ling is practically Yunmeng Jiang's heir, and practically Jiang Cheng's son.

That sort of thing doesn't just happen, because you're related or whatever. In fact, the story goes out of its way to present blood relations not being close, especially father figures.

Which means from a young age, Jin Ling knew Jiang Cheng's love. Jiang Cheng, struggling young zongzhu of a struggling newly-rebuilt sect, who just lost everything, barely more than a kid himself, figured out he needed to not only stay alive, but needed to live for Jin Ling.

He needed to teach him everything, needed to figure out how to be the best of his own father and mother, and the best of Jin Ling's father and mother, and live up to every lost bit of love Jin Ling should have had, and try, and try, no matter how unworthy or unfit or inferior he felt. No matter how much he fucked up and didn't know. No matter how much grief he was dealing with. No matter how many people hated him and how few friends he had. No matter how much there was to do. No matter how overwhelming the endless tide of days, of forever in front of him felt, horrible and empty of everyone that had come before. Jiang Cheng still chose to live.

He carved out that new life because of love. He didn't die for anyone, and he didn't die for anyone's memory. He lived.

"I never thought I'd be worth the work it would take to piece myself together," but he did, for his sect, his disciples, his family's legacy, his siblings' memories, and Jin Ling.

And, as a bonus knife, the things we see him chide Jin Ling the most for? Are specifically things Wei Wuxian would have done, and even things he would have done in following him. Grandstanding, not asking for help when needed, wandering off alone, making unnecessary sacrifices.

Wei Wuxian's Growth

That brings us to Wei Wuxian coming back. And, well, the boy still has a long way to go. He goes through a lot of kinds of growth post-timeskip. And I think this is one of them.

For one, he's already fucking died once.

Honestly, almost ironically, that death wasn't even fully a sacrifice. Perhaps in some ways it was, in some ways he internalised that it was. But regardless, after all his sacrificing, he finally died. And, much like Jiang Cheng's sacrifice, it didn't stick. He woke back up. Albeit 16 years later.

Now, he wasn't keen on dying, or he maybe would have just gone back. But that doesn't mean he'd suddenly decided to live for anyone rather than die for them.

And, indeed, we still see that side of him come back with him in full force. He starts off by deciding he will just live this new life without Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan altogether.

I think, for Wei Wuxian, this matter of sacrifice ends up being tied into a lot of other pieces of his growth--none of it happens independently of each other.

First, he is shown and told that he is wanted. That's the first thing. He cannot simply go on without inconveniencing/endangering/roping anyone else into his shit because his ties to other people don't work in only one direction. He is wanted.

Lan Zhan wants to be at his side, has not forgotten him, and loves him unwaveringly. That is a huge first step, right there at the beginning, when Lan Zhan grabs his hand, and they make eye contact, and by the time Lan Zhan turns to look away Wei Wuxian is grabbing his hand back desperately and that pretty much says everything it needs to right there.

The idea that Wei Wuxian can act at all without having any negative affect on anyone tied to him is something we see even outside the concept of sacrifice--how many times before his death, even before his defection, do we see him say things like "you can insult me, but don't involve the Yunmeng Jiang sect" like. Like. Wei Wuxian please. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.

So I think him realising that other people will willingly be tied to him and there's nothing he can do about it, that his actions affect the people who care about him all the time, is something he still has to learn/relearn even after everything that happened leading up to his death. I think, in particular, Wei Wuxian realising that it's not just his mistakes and fuckups that affect people, but his intentional actions, too. Like sacrifices. Even if they're at his own expense. Because people care and that's okay and good.

Lan Zhan drives that home with things like noticing that Wei Wuxian has transferred Jin Ling's curse to his own leg, and then insisting on carrying him.

Lan Zhan notices. Lan Zhan cares. This act of sacrifice does not end with Wei Wuxian suffering. It has cascading effects, even something this small. It is, perhaps, more effective a lesson on a small scale with fewer complexities woven in, than it would be on the larger scale issues he dealt with before his death.

This idea that his sacrifices affect people beyond him is carried through the rest of the story, too, from the way everyone seems to fret about him after the Burial Mounds and Lan Sizhui runs to hold him, down to the fact that he has to answer for how his sacrifice of his golden core to Jiang Cheng affects Jiang Cheng. Both the absence of his own golden core being a catalyst for a lot of other shit, and finding out about the core transfer actually fucking Jiang Cheng up. Which, it turns out, Wei Wuxian kind of knew would happen, he just thought he could get away with not dealing with it if he kept the secret better.

Wei Wuxian can't escape his sacrifices and his actions having an effect on those around him, the ones who care and the ones he cares about, or even the object of his sacrifice, and he really does have to have that hammered home.

He also deals with growth related to his pride and arrogance. He learns how to be weak, he learns how to have alternate forms of strength, he learns how to let others in, and let others stand with him.

Most of this is related to Lan Zhan, and I've already covered it at least somewhat in another meta, but it relates back to this, because those are two driving forces behind his sacrificial nature.

If Wei Wuxian is allowed to be weak, is allowed to hesitate, is allowed to go to others for help, is allowed to look for alternative solutions, that sets a better precedent for cutting down on the habitual self-sacrifice tendencies.

Additionally, he learns that others can and will stand with him in his sacrifices, when they are necessary.

Look at the way he pushes Lan Zhan away on the steps of Jinlintai, but Lan Zhan steps back toward him, and draws his sword, and declares his love before heaven and earth, saying in as many words that Wei Wuxian need not walk his path alone, and they fight together.

And the next time Wei Wuxian goes to sacrifice? In the Burial Mounds? He doesn't even think twice before volunteering Lan Zhan to stand with him. His entire plan revolves around the idea that Lan Zhan will stand with him--without even consulting Lan Zhan--and in doing so, they may be able to prevent Wei Wuxian from actually sacrificing his life.

Already we see him internalising a lot of that growth. He doesn't need to grandstand or prove himself; he doesn't care what everyone there thinks of him, and for the ones he does care about he is secure in their regard for him. He doesn't first attempt to sacrifice himself and be bait to draw the fierce corpses away while everyone including Lan Zhan runs off. He doesn't have to be convinced to accept Lan Zhan as part of his plan. He doesn't have to have Lan Zhan simply stay behind and then deal with the addition of him later.

Compare, if you will, the Xuanwu cave. Wei Wuxian absolutely expected everyone else to leave while he drew its attention, and Lan Zhan staying was not part of his original plan. Yes, later on they attacked the Xuanwu together, but that was different entirely. At first, he was just being bait to get everyone else to safety.

In the Burial Mounds? He's already worked Lan Zhan having his back into his plans.

It's still a sacrifice, but he's come a really long way about it.

So now that we've mitigated some of the sacrificial tendencies, modulated their effects on his choices, we come down to the "live for you instead of die for you" issue.

My positing that Wei Wuxian has reached this point by the end of the story has a lot more to do with having seen the patterns of his growth, watching the way he interacted with Jiang Cheng regarding the issue of the golden core transfer being revealed, watching the way he interacted with Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan in general evolve, and watching him allow himself to have more and more attachments by the end of the story. And getting the overall vibe that living is now important, and there are things to live for in this world now that he's back in it.

However, if I had to narrow it down to one moment to exemplify this, I would point to the moment where he's caught around the neck by Jin Guangyao.

Wei Wuxian absolutely knows that if Lan Zhan sheathes Bichen, they're all fucked. Lan Zhan could easily take everyone here who would fight him, but not if he sheathes his sword and seals his spiritual power. And at this point it's increasingly likely that if they let themselves be captured they're simply not going to make it out alive. None of them. No matter what Jin Guangyao says.

Lan Zhan's best chance for survival and Jin Guangyao's best chance at being brought to justice/captured are one and the same in this moment--Lan Zhan keeping his sword, and either taking Jin Guangyao down himself or escaping to go fetch the assembled sect leaders and such at Lotus Pier.

Wei Wuxian knows this. It's why he begs Lan Zhan to be okay with his death and to do this Right Thing anyway.

Lan Zhan is not, and does not.

I don't think Wei Wuxian is surprised by this, to be fair.

But he could have ensured it would happen. He could have ensured that Jin Guangyao would go down. He could have ensured, more importantly, that Lan Zhan lived. He could have prevented Lan Zhan from sheathing Bichen to begin with.

He could have sacrificed himself.

It would have been incredibly easy at that point. All he had to do was fight back instead of hold still. Jin Guangyao was not bluffing, probably, though he just as surely knew if Wei Wuxian died then he was next, he counted on everyone wanting Wei Wuxian alive more than they wanted him dead. So if Wei Wuxian had tried to fight back or escape, he would have died.

Jin Guangyao would have been shocked, very very briefly. The resulting chaos would have seen everyone in custody who needed to be. Perfect.

And, you know, Lan Zhan would have been once more Wei-Ying-less.

Wei Wuxian very notably does not make this sacrifice. Even if it means they get captured. Even if it means they likely die together instead of only one of them dying. Even if that math is terrible on the surface of it.

He doesn't make Lan Zhan watch him die again. He doesn't presume that his loss means nothing. He doesn't presume that his life is not worth it, that his sacrifice is worth it.

Wei Wuxian actively chooses to live. He chooses to live for Lan Zhan. For the chance that they will both find a way out, and if they don't, then they are together in this and that matters more.

And he keeps making that choice. At no point in the confrontation with Jin Guangyao, for all those hours and hours and hours of back and forth and monologuing in that damned temple, does Wei Wuxian try to grandstand or throw himself sacrificially into the mix in any way. He is always working with everyone there to whatever extent possible, to the ends that everyone (including people he cedes the political superiority to) decides upon. He releases ownership of the situation, of needing to fix the situation, of needing to fix the situation by giving himself up.

I've been writing this so long I'm starting to lose the threads of my own thoughts, but yeah.

By the end, I think Wei Wuxian learns a lot and grows a lot and finally hits the point that Jiang Cheng hit years and years prior.

"I never thought I'd be worth the work it would take to piece myself together," but he was confronted with the idea of it again and again until it had to stick, and so he did. For Lan Zhan, for Lan Sizhui, for Jin Ling, for the other juniors.

I do think there will always be some element of self-sacrifice to Wei Wuxian's character that remain unchanged. He is a caretaker and a fixer at the heart of him. He is a big brother and I think maturity has only expanded that trait. He's also notably not a leader, and to some extent he does belong to himself both more and less than he ever could before his death.

But that doesn't have to be a bad thing. And it doesn't negate him embracing the idea of living for the ones he loves, getting better for the ones he loves, and letting them keep him in their lives.

I'd like to think that this piece of character growth is another significant thing in favour of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng being able to forge not just a healthy relationship but a healthier relationship post-canon than they may have ever had before, or at least in a very long time.

[waiting4inspiration]

Darkness before Dawn XVI: The End

Summary: Kurst has enough power to interact with people in the living realm and teases at your breaking point by killing someone in your family. Geralt finds the tomb in your painting and hopes that this last attempt at saving your life works

Warnings: angst, strong language, blood, murder, small fluff, magical elements, mentions of abuse, did I miss anything?

Word Count: 3,660

Darkness before Dawn Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist

You don’t realize that you’re in the castle, running down the halls until you see your mother walking by herself. Thinking that you’ve broken out of what you’re used to being dreams, you don’t even question how you got to the middle of the castle. You’re just happy to be out of Krust’s hold. 

“Mother?” you call out, wrapping your arms around you when you realize that you’re slightly cold. She doesn’t stop or turn around. So you call out to her again, this time louder and sterner. “Mother!”

She stops and slowly turns her head over her shoulder. A smile fails to grow on your face because of the way her eyes seem to look past you completely. Like you’re invisible. It’s not like when she used to look at you before as if you mean nothing, as if you don’t exist. This time, it’s really as if she can’t see you. 

A dark chuckle sounds behind you and you feel an all too familiar, terrible hand touch your shoulder. “Poor Princess. Mommy can’t see ghosts,” Kurst laughs, making you push his hand off your shoulder as you turn around to face him. 

You back away from him as he takes a step forward. “What are you talking about?” you ask, a frown growing on your face at his words as you shake your head in confusion. 

All he does is smirk at you and look up at your mother as she starts to slowly walk again. “Why don’t I show you what I can do so far?” he slyly says. Then, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and then steps forward. 

His footsteps echo through the hall and it makes your mother jump around. She gasps at the sight of a strange man standing a few feet away from her but quickly composes herself. “Who are you?” she demands, raising her head in confidence and regality. 

Your eyes grow wide as you look between Kurst and your mother. How can she see him and not you? 

That’s a stupid question. It’s like he told you. With enough of your soul, your life force, he can interact with people in the living world. And when he looks at you with that evil smile, you know that he’s not going to just talk with your mother. 

“No!” you scream as you rush towards him to try and stop him. But he stops you by catching you by your throat, tightens his grip and makes you heave for air. 

“I’m a friend of (Y/n),” he says to Uza, takes a step forward and then pushes you away from him. 

You fall on the ground, coughing and heavily breathing as you touch your neck where he had his hand. When you close your eyes, you can feel your strength in the living realm fading. You’re dying. You wonder what will be the breaking point. 

Uza rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest as she examines the man slowly walking towards her. “Where exactly are you from? Because I have never seen you before or anyone dressed like...that,” she speaks, gesturing to his clothing that looks old, almost falling at the seams and with faded colors. 

Kurst laughs, nods his head and looks down at you. “Actually, I’m from the spirit realm. You’ve probably heard of me,” he says, lifting his gaze back to Uza when she shifts on her feet. “I’m Kurst.”

The realization falls over your mother’s face and her mouth drops open in shock as her eyes grow wide. She shakes her head frantically as she backs away when Kursts takes hasty steps towards her. “No, it’s impossible,” she whispers, and it’s the first time you’re seeing fear in her eyes. Actual fear. 

Pushing yourself off the ground, you figure that if you’re still alive in the living realm, you can draw whatever strength remains to use some magick to save your mother. “Kurst, leave her,” you weakly order, making him turn around with Uza in his grip already. 

He tilts his head in confusion at you. “Why should I spare her? What has she ever done for you?” he questions, holds onto her tightly when she tries to escape his hold. His speaking to someone else that she can’t see is what stops her from screaming for help and makes her look for the person he’s talking to; you. “Just think, (Y/n), all those years where she hurt you, left marks on your body. You can get revenge for that right now by seeing her die right now,” he growls, his hand turning into the claw you remember scratching you the night you were cursed. The claws that left a scar on your forearm. 

“(Y/n)?” Uza questions, looking around for you. “(Y/n), please-”

Kurst stops her from speaking by pushing a sharp claw against her throat and shushing her softly. “Why try and save someone as despicable as her? After everything she’s done to you,” he says, smirking at you as you shake your head at him. 

“She's still my mother,” you say, stepping closer to him as you hold your hand behind you to hide the blue glow as you conjure a spell. “No matter how awful she’s been, she doesn’t deserve to die by your hand. No one does.”

And with the last strength you have in the living realm, you throw your spell towards him, hoping it will set his entire body ablaze. But that doesn’t happen. He holds out his hand and catches your spell, absorbing it and smiling brightly. “I thought you’d do that,” he chuckles.

Just before you can even move forward to try and physically stop him, he slices his claw through your mother’s throat, making blood run down her front. The sight is just like what you saw he played a trick on you with Charlotte. Only this time, the blood is real and the horrible gurgling sound your mother makes as she falls to her knees tells you how true this. 

You watch her body fall to the ground, your heart sinking in your chest as you fall to your knees in front of her. You’re absolutely speechless and you don’t know what to do. You can’t conjure up more magick because of how weak your living body is and you’re pretty sure Kurst will finish all this soon. 

He breathes out a sigh as he steps around your dead mother. “Don’t worry. I can make sure your entire family dies with you,” Kurst states, making your head turn up to him as he smiles down as his clawed hand. “So you don’t get lonely in the spirit realm.”

Knowing that there’s nothing else you can do, you drop your head and bite your lower lip at the thought that you’re ready to give up. You thought you’d beat this curse with Geralt, and Ida. You thought you’d defeat this Death curse. You never thought you’d give up. But you're ready for that now. 

Landing on the ground with unsteady feet, Geralt grunts and tries to find something to steady himself on. “I hate portals,” he mutters to himself as he turns his head over his shoulder and slightly up to the sky to see the portal that Ida hastily created to bring him to wherever he is close and disappear. 

He can only dread the next portals that will bring him back if he is successful. 

His head turns back to see what lies in front of him, and it’s almost as dark as your painting. A normal human would have to be squinting to be careful of falling over tombstones - both those that are still standing and those that have fallen to pieces. Geralt doesn’t care for the tombstones. He’s not looking for a particular one. 

He’s looking for a mausoleum. The one in your painting. He had just enough time to memorize it before being thrown into a portal, but every tomb he comes across looks similar. Except for one feature. The name.

Sastan. That was the name your depiction had so that is the name he is looking out for. He’s alone in this, Malla taking the job of continuing to search for you in the spirit realm. Perhaps then, if she does find you, she can protect you from Krust, hindering his plan to steal your life force. 

Keeping his silver sword in hand in case there are any monsters lurking around, Geralt’s eyes never stop moving from side to side. He knows he has to move quickly, but he doesn’t want to risk missing anything. He has to check every mausoleum name, check that there’s no Graveir hiding somewhere, no Ghoul that jumps up from under the ground. Those types of monsters are very fond of cemeteries like this one; dark and gloomy. 

Then, he stops something that he had forgotten about in your image. That menacing symbol on the roof of the tomb. It’s the only mausoleum to have that circular symbol, Geralt doesn’t know how he missed it. He hums to himself, runs his tongue over his lower lip, reads the name engraved in the stone, and then takes the step towards the door of the crypt. 

He wants to end this once and for all. 

Lighting a torch with a flint, he pushes on the sturdy wooden door. It doesn’t budge. So, he takes a step back, holds the torch in one hand, and kicks the door above the handle, making it crack open. Without hesitating, he moves forward and into the crypt by pushing the door open. 

The tomb is dark, the only light coming from the torch in Geralt’s hand and the open door behind him. And there’s only one sarcophagus in the sepulcher. He hopes this is it. He hopes so much that this is what he’s been looking for. He hopes that this is what will end the curse and bring you back to life. He hopes that when he moves the stone top, it will be the bones he needs to burn. 

Swallowing roughly, he pushes the top of the sarcophagus off, making stone grind against stone and expose the corpse. Geralt’s nose scrunches at the smell, but knows that he’s smelt worse. The smell of a corpse is nothing compared to the corpse of a Nekker. Or even a living one at that. 

With a deep breath, he lowers the fiery torch and drops it in among the bones. Taking a step back, he watches the fire catch on the scraps of material that give the fire life and allow it to spread. 

He’ll wait there until every single bone is nothing but ash.

Kurst tries to take a step forward to you, but it’s like his foot is pinned to the ground. He tries again, this time his grunt of effort making your head lift up away from your mother’s body to look at him. “What are you doing?” he asks, glaring at you with dark eyes. 

But you shake your head, frown at him before glancing down at his feet. Then, you see fire forming under his feet. It’s not the blue fire you threw at him. This is real fire and it makes you crawl backward away from him. 

His head snaps down to his feet when he feels the fire and watches it starting to rise up his leg. “What are you doing, you bitch?” he shouts, trying to move again but he stays in his place. 

“It looks like my Witcher found your grave, Sastan,” you whisper, a small smile growing on your face as you tear your eyes away from the flames starting to engulf him. 

Kurst screams in agony and continues to try and move his feet as his hands swat at the flames creeping up his body. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch the fire burn his flesh, but there’s no smell. He continues to scream in pain, and all you can do to try and find the heat from the fire. But you still feel cold. Before the flames reach his head, Kurst looks at you with dark eyes. “I’ll get my hands on you somehow, Princess. Dark magic still exists,” he shouts, his hand shooting out as if to grab you. 

“Only in the living world,” you state, staring at his burning figure with a small smile on your face. 

This is the revenge you wanted for someone who has hurt you. Watching the person who caused sleepless nights, gave you nightmares, and invoked fear in your burn is somehow like a breath of relief. Knowing that they’ll never hurt you like they did before again makes you smile. 

And as he burns up, the fire disappearing along with him, you expect to wake in your bed, surrounded by your family. But you don’t. You remain alone and on the floor of the hall. 

Your gaze falls down to the body in front of you. Blinking, you almost expect your mother’s corpse to disappear like it was one of Kurst’s illusions. But she remains there in a pool of blood. Tears fill your eyes as you slowly crawl forward, a lump forms in your throat as you reach out to touch her shoulder. 

Your hand goes right through her body as if you were touching water. A sob leaves your lips as you fall back to a seated position, your hand shooting to your mouth and you force yourself to look away from your mother. You feel a pang of rising guilt inside you, the kind that normally comes when your mother blamed you for things in the past. 

And you can’t help but hear her voice tell you that this is all your fault, that she died because of you. This is all your fault. 

It hurts even more that you don’t have a single happy memory of your mother. She’s always cared more about Charlotte than you, treated her better than you since you were a child. Even in the moments where you were basically dying, she didn’t care. She didn’t change like Charlotte did. Now, you don’t have anything to think of to make the realization that she’s gone easier. 

Yes, perhaps Kurst made some sense. She’s done nothing for you and maybe this is what she deserved. But still, you don’t think a death sentence isn’t a verdict for anyone. You would have thought of something else to ‘get back at her’, as it were. 

A hand falls on your shoulder making your head snap up and hope that it’s someone in the living realm that has found you. Someone like Jaskier, your father, Ida, Charlotte. Geralt…

Malla gives you a small, sincere smile as she helps you stand to your feet. “I know I’m not the one you wished to see right now,” she whispers when she notices the hopeful look on your face die.  

“Am I dead?” you ask, not knowing if it was too late for Geralt to save you or if he really did succeed. All you know is that you’re still a ghost in the living realm. But when you turn your head over your shoulder to look back at your mother, you find that she’s gone and you’re not in the castle anymore. 

You're in that big, black nothingness again. You look around for a while, trying to find someone, something, anything in the emptiness. But just like it was only you and Kurst last time, this time it’s just you and Malla. 

“No. But you’re not alive either,” she says as she holds your hands in hers. “This is where you have the choice not all spirits have. You can stay here and die peacefully in the living world. You’ll have no more pain and this emptiness can be whatever you want it to be. Something that makes you happy, a place filled with people you love. Or-” She pauses, lets her words settle in your mind for a moment before she turns to show you a door behind her. It’s the door to your room. “You can choose to go back and live your life where nothing is set in stone and no one knows what will happen.”

Staring at her for a moment, your mouth drops slightly as your eyes shift to the door. You blink, not sure what to do. The former sounds like it could be so serene. You can have anything and be happy. You can choose to not be a queen, have your painting station and unlimited paints and brushes. You can have Geralt. 

You shake your head, clear your throat and look at Malla again. “What about Kurst? Isn’t he now stuck in the spirit realm? Won’t he come after me?” you ask. You don’t want to go through everything again now that he’s essentially been defeated. 

“Because his bones were burnt, he lost any kind of power he had before. And, trust me, there are a few spirits here that have some...business with Theis,” she says, a small smirk on her face and a chuckle on her voice. “And if you choose to stay here, no matter if your own bones are burned, you won’t have what he was looking for.”

Her explanation makes sense and you nod your head. “And my mother? Is she here?”

Malla sighs, tilts her head to the side and places her hand on your shoulder. She can hear the sorrow in your voice but isn’t sure if it’s because of her death or because of the thought that you might be stuck with someone that has the potential to hurt you. “You won’t have to see her and interact with her if you don’t want to,” she gently says as she steps to the side to let you choose between the door and the emptiness. 

You don’t know what to choose. You can be eternally happy here. Knowing that if you do choose life, the curse will be broken and your father will pay Geralt for his work, spending the Witcher out of Eronia and leaving you. There’s no way you’ll be able to go with him. You’re the future heir to the throne and you still have so much to learn. And you don’t want that feeling you’re sure you’ll feel if you ask him to stay and he says no. 

Still, there is still so much you have in the living world. You have your father, Jaskier, your sister, and Ida. You have your magick that excites you every time you learn something new. And even though it was never your choice, you’re sure that you could help people so much as a Queen with magick in her blood. 

And nothing will compare to Geralt’s real touch, no matter how realistic it will seem. You’ll still know that deep down, it’s not real. 

With a deep breath, you step forward and close your eyes as you push open the door. 

It was like everything was a dream because when you open your eyes again, you’re lying in your bed and it’s as if you’re waking up because it takes a moment for you to realize where you are and what happened before this. You feel someone’s hand over yours and you slowly move your head to see who it is. 

Your movement makes Ida’s head snap up and a smile breaks out on her face when she sees your eyes open. “Dominic,” she calls, quickly looking over at your father standing at the foot of your bed with his back towards you before he moves to place the back of her hand against your forehead. 

Hearing Ida calling, your father, Jaskier, and Charlotte all turn to look at you, joy and relief spreading across their faces when they see you moving about, trying to get Ida to stop feeling the warmth returning to your skin that used to be so cold. “Thank Gods,” Dominic whispers as he moves forward and sits down beside you, his hand reaching out to touch the side of your face makes you sigh. 

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice cracking as if you haven’t spoken in days. Charlotte and Jaskier join your other side and you sigh again. “You don’t have to crowd around me like a newborn baby,” you mutter, making them laugh and back up a little bit to give you some space. 

That’s when you remember your mother. You don’t see her in the room and it’s the one thing you hope was just a dream. When you shoot up with a gasp, your head starts to spin and Jaskier’s hand quickly shoots out to stop you from falling over. “Take it easy, (Y/n). You just came back to life,” he chuckles, but you only shake your head as you look to Ida and your father. 

“It’s mother. Kurst...killed her,” you whisper, a lump forming in your throat makes it hard to speak and you look over at Charlotte when she shifts in her spot. 

“I’m sure she’s okay-”

“No,” you sternly say, cutting your father and looking at him with tear-filled eyes. “No. She’s not. I saw him kill her.”

Charlotte raises a hand to her mouth and looks at Dominic who looks at her for a moment in return. And just like that, the joyous atmosphere of your awakening ends and is replaced with one of terror and anxiousness. Without a word, your father turns and briskly walks to leave the room. Charlotte moves to try and follow him, but you quickly grab her hand to stop her, shaking your head when she looks down at you. You know it’s best if she didn’t see your mother in a pool of her own blood.

You know you don’t want to see it again, even if the image is stuck in your mind.

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[cozyenigma]

No Adventurer Left Behind

Now with a sequel Here!

(seem to be on a bit of an Illinois kick lately but I’m not complaining)

Pairing- Illinois/Reader

Word Count- 1,356

Request?- Yes!

Summary- Usually on these adventures, it was Illinois who ended up the hero. Leave it to you to flip the script and (technically) die on him. No problem though! Things will be a-okay as soon as you can find whoever ran off with your body... preferably before they find you.

Tag list- @cookielover0001010​ , @swag-droid​ , @watchoutforfrostbite​

Warnings- injury, blood, character death 

"You've got to get out of here," you were practically begging him at this point.

Stubborn as ever though, Illinois disagreed. "The whole self sacrificing shtick is cute darling but I'm not leaving you."

You bit your lip, taking in how he was slumped against the wall for support. His hand was still clamped to his side. "I don't think you have a choice."

"We're not having this conversation right now," he ground out, "not ever."

There was a crash down the hall and you both flinched. "I think I'll find you eventually if you stick around here."

"That's not you down there and you know it." Still, he listened to you this time. Illinois pushed himself off the wall and you could see him wince for a split second before he schooled his expression.

"Seriously," you tried again, "I think- I don't feel like..." You let out a shaky breath. "Am I dead, Illinois?"

"No," he spat, not looking your way, "you're not dead. And I'm not leaving."

"Well, I can still kind of come with you?" Another crash has you looking back, into the dark. "Not like I can get hit twice."

The joke came out rather weak to begin with. From the poisonous glare Illinois sent your way it wouldn't have been received well regardless. He huffed and kept walking.

Your memory was a little spotty. Between your... accident and now you weren't quite sure what had happened.

It started with exploring just like usual. A little extra adventure since you'd found the artifact so quickly. It was an old, intricate looking pendant with a deep red stone set inside it. Small enough you could carry it in one hand. You were looking it over as Illinois led. The situation was familiar and you should've felt comfortable but...

But then you had to go and ask. Illinois had been taken off guard. He had turned towards you, still walking, and hadn't heard the tile shift under his foot until it was too late.

Traps always had you on edge. You would catch yourself half reaching for him every time he waltzed through one, heart in your throat. So it was almost second nature for you to surge forward. You remembered his shout as you pushed him out of the way. The glint of metal sailing towards you. Pain. Panicked words, just far away enough you couldn't quite make them out.

The pendant in your hand, warm. Before you’d blacked out you thought you could hear a sickly thump thump thump, picking up speed.

Then, next thing you knew, you were back. Illinois was injured, hiding, and very much shocked to see you. It took the both of you precious minutes to calm down before Illinois filled you in.

You frowned, looking down at your own hands. They were see through. It was like you were just an outline rather than something solid. Sensations felt muted, far away. You were basically a ghost but Illinois had told you not to say that.

"Think..." he panted, "think where you got hit is around the corner." Illinois glanced over at you. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Well, my body isn't there anymore so..."

Despite you trying to brush it off, your stomach still dropped when you saw it. Blood everywhere. The spear was lying abandoned in the middle of a dark red puddle. You glanced back towards Illinois. His clothes and hands were stained with blood and you could only hope it was yours.

Illinois swallowed. "We gotta keep moving."

He stepped over the blood, pointedly looking dead ahead. You couldn't help but glance back.

"Illinois what are you even planning to do? I- or whoever has my body, anyways- they almost killed you." Illinois didn't answer and you grit your teeth, stepping into his path. "You can barely walk, this is a suicide mission!"

His eyes narrowed. "And you would know all about that, huh?"

"That's not-"

"Not fair? Don't talk to me about fair. I had to watch you bleed out in front of me. You don't get to tell me about fair."

Illinois swallowed, letting out a breath and pressing down on his side a bit harder.

You don't hesitate. "I would do it again."

"Do not," the warning came out too quiet. Too pleading. "Just- don't."

He stepped around you. At least he still was steady on his feet for now. Neither of you talked much after that. This place was a maze and you had no frame of reference anymore. You were beginning to wonder if Illinois did either. His labored breathing echoed off the walls. After a while neither of you could ignore that he was slowing down.

"Okay, shit, I gotta," he leaned against a wall, trying to catch his breath, "gotta stop."

Though the crashing sounds had faded you had no doubts that the body snatcher wasn't far. Illinois had to keep moving.

"And here you always teased me for taking breaks, Mr. Big Tough Adventurer," your joke was flat, full of nerves.

"It's either this," he panted, "or I pass out, darlin'. Take your pick."

You glanced back down the hall. The silence wasn't reassuring. Illinois's flashlight got busted at some point, flickering on and off at random. This place would be both of your tombs if you didn't hurry.

Illinois was breathing easier now at least. Moving to where he could look at you, he said, "Wondering if you were holding out on me."

You couldn't help but jump. "Huh?"

"Were you always that strong or was all that back there some kind of supernatural thing?" Illinois grinned. "Trying not to steal my thunder?"

"No uh- that's new." You didn't know what exactly he was referring to but it wasn't hard to guess. He had some broken ribs and a concussion at least. Whoever was in your body right now was way stronger than you ever were. How did Illinois even get away the first time?

"Maybe you'll get lucky," he grunted as he stood up again, "keep the superhuman strength after you get your body back. Then you'll be sweeping me off my feet, huh?”

You looked away, fists clenched. "Illinois-"

"Stop it," he turned to you, reaching out. His hand passed right through yours and his face fell for a moment. "I'll... We'll figure this out, okay?"

"How?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out that same pendant. "With this. Did some digging while you were... gone. It was in your hand, right?"

"When I died?" You ignored how his nose wrinkled. "Yeah."

"Well then, there we go. You got impaled, stood up a minute later completely fine. Like it never even happened. Only issue is that it wasn't you up here," he tapped his head.

"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" Your horror only mounted as he nodded.

"Just gotta make sure they have this on them and do 'em in a second time." Illinois grinned, "That simple."

With that he pocketed the pendant and started walking again. You sputtered, hurrying to catch up.

"What?! You can't!" You can only imagine the dozens of ways this can go wrong. "You don't even know if this is going to work!"

He huffed a tired laugh. "So you're allowed to sacrifice yourself for me but not the other way around? No, don't worry about me. Doesn't suit you. I'm going to get you your body back and live to tell you off afterwards."

"Illi hey- I'm begging you, please." You swallowed. "Just- you can't fix this. You're running on fumes, you know you are."

A beat passed.

"My other partners, I couldn't do anything for them. I can do something for you. I can save you still. I’m not losing you. Not again.” From his tone you knew there was no arguing with him. Even though he was injured, even though he was breathing a little too heavily, he still moved forward.

"The answer is yes by the way."

"What?"

"You asked if I thought you were cut out for adventuring," Illinois said, not looking back, "the answer is still yes."

[quazartranslates]

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH56

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 56: Purgatory Reunion (VIII)

The news caught Qi Leren off guard. The Illusionist’s strength was unfathomable. If it was the Village of Dusk, Qi Leren didn't need to worry about his safety at all, but this was the Underground Ant City.

An underground world ruled by field-level masters, where humans and demons coexisted, and every month, an army of demons vastly impacted this underground fortress, and there is a gap leading to the underworld in the depths of Purgatory...

It was too dangerous here, and the place the Illusionist had gone missing was the royal palace of the Dragon Ant Queen.

"What was the Illusionist going to see the Dragon Ant Queen for?" Qi Leren instinctively guessed that it might be the Dragon Ant Queen who detained the Illusionist, but he didn't know why the Illusionist had come to the Underground Ant City. Chen Baiqi hadn't told him, and Qi Leren hadn't asked about it while on the way to Ning Zhou.

"This....." The contact Celia hesitated. It was likely that she couldn't disclose the mission information casually. Although Qi Leren had come with the Illusionist, he was not an executive officer of the Court.

Hesitant, Celia glanced at Ning Zhou again. She remembered that this man was the Holy See’s special envoy in the Court.

Ning Zhou asked: "Have you contacted the Court?"

"The letter requesting instruction was sent out yesterday, but I'm afraid I won't receive a reply until next week," Celia said.

"Tell us what happened, it won't help to wait any longer," Ning Zhou said lightly.

"Yes, Mr. Ning Zhou. The thing is, the Prophet has a secret agreement with the Dragon Ant Queen, which stipulates that when the next Dragon Ant Queen succeeds the throne, the Prophet will send someone to witness. When the Prophet received an invitation from the Dragon Ant Queen, he appointed the Illusionist to witness the handover ceremony," Celia said with a heavy expression. "Before leaving, the Illusionist agreed that he would contact us every day, but there’s been no news since he entered Dragon Ant Queen’s royal palace."

"Didn't you go to him?" Qi Leren asked in wonder.

"We went, but we couldn't enter the palace without Dragon Ant Queen’s edict or the Prophet," Celia said.

Qi Leren thought about it. The royal palaces of the Dragon Ant Queens of all previous dynasties were not in the same place. Their royal palaces were magnificent, huge and unfathomable, and even horrible to ordinary people—because their royal palaces were their last tombs.

Since the day they began to reign, they had been building magnificent tombs for themselves. The deeper they dug, the bigger they were. With huge manpower and their own almost terrible power, the tombs Dragon Ant Queens were a huge city, which was built from the day they had begun to reign and would not stop until the day they died.

Strangely, except for the first Dragon Ant Queen, who lived a long life, every Dragon Ant Queen has been in office for only 20 years. This Dragon Ant Queen had been in office for 22 years. She had been a young girl 22 years ago, and now she was as old as an elder.

Her underground tomb had already been built so large that it could be called a magnificent underground city.

This was also her palace.

"But there is a clue..." Celia gritted her teeth and told the information. "On the morning when the Illusionist went to the palace, a gambler saw him in an underground casino that demons frequent."

"Have you verified it?" Qi Leren asked.

"I sent someone, but the informant who went to verify didn’t come back. Recently, the number of unidentified missing people in the entire Underground Ant City is several times that of the past, which is very alarming," Celia said gravely.

"Has there been a similar situation before?" Qi Leren asked again.

Celia was silent for a moment, as if thinking something. For a long time, she sighed softly: "I’ve never experienced it, but I have heard of some things... This situation is very similar to the period when the previous Dragon Ant Queen fell more than twenty years ago. The order of the whole Underground Ant City had completely collapsed, and the tension between demons and human residents had intensified. Although it wasn’t the time for the demon tide, demons poured out from every corner, and neither humans nor demons could easily survive the disaster... It was a very horrible and chaotic period. Every time power has been handed over, there was blood shed. Think about it, this is the death of a field-level master. Her death is a devastating blow to the field under her rule. Although the Dragon Ant Queen is in a special situation that she can pass on the field in some way, this inheritance is by no means easy. In the final analysis, it’s our lives that are too fragile. The weak clinging to the strong can't endure the rain and wind. Even those who are close to God's existence will fall one day, let alone vulnerable ordinary people like us."

Qi Leren's heart was heavy. In this short yet long time, he had experienced too many feelings that he couldn’t experience in peacetime. Too many people were wandering here, but they were still struggling to survive. Whether it was life, emotion, or the connection between people, it was too fragile in this cruel and turbulent world. Here, what was cherished would be destroyed, entrusted would be shattered, praised and degraded, and beautiful things would be broken one by one, but you couldn't even blame anyone.

Because they were really, really, too weak… The people who used to live in Maria's "dream" would eventually face this demon-infested world, because the "god" who had once sheltered them had also fallen. How long could the Village of Dusk under the Prophet’s protection be stable for?

The old Devil had fallen, the Holy Nun had fallen, and the Dragon Ant Queen was about to fall. This group of people were almost "God" in the eyes of ordinary people and couldn’t be detached from the laws of the world’s order.

Qi Leren felt powerless. He didn't know whether his hand could fight against this cruel world. He wanted to protect a person, a person who was not recognized by the Holy See and would not compromise with the Devil, a person who drifted to hell but yearned for heaven. He wanted to accompany this person and give him a last harbor.

But could he really do it? Qi Leren couldn't help but doubt himself. Even though he had pushed open the door to a half field, the road ahead was still so long. He was just like a child looking at the night sky. After the dark clouds in the sky parted, he saw the bright starlight, which pointed the way forward for him. But it was the light of hundreds of millions of years ago, which was hundreds of millions of light years away from him. He could see it, but he could not touch it.

Suddenly there was a slight touch on his fingertips. Qi Leren froze and hooked Ning Zhou's hand behind him with his own.

The temperature from another person's life soothed the restless soul. Qi Leren forgot that Celia, the Court’s contact person, was standing in front of him, and turned back to Ning Zhou and said, "Let's go to the underground casino."

Ning Zhou squeezed his hand hard: "Mm."

"Also, please send another letter to the Courthouse to explain that I’ve found Ning Zhou. We’ll stay in the Underground Ant City for a while, and we’ll help find the Illusionist." As Qi Leren spoke, he suddenly found Celia was silently watching them hold hands, and suddenly wanted to take it back. As a result, Ning Zhou held him too tightly, and a slight struggle didn't work at all.

Qi Leren took a peek at Ning Zhou. He had no expression on his cold face, as if he didn't feel anything wrong with the contact's line of sight, so he held the hand of someone of the same gender silently, calmly, and like nobody was watching.

On the contrary, Qi Leren felt as if he had been caught holding hands secretly by a school principal. His heart was beating fast and his face was red.

What was happening? Wasn't Ning Zhou super shy? At the beginning, during the Witchcraft Sacrifice, he had obviously blushed!

This confusion plagued Qi Leren the whole way. On the way to the underground casino, Qi Leren’s thoughts were full of this problem, absent-minded, and he was distracted several times. After being stared at by Ning Zhou several times, he guiltily beat around the bush: "There’s so many people here. Isn’t it not good for us to hold hands?"

It wasn’t good, it made them stand out. In the Underground Ant City full of coldness and malice, two men who walked hand in hand had a completely different impression from the group of lonely passers-by who wished to be separated from strangers by a few meters. But the surprised eyes of passers-by didn't affect Ning Zhou at all. He was unmoved and insisted on holding hands.

Hearing Qi Leren’s question, Ning Zhou stopped and looked at him, and there was a hint of shock in his expression.

Qi Leren was confused and stupidly looked at him in wait for a while.

The two people looked at each other without speaking.

"Aren’t we..." Ning Zhou said two words and paused again. Qi Leren inexplicably felt that his expression at the moment seemed a little nervous. "...Aren't we going to get married?"

Qi Leren: ???!!!

-----

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

[newamsterdame]

a deadly education is tone-deaf at best and racist at worse; not the cure to jkr anyone was hoping for

Harry Potter’s massive cultural impact means that we haven’t seen the last of magic schools set in Britain, and we probably won’t for a long while. In some ways, the fantasy genre’s response to Rowling’s work is tiresome. In others, it’s exciting—because a generation of readers and writers have grown up to bring their own perspective to the limits of Rowling’s work and push it beyond the limits of its author. However, if you’re looking for a transgressive magic academy book that interrogates the limited morality, inclusivity, and perspective of Harry Potter, you should put Naomi Novik’s A Deadly Education back on the shelf and keep looking.

A Deadly Education tells the story of Galadriel “El” Higgins, a half-British half-Indian sorcerer attending a magic school where the consequences of any mistake might mean sudden death. El is a loner by nature and circumstance, but walking alone in the halls of Scholomance might mean being attacked and devoured by one of the school’s monsters. This puts El on a crash course with Orion Lake, the shining hero of her year who takes it upon himself to save the lives of his fellow students, including a less-than-grateful El.

The set up honestly sounds pretty good—a prickly protagonist, a heroic rival-slash-love interest, a deadly setting, and the potential for deep lore in magic and world-building. Unfortunately, not only does Novik fail to deliver on any of the premises’ strengths, she also chooses to weigh her narrative down with reductive, tone-deaf, and downright racist details.

El’s particular class of magic relies on language. El speaks English and Marathi, and picks up Sanskrit, Hindi, Latin and Old English in her study of language-based spells. It’s a little uncomfortable that Novik lumps dead and defunct languages like Latin and Old English together with actively spoken ones like Mandarin, Hindi, and Spanish, but that isn’t where Novik’s faux paus end. El approaches languages like computer programs to be downloaded onto her hard drive. Despite languages being the basis of her magic, she has no personal connections to the ones she’s speaking. She views other students and their languages the same way, identifying groups of students as “the Mandarin speakers”, “the Arabic speakers,” etc. Novik seems clueless about the relationships between the languages she’s building her world’s magic around, putting Sanskrit tombs in Baghdad and declaring that the Scholomance has a library aisle containing all of India’s languages. (About 800 individual languages are spoken in India, fyi.)

This clinical approach to diversity extends from language into character. El doesn’t try to make many friends, and honestly it’s not hard to see her classmates don’t try to befriend her, either. She doesn’t describe her classmates as people—she describes them as assets. And while that could be explained away by the premise that half her classmates won’t make it out of school alive, and El needs allies more than friends to survive, it doesn’t make it any better when El refers to others exclusively by the language knowledge they offer her. A character named Ibrahim has no personality or backstory, but he conveniently pops up when El needs someone who knows Arabic. A character named Kaito is thoughtlessly grouped in with the Mandarin speakers. An Argentine character exclaims in Spanish when she’s excited or relieved. There’s an uncomfortable distinction between the languages that get written out in the text—Spanish, French—and the ones that get narrated away—a character exclaims in Mandarin.

Novik goes out of her way to let us know that the population of Scholomance is diverse. There’s a group of South and West African students (only one of whom is named, and none of whom are important). There’s a “civilized” enclave of magicians in Toronto who value family and human life more than other groups. One character might graduate and go to Bangkok, but he’s looking to secure himself a place in Shanghai instead. Naomi Novik really knows the names of cities on at least four continents, and she’s not about to let you forget it!

But aside from names, languages, and cities, Novik has given no thought to what diversity means, or who these characters are if they come from diverse backgrounds. El calls on “Mandarin-speaker,” Yi Liu, exclusively by the name Liu. Is Liu meant to be this character’s first name? Or her surname? El doesn’t call anyone else by surname, but Liu is a Chinese surname, one of the most common in the world. El’s father is a Marathi-speaker from Mumbai, but El has no personal connection to Indian culture. Her father’s family prophesied that El would be a destroyer, and other than that rejection El has nothing to say about India or half of her culture. She refers to her Indian relatives in clinical English descriptors (my father’s mother, my great-grandmother, my uncles), even though she is purportedly fluent in Marathi and should know words like Panaji, Aaji and Kaka. El says that her Indian family is from an old Hindu enclave, and yet they have djinn as servants. (Djinn aren’t a typical part of Hindu cosmology, though they are a significant part of Islamic texts.)

Making El biracial seems like an afterthought, not something that affects her character in any way. It just creates some truly unfortunate optics, like when El goes on a three-paragraph description of how unnecessary she finds showers and how dirty she is at any given time. El’s father died making sure her pregnant mother (and therefore, El herself) would live, and yet El barely thinks about him. His name is mentioned once in the entire book. El complains that (presumably white) British people “assume she speaks Hindi” or call her the color of weak tea. But her Indian heritage is a veneer placed on top of a character who is otherwise just a default white protagonist.

All this adds up to a character (and a world), that reads as nothing so much as colonial. El feasts on the languages of others for her own edification, power, and survival, but she doesn’t see her classmates as people, and she doesn’t see language as a living thing related to real cultures. And I’m given to believe that Naomi Novik holds the same views, what with how she throws around the word “mana” as part of her world-building without considering its roots and real-life meaning to Polynesian and Melanesian peoples.

However, nothing makes the cultural tone-deafness of this book more evident than this passage:

Dreadlocks are unfortunately not a great idea thanks to lockleeches, which you can probably imagine, but in case you need help, the adult spindly thing comes quietly down at night and pokes an ovipositor into any big clumps of hair, lays an egg inside, and creeps away. A little while later the leech hatches inside its comfy nest, attaches itself to your scalp almost unnoticeably, and starts very gently sucking up your blood and mana while infiltrating further. If you don’t get it out within a week or two, it usually manages to work its way inside the skull, and you’ve got a window of a few days after that before you stop being able to move. On the bright side, something else usually finishes you off quickly at that point.

El’s pithy commentary about imminent death aside, I have a hard time reading anything but casual and thoughtless racism from this passage. The nefarious and deliberate myth of dreadlocks being unhygienic (and by extension, Black people being endemically dirty) is pervasive to this day. And Naomi Novik decides to include this passage in a book that has no major Black characters, in which dreadlocks never even come up in any meaningful way, just to remind us that in this magic world of hers, dreadlocks are dirty! Monster insects nest in them! The consequences are death! There was no good reason to include this passage, and all it does is draw on inaccurate and racist myths and perpetuate them into a world where anti-Black racism is never contended with. Although, I suppose, why would it? El never has need of any languages from the West or South Africans.

A Deadly Education bills itself as a subversive, even feminist, response to Harry Potter. But just like J. K. Rowling, Naomi Novik is a white author who uses other cultures thoughtlessly to build her own magic world. Other cultures and peoples exist, but only to serve the aims and needs of white (or mostly white-coded) characters. Novik has no empathy, no care and apparently no ability to Google anything about the cultures she wants to draw on. And the result isn’t just insulting—it’s boring. The world-building in this book is as dry and dusty as any history written by 19th century British colonizers.

Using some foreign names and making your protagonist biracial does not shield your work from racism. It does open you up to more pitfalls in depicting other peoples and cultures, if you don’t care to look out for them.

It would be nice to close by saying that despite its flaws, A Deadly Education is an enjoyable book. But it isn’t. It’s just a badly-researched, emotionless story told by rote.

[spaceaceathena]

The first time Aurora steps into Kirkwall’s Chantry, she almost expects to set on fire. She’s desperately out of her element but she persists, hesitantly trekking down the wide hall towards the looming visage of Andraste.

The cold, hollow stare chills her to the bone. It’s a stare that disapproves of her every action— a stare that she’s seen in her mother, in her older sister, in every person in Lothering.

Aurora wishes it weren’t so ingrained in her memory. When did it even start? When did she start messing everything up? She raises her gaze to Andraste, silent as a tomb, for some sort of answer.

Nothing. Why did she expect any different? The Maker and Andraste have been silent since her father died, since Carver died.

But then again, why would they spare their attention on someone too far gone? The last time she’d set foot in a Chantry, it was not to worship them or say a prayer— it was to fool around in a confessional box while a service was going on.

Clumsy hands and mouths seeking and finding one another in the tiny booth, the only sound being their breathing as they knew they both had to remain silent.

Aurora never has to wonder what happened to that boy from the confessional booth— fleeing Lothering had allowed her to stumble upon his body, demolished by darkspawn.

Now, she’s back. Alone and afraid in the vastness of this Chantry, with its high vaulted ceilings and copious amounts of candles.

Silently, she slips into a pew and kneels, hands clasping together. She tries to ignore the feeling that everyone there knows how badly she’s messed up. Every single error seems to be written on her back, a perfect view for any sister or mother that passes.

Aurora knows she hasn’t been much of a believer but, she needs some form of hope right now. Any little scrap will do. Her family is crammed in a house with their Uncle Gamlen, her older sister has taken Bethany on her expedition to the Deep Roads, and her mother is still mourning Carver’s death.

She practically begs Andraste for some little glimmer of hope that can keep her afloat. Aurora knows such selfish prayers go unanswered, instead turning her focus to Nevaeh and Bethany’s safety. It’s more charitable that way.

When she finally opens her eyes and lifts her head, she realizes that she’s not alone in the Chantry. There’s another person there— a brother no less.

For a moment, he seems to register that she’s staring, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he gives her an honest and warm smile. Aurora feels her face practically burn as she tries to look anywhere but towards him.

Being caught staring is another thing she can feel shame for— as if she didn’t have a list a mile long already. She doesn’t even wait to find out if he wants to come and talk after his prayers, she books it out of the Chantry. Perhaps that had been her small glimmer of hope.

The second time she works up the nerve to return to the Chantry, it’s 3 years after Bethany died in the Deep Roads. The memory of Nevaeh returning home with her ragtag group, her face a study in misery, is etched into her memory.

Finding out her sister died widens the empty chasm in her chest— it’s only getting wider and deeper at this rate with each family member’s passing.

The main hall of the Chantry feels as empty and desolate as she is. It’s dark and cast in gray, rain pelting against the stained glass windows in front of her.

It feels nice to be dry and indoors, it’s better than sitting alone in the Hightown mansion and whiling away the hours because her mother won’t let her adventure with her older sister.

Aurora understands, her mother has already lost two out of the triplets, she can’t afford to lose the third. It’s hard to lose your brother and sister, what do you do when the people you share birthdays with, tell jokes to and cling to are gone? What do you do when you’re no longer a triplet— you’re alone now.

In this case, Aurora finds herself empty, waiting for someone to fill in the cracks. She turns to Andraste once more, getting to her knees with her silver gaze towards the statue.

It takes strength to not react when Mother Petrice makes an offhand comment about how she didn’t expect to see Aurora here on her knees in the Chantry, she pictured her on her knees in the Blooming Rose.

The remark causes Aurora’s face to turn bright red but she chooses to ignore it anyways. She’s been far too exhausted lately to think about witty comebacks. In fact, she finds she’s too exhausted to even receive guidance from Andraste.

It doesn’t surprise her. The Maker and His bride have always been silent. If they cared, surely Bethany would still be alive.

Getting to her feet, she decides that maybe she ought to walk away but her eyes catch a glimpse of a brother replacing candles.

At this point, she knows him fairly well. Sebastian Vael. Prince, priest and friend of her sister���s. Aurora finds him more tolerable than Varric, who she spends a bit more time around than she’d like to. She takes a pause. Tolerable isn’t the right word, she doesn’t tolerate him. She genuinely enjoys Sebastian’s presence.

There’s something about him that makes her feel like someone genuinely cares and thinks the world of her when everyone else disapproves. Maybe he’s just like that with everyone.

It seems he’s caught her staring though, Aurora’s face immediately reddening all over again. She should’ve learned from last time but she can’t help that there’s something captivating about him.

Sebastian’s smile brightens and warms her day as she heads over to him. He knows how hard things have been for the Hawkes, offering his condolences and an opportunity to put Bethany’s name on the remembrance board.

Aurora doesn’t want pity... but she does want closure. She agrees to put Bethany’s name up, hoping it will make her feel better. Sebastian helps her find the perfect place to put it, guiding her hand with his. He’s as gentle and warm as she’s dreamt he’d be.

They both linger in silence, she’s not in the mood for idle chatter anyways. By the time her sister’s name is on the board, the rain slowly seems to move on its way, signaling she should head home.

Aurora offers him a grateful smile and thanks before she leaves the Chantry once more.

Aurora doesn’t go to the Chantry anymore. Why should she? The Maker and Andraste are silent after all— they’ve basically made a mockery of all her prayers. She’d prayed for both of her sisters to be safe and one died. The next she just prayed for guidance, anything but all life had done was take her mother from her too.

It’s just her and Nevaeh now. When your big sister’s the Champion of Kirkwall, you find yourself alone most of the time. Sure, Sandal, Bodahn, and Orana are around but it doesn’t feel the same.

Suddenly, the emptiness she’s felt in her chest after Bethany passed has suddenly grown. Aurora clings to the family’s mabari, he’s one fixture of the family she can trust to stay by her.

The whole mansion feels empty without family to fill it so she occupies her time to her room, it’s much less space to fill. Her days typically consist of sitting in front of the fire with their dog and reading, the dog content to be used as a small pillow while she rests her head on his side.

It’s odd to her when Bodahn knocks on her door to tell her she has a guest. Aurora never has guests, her sister maybe but never her. Her bedroom door opens slightly and it’s almost a relief to see Sebastian there.

He comes over to join her, sitting down in front of the fire as he sets down a small bundle between them, carefully untying the knot to reveal pastries from Hightown- tarts, small cakes, and she’s pretty sure she sees a cookie or two in the mix too.

Sweets do seem to make things feel a little brighter, she takes one of the cookies and splits it in two, offering the larger half to him. She used to do that with Bethany and Carver when they were in Lothering. It feels nice to be able to do it again.

Aurora’s almost glad Sebastian doesn’t say anything, she hasn’t felt up to talking in a few months. Nevaeh is hardly around after all and even if she attempts conversation, her throat tightens and chokes her out.

The past few months have given her time to reflect and she understands that deep seated need for revenge that Sebastian had for those mercenaries. The man who took her mother from her was killed by her older sister but Aurora almost wishes that she’d been the one to sink a blade into his throat. Wishes that she could see the fear in his eyes, fear she’s certain her mother faced in those last moments, before he fades away entirely.

The mere thought of it makes her blood boil all over again, her free hand clenching at the rug, knuckles stark white. Then she feels a familiar warm touch, Sebastian carefully taking her hand into his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Aurora glances to him, just carefully watching his measured smile as he squeezes again. It helps to ground her, even just a little bit. She leans into him, pressing as close as she can until he has his arm around her shoulders. It makes her feel safe, feel loved.

Then she realizes that maybe Andraste had heard her prayer for hope because when she’s with him? She feels she can handle anything.

[septembriseur]

Snippet of Zemo fic I’m working on as a change of scenery.

The Pashtuns have a story they tell, dating back to the nineteenth century— to the time of the Second Anglo-Afghan War. A girl walks onto a battlefield: not just any battlefield, but a small pass in the mountains. It is distinguished by no notable history, this pass, and with no notable history yet to come. Amidst this breach in the wall of individually-named mountains— Tabal Koh, Torah Shah, and Shah Maksud— two armies mingle. On one side, the turban-hatted tribesmen, barefoot perhaps in their shalwar kameez; and on the other, the empire in their red coats and khaki. 

(He has always enjoyed the way that the English say khaki, inventing an implicit r and in the process rendering it less a color than a state of being. In the Persian it was a color; to be khak-e was to be earth-genitive, dirt-affiliated. But the British: oh, they are so very much feeling khaki.)

The battle, as you might expect, is not exactly even-sided. The turban-wearers are being massacred. And yet onto the field this girl comes— this girl called Malala, this water-bearer, daughter of shepherds, and when she sees that the flag has fallen, she takes the scarf from about her head and waves it to her countrymen as a battle standard. In her own language, she sings a poem of war, a landay, saying: I will take the blood from my lover, who has died for our homeland, and I will wear it upon my forehead as a beauty-mark. 

And, as you might then expect, the Pashtuns won the battle.

Today the story is told with different morals, which we need not delve too deep into: the strength of women, the glory of Afghanistan. Ask a Pashtun, however, and he may tell you that you have misunderstood the story entirely. Only in Pashtu could Malala have made such a cry, and it was by the secret power of this language that she rallied the people of Maiwand. That power remains within the words now, though quiescent. You can feel it with each pronunciation, in the bones of your teeth. Try.

***

These days, Zemo speaks English, although he reads in French and German— sometimes Russian, if he’s feeling particularly full of vim. When James Barnes visited him in the prison, it had been four hundred and eighty-five days since he spoke the Sokovian language. He was surprised, following his escape from the prison, by how naturally it came to his lips, and then disturbed to find it recurring without his permission. He would search for a Russian word, and find the Sokovian word there instead. Phrases disarticulated themselves and reassembled in podge-hodge chunks of polyglottism. Dayte mi le knigu. Hast du li videl’ mokh ami?

He feels out of control, no longer practiced at wrangling the storm of undercurrents that run seething, awaiting the moment to reassert themselves again. 

***

It’s easier reassuming the role of baron. And when Zemo welcomes his new companions into his automotive collection, his personal jet, the Avenger (Wilson) looks at him with intermingled disgust and envy. Zemo wonders what Wilson knows about growing up in a place synonymous with war zone, a place that can be, with such indifference, wiped from the map. Perhaps: a bit. Perhaps he knows the precarity of the rat that strains against the limits of its rat-world; the alacrity with which it will climb atop the backs of other rats. Perhaps he knows enough to have some measure of admiration for the nimble and swift acrobatics involved in becoming the king rat. 

His family’s title has been meaningless since 1939. His grandparents and great-grandparents were shiftless and malcontent exiles before that, drifting about the upscale resorts of Europe, racking up some truly aristocratic bills on credit and mysteriously vanishing as part of their exotic-Ottoman act. Only after they’d been stripped of their status did they settle down to make some money: who better to sell you some exceptionally dodgy artifacts than an exceptionally dodgy artifact? He wonders sometimes how many of Sokovia’s Thracian tombs and medieval churches had their treasures pried loose at his grandfather’s hand.

Better, perhaps, that the art survived, he supposes. Given—

See, a man can justify anything. This is his great skill. Imagine the elaborate artifices, or perhaps edifices is the word he intended to have chosen, the high structures he constructs for himself to pretend that he has escaped the land of rats at last.

***

He likes Barnes, and not just with the noblesse oblige that his family, fantastically gifted at speaking in one way and acting in another, took care to drill into him. He likes Barnes because it’s instructive to observe his struggle: here is a man who was a men among men, and now he is not a man any longer, and he thinks this means he can no longer live in the land of men. You can see it on his face, a haunted look, as though the world has invented a new kind of pain just for him. 

Zemo knows him better, perhaps, than anyone has ever known him. Better than he perhaps knows himself. Every video, where video footage exists: Zemo has seen it. Every audio recording of a sound that the Winter Soldier made. 

(What Zemo would confess to an interviewer, if one asked: in all honesty, it becomes rather boring, consuming repeated acts of violence. One person dying looks much like another, and any honest soldier will say so. After a time, you find yourself skipping past the screams and gurgling. You are irritated with how long it takes them to die. With torture, the same: how many times can Barnes’s face achieve the same contortions? Must they use the electricity over and over? Haven’t they a creative bone between them? Zemo knows, of course, that the monotony itself is an aspect of the torture. And, too, it’s useful for the torturers: past a certain point, not only habit but an exhaustion of the empathy sets in. Still, something in him rebels, perhaps his last moral instinct. Yes, it’s true, his boredom is moral! He would like to believe so. Do what you’re going to do, he thinks, but for fuck’s sake don’t make it commonplace.)

He’s even watched the tapes of Barnes’s earliest therapy sessions— not his deprogramming, in Wakanda, where Zemo had failed, to his frustration, to find an in from his prison, but the psychotherapy that followed his return to the United States. The sessions made for quite compelling viewing; in his earliest days of isolation, they obsessed him. Barnes was a ragged, still-feral creature in them. He was prone to prolonged and uncomfortable bouts of silence. It took him a long time to find language. When asked to reflect on this, he sat for a long time without speaking. Zemo can picture him now: oddly soft-edged where he hunched in the oversized armchair, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his fingers. He had lost a dramatic amount of weight, and his face looked haunted, but he had not yet cut his hair.

“Maybe there are words for what I want to say,” Barnes said, “but don’t know ’em. I don’t know how you would learn ’em. So everything has to be translated. You know? Or— not even translated. It’s like I’m the first person who’s ever had to say it. I’ve got to find the right shape cookie cutter to show you. The right…sharpness.” His metal fingers twitched. Zemo liked to think that he was looking for a knife. 

A knife was a cookie cutter that was always the right shape cookie cutter.

In that moment, watching, Zemo had wished too for a knife. Not because he did not know the borders or form of his response, his reminiscence, but out of outrage at the very authenticity of Barnes’s speechlessness. How, Zemo thought, do you not know the words? 

He had thought that everyone possessed this secret language, though you did not reveal your fluency in it, at least not in polite company. No wonder Barnes is so unmade. He has passed the age when one acquires such skill through sudden immersion.

(He himself experienced, perhaps, the opposite form of immersion. His childhood between the wars was sheltered by privilege, he knew only that any persons could vanish without warning, and that you would hear, later, hushed whispers when their bodies were found: exegesis of the marks from a which a saga of pain could be inferred. Then came age nine, and the daring, unprecedented separatist attack on his prestigious lycée. The wet red flesh of a classmate; the smeared trajectory of a body sketched out where a child had collapsed against a wall. His parents said, This Is No Place For a Child. In a month’s time he was living comfortably in Switzerland, Hong Kong, Madripoor, places that were For a Child. He spoke French, German, and English. In time, he came to associate the Sokovian language with that other language of his childhood: fear and grief. He thought less of his classmates because they were ignorant of these languages, acquired a kind of hauteur about it— at the same time as he understood, on some childish level that resisted penetration, how his expertise was the source of a morbid, drenching shame. )

Perhaps there is a kinship that comes between two men who speak the same language. In Madripoor, he feels it, as he caresses Barnes’s body and detects no flinch. An almost sexual pull there, maybe. Dangerous; electric. 

Does Barnes know that Zemo plans to kill him at the conclusion of this escapade?

Difficult to guess. 

[sonicspsychos]

(Almost) Lost and Found

While Virgie’s dark fay verse takes place post MOE, I don’t think any fans would object if things happened this way.

@eternalstrigoii

The remaining humans had gone, and Maleficent and Borra were leaning over a dying Conall. Borra was about to pick up and carry him home when Maleficent noticed something.

Maleficent’s head whipped up with a start, and what she saw baffled her at first. Where the tomb blooms once were were fay-all the ones who had fallen, and the ones whose blooms had been taken by the humans. “Who are you?” Her voice boomed in the darkness.

Borra stood, and his gaze landed on a figure in the center-something or someone whose figure seemed to be flickering between human and that of a desert fay like himself. The figure was staggering, supported only by the now risen little fay who swarmed around her. The figure’s gaze shifted on Conall, and Maleficent stiffened, unsure of this strange new figure that seemed to be both human and fay. Was it a trick?

“She’s of the phoenix, same as you.” Conall’s voice came out next, and he coughed. “She’s revived the fallen.”

The figure-a short female-shuffled her way to their sides, and practically flopped next to Conall. As if drawn to it, her gaze and hands shifted to his wound. “I need strength,” she murmured.

“Only she has that kind of power,” Conall said, nodding to Maleficent. “Her and you, the lost one.”

The figure, her form still shifting, shook her head. Somehow, she didn’t know how she knew, but she said, “You don’t need that power to help me. This power-I don’t remember having it, but deep down inside me-I feel all that’s needed is a desire to recover what was lost. If you have that, you can help me.”

Oddly enough, it was Borra’s hands who covered hers first, followed by Maleficent’s. Power surged from all three, though the greatest amount came from not the newcomer nor even Maleficent-it came from Borra himself, who of all people had spent his entire life fighting to take back what the fae had lost. When the light cleared, Conall was beginning to sit up, and the mysterious newcomer slumped over, passed out in Borra’s arms.

When she woke up, it was to the sound of arguing-mostly between Borra and Conall, whose lap her head was resting in. Every so often, the argument would stop long enough for Conall to chuckle at the sounds of snoring coming out. Borra tried his best to look annoyed, but even his lips twitched in laughter before he began again. 

“You would have died were it not for the girl, Conall!”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try for peace. After all this time-”

“After all this time, you ought to know that peace is impossible!” Borra shouted. Other fae murmured their agreement, and Conall sighed.

“Borra-”

“He’s not wrong.” Her eyelids fluttered open. Her form was still shifting, but her face had become that of a desert fay rather than the human it had been transformed into. Slowly, she sat up, and staggered to her feet-mostly with Conall’s help.

She staggered again, over to Borra this time, whose face turned soft just slightly at the sight of her. He offered her a hand, and she took it, walking forward before turning to face the crowd of gathered fae.

“The only name I know for myself is Virgie,” she said. “So I guess that’s what all of you can call me until someone comes up with something better. I don’t remember....a lot of things. But apparently I can do some amazing things.” She nodded over at Conall, who nodded back. 

“What I remember of where I’ve been I’d rather not talk too much about, but I know humans use people. Humans are cruel. But at the same time, I don’t think all humans are bad any more than I think-well, that all of anything else is. That being said, I’d just as soon not see one for a while.” There was a mixture of laughter and agreement around her.

“I will tell you all that I was used by humans, and it wasn’t pleasant. As my mind began to clear, I tired of fighting and wars. I too would like nothing more than peace. But-” She paused and looked up at Borra. “If wanting and praying for peace was enough,it would have happened long ago, wouldn’t it?”

When Borra nodded silently, she went on. “Some of you might disagree with the idea of fighting anything. It’s scary, and it’s tiresome. I just got here, and there’s probably a lot I don’t know or understand yet. But what I do understand is that this is more than just Borra wanting to war with humans. This is about fighting for something he believes in-all of you-wait, of us. I’m counted, right?”

“Of course you are.” Borra chuckled, though rather than amusement, there was a mixture of understanding and respect in his eyes.

“If my opinion counts here, I say this-those who wish to fight, fight for our people. But do it cautiously, and if you have the chance to make peace, take it. After all, it’s not as if we have to invite them over for dinner. We’re not inviting them for dinner, right?” 

This time Borra did laugh. “Of course not. I think you should go back to bed, by the way.”

Virgie wanted to say she was fine, but something in his eyes suggested no room for argument, so she let him lead her back to Conall-where she promptly fell asleep again.

[cross-d-a]

if you're doing those characters then please give me more amazing takes on princess mute 🥺💕

OMG IM SO LATE ANSWERING THIS BUT HERE I FINALLY AM

Also omgg thank you SOSOSO much for asking me about Princess Mute?? THE LOVE OF MY LIFE??? You know me so well, vish!! I love and adore you so much!! Thank you for giving me the chance to blabber on about the woman I love!! ⁽⁽٩(๑˃̶͈̀ ᗨ ˂̶͈́)۶⁾⁾

ALSO! I’m gonna do my best to like- not spoil all my plans for whispers, haha

The rest is under the cut bc I just have a lot of FEELINGS~ about our resident zombie girl 

❤⃛ヾ(๑❛ ▿ ◠๑ )

How I feel about this character

OH BOY OK I JUST??? LOVE HER??? A LOT???? I wasn’t expecting to get quite so immediately and intensely attached to her?? But from the second I heard about her in the legend I was just gone. Completely done for. I’m generally a sucker for mythology, and there’s just SO MUCH that’s fascinating about the tale behind the Princess Mute and the South Sea King? 

Even though Princess Mute is so central to the myth, the South Sea King is deemed as the most important? I mean- duh it is his tomb, but Princess Mute is the catalyst? None of this would have happened without her? She’s main character material and yet she isn’t the main character of her own story?? She has practically no agency? It’s so? Fucking? Fascinating?? And there is so fucking much left unanswered? The myth says she turns into a goddamn monster?? Is this- figuratively? Or literally? Is she a monster for breaking gender norms and committing the ultimate taboo by killing the Emperor??? Like- holy FUCK? Like- LOOK at this pic from Ershu’s Expensive Powerpoint:

and a close-up for good measure:

(note the HORNS/HELMET?? the LIGHTNING STRIKE!!! 👀👀👀 how she’s dressed as a SOLDIER?? that SPEAR??? also she’s depicted as much bigger than the emperor!! which, of course, means she’s more important!!!!)

and, HELLO!! She’s called the PRINCESS MUTE. She is only known/named in association to someone else. Her name has been erased from history. It isn’t important to anyone. Which is so fucking ironic. She’s Princess Mute. Her voice has been stripped from her, just like her agency. This tale is the Mute Emperor’s and not her own. Her suffering means nothing to anyone. Her life means nothing other than for the Emperor to desire and the South Sea King to mourn over (and WOW!! ISN’T THIS JUST!! SO perfectly encapsulating Nanpai Sanshu’s female characters and their relevance to the story/male characters)

(so what is her goddamn name???? I mean, I know what I’ve named her, but sorry dudes. Again. I don’t wanna spoil too much :) )

also, WHY is the South Sea King covering her eyes when she’s sent off to sea in the origami boat?

What actually happens to her after this? The body we see of the South Sea King has long white hair so I assume he died pretty old? So why does she look so goddamn young? 

And- the million dollar question here (WHICH I HAVE A LOT OF HEADCANONS FOR BUT I DON’T WANNA SPOIL WHISPERS): What happened to her after she killed the Emperor????

ALSO!! WHY IS SHE HOLDING A DINGLAN RULER WHEN SANSHU FINDS HER IN THAT FIRST EXPEDITION?? (internet says it’s a “special ruler used for making shrines, carving wood statues and making tablets of gods. Later used in measurement of architectural scale; measuring instrument for the netherworld, wishes best for tomb owner) did she design her own father’s tomb?? is there more to her becoming a leather figurine than filial loyalty/sacrifice?? 

Why does she have a tattoo?? I go a bit into this in my fic, but from my understanding it was unusual for people (women especially!) to have tattoos during this time! (this is just from my research! if I am wrong please correct me!) 

For anyone who hasn’t read whispers, there were a a few tribes (minorities!) during this time who tattooed themselves (and to this day, they continue this tradition :) ). The Li were often attacked by invaders who assaulted the women and sold them as slaves. The women ended up tattooing their faces and bodies to make them less appealing, and it ended up becoming a tradition. When a girl came of age she’d get tattooed. Then we’ve got the Dai, who (from what I understand!) got tattoos of animals with characteristics they wished to embody, such as to show their virility and strength! So they’d tattoo tigers and dragons, etc.

So why does Princess Mute have one? Who gave it to her? WHAT ACTUALLY IS IT!!!!!! (eternal frustration that we never see a clear shot of the whole thing!!) It kinda looks like a heavily stylized fish? With some waves. But I am unsure! But it would make sense, considering the ongoing theme of snakes and fish throughout dmbj.

Also, her scars seem very strange. Like- if someone skinned her (YIKES!) then- her scars don’t really seem like they’re a result of skinning (double yikes!!). You’d think that for a woman who was the daughter of the King, they’d take more care to preserve her face?? So why does it seem like someone has done their utter best to ruin it? Did the Emperor do it himself? Did her father? Or did someone else do it?? Did she do it herself????

Also, I just wanna cut the bullshit with the creepy hand clam thing. A hand clam isn’t gonna wrap their fingers around Wu Xie’s hand to stop him from blowing himself up. Like. I get that it’s the censorship. I get it. But- you can’t tell me it wasn’t actually the Princess Mute who saved him. I just?? This moment is so powerful? It literally knocked the breath from my chest.

Princess Mute’s story is just so fascinating and tragic and I am just a mess over how she isn’t in control of her own story? She never is. Except for when she kills the Emperor. (AND when she saves Wu Xie) And I think that’s fucking telling. 

Of course, it felt like they had more of a storyline planned for her which never happened, but I’ll get more into that later.

Basically, I just have SO MANY QUESTIONS!!!

It’s like- I dunno. Seeing a gorgeous woman flip an obnoxious man over her shoulder and slam him to the ground without breaking a sweat and watching her walk away with stars in your eyes. You barely know anything about her but you’re already half in love and you just want to know more.

I’m super Gay for her, if you couldn’t already tell.

Honestly, she just perfectly represents all the female characters and their treatment in dmbj with all the extra PIZAZZ of the mysterious supernatural/mythological elements. She just makes me go feral and I adore her with my entire heart.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

NUMBER ONE I SHIP HER WITH MY CUTE AND PERFECT GF XIAO BAI!!!!!!!!

They are my two favourite (okay and my wife Su Nan!) female characters in dmbj. I think their stories parallel each other pretty beautifully? They’re both women in a powerful position, though with limited agency. They both defy gender norms and accomplish things (I’m counting killing the Emperor as Accomplishing Something) in a very male-dominated world. And- okay. I know the Princess Mute is technically dead. But she also?? is someone still doing stuff?? and pushing along the storyline?? as a zombie?? So I’m just gonna say that both of them aren’t truly killed off for the Man Pain like all the other female dmbj characters (except for Xiu Xiu, and I guess Chuchu but ChuChu’s situation is kinda....Iffy. At best.)

Also both of them are linked pretty heavily with Wu Xie? They both have an interesting relationship with him. And Princess Mute leads Wu Xie to Xiao Bai!!!

And okay this is spoiling a bit of whispers, BUT!!! Warehouse 11 was built atop the South Sea King’s temple. Isn’t that fucking important??? I stand by my headcanon that Xiao Bai is a Warehouse kid (descended from the Founders) and so she grew up there. And like- ignoring censorship bc I can AND because Reboot leaves a lot of supernatural stuff up in the air anyway- wouldn’t growing up atop an insanely powerful temple do something to you? Wouldn’t it affect you in some way?? There’s just!!! SO much potential between Princess Mute and Xiao Bai!! Plus!! I think it’d be great for Xiao Bai to form a relationship with another woman. She needs some female solidarity in her life.

And- well. I just ship Princess Mute with all the dmbj women, really. Princess Mute has two hands, why can she use them both?? I’ve got a couple Princess Mute modern au’s going and in one of them she just- sweeps A’Ning and Su Nan off their feet :)

I really can’t ship Princess Mute with any male characters, I think. There’s just- so much underlying trauma surrounding her agency and how she’s been used by the men in her life. Also, I like wlw & mlm solidarity. Let Princess Mute and Wu Xie wallow over their Stupid Crushes. Or Princess Mute & Xiao Ge. I’m not picky.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Purely bc of my own au, I am very much invested in Princess Mute & Li Cu (& spirit snake). As I mentioned before, there’s a running theme of loss of agency in their own lives and suffering the consequences of others’ actions. Plus, there’s a lot of supernatural happenings surrounding the both of them. Why wouldn’t they find a connection?

And, obviously, I adore Princess Mute & Wu Xie. Princess Mute saved Wu Xie and then Wu Xie was promptly obsessed (can’t say I blame him). They had such an interesting relationship in Reboot that was just- so fucking tragically dropped. 

My unpopular opinion about this character

SHE SHOULD BE MORE POPULAR!!!!!!!!!! She is so goddamn fascinating and gorgeous and I just!! Want!! Everyone to adore her as much as I do!!!!!!!! At least I feel a bit accomplished for swinging some readers over to her side in whispers!! That’s something!!! 

I’ve got like- a million au ideas with her. I’m going to be the creator of the content I wish to read!!!!!

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

I WISH SHE COULD HAVE GOTTEN A SATISFACTORILY COMPLETED STORYLINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She just gets completely dropped after she leads Wu Xie to Warehouse 11. So once more, she is a plot device and not. And actual. Person. Her importance is tied irrevocably to the male leads. Her agency is not her own. Wu Xie cares so much about her, and okay, he’s trying to figure out a mystery and we all know how he gets when he’s trying to puzzle out a mystery-- but you can’t tell me he just- stops caring after he encounters Warehouse 11??? What happens to her after that?? Does she rot away in a box in Wushanju?? Does Ershu take her back?? I’m just?? WHAT????

I want to know her side of the story and not what everyone else has said. I want her to actually properly communicate with Wu Xie. I want her saving the day again and I want her being fucking badass and I want her and Xiao Ge being soft together and I want her and Xiao Bai to bond fall in love and I want everyone to just- fall in love with her? And care about her? And I want to to find herself caring about these fucking idiots too???? Can you imagine her and Liu Sang bonding over shitty fathers and lack of agency and Trauma?? Can you imagine Princess Mute getting her life back and the freckles returning to her slowly darkening skin and her being silly with Hei-ye bc he keeps shoving increasingly ridiculous sunglasses at her. And can you imagine her trying on jeans for the first time and picking out a cute bomber jacket and shoving a baseball cap on her head and dipping her feet back in the sea and befriending shibie bc she’s just?? that?? cool?? while Iron Triangle is off on the side fretting like she isn’t befriending some very dangerous creatures but it’s okay bc she’s a dangerous creature too and she understands fear and desire and hunger. 

I want her returning to Thunder City. I want her getting closure. I want her story to get closure. Period.

And I know it didn’t happen bc censorship and Nanpai Sanshu and just- a host of Other Things. But I want it, and she deserves it.

--

AAAHH VISH!!!! Thank you so much for letting me yell about Princess Mute!! Sorry I couldn’t go more in depth with headcanons but!! Like I said, I don’t want to completely spoil you for whispers, so I’ll keep those close to my chest for now 

٩(*ゝڡゝ๑)۶♥

[hothian-snow]

Worldbuilding: Sith Magic (WIP)

An update to my original post.

I want to theorize about what magic may have been commonplace during the times of the Sith Pureblood, before they became influenced by the Dark Jedi. Some beliefs and practice may have evolved into what we know today, but many traditions will have likely died down, lost to time and to cultural colonisation. These are my headcanons, inspired by some headcanons others have made plus my own understanding of traditional witchcraft and Ancient Greek magic.

1) Magic of the Sun

Korriban is one of the original homes of the Sith Pureblood, and presumably the most prominent one. What could be seen the moment you step onto Korriban is the rocky red ending desert and the blistering sun. Magic from many cultures around our world are rooted in the land, and I believe Sith magic should be no different. In this case, their magic will be drawn from the sun, the bones that lie beneath the sands.

In the real world Greek Magical Papyri, a record of Greco-Egyptian magic spells, the sun god Helios is called upon in various rites ranging from consecration to restraining anger to bringing victory. In that same manner, I believe the sun may be called by the Sith to perform magical acts. In a lot of POC traditions, planets are also deified to be gods (something like astrolatry in Thailand etc), and so the Sith - who in my views are POC-coded - may revere the sun as a central religious figure (which makes it ironic that the concept of the Dark Side of the Force was later made to be the enemy of the Light). The sun nourishes, but it also burns. The light allows you to see, but too much can blind. It is the sun’s heat that rot corpses, freeing flesh from bones, rushing forth decomposition. The sun is life and the sun is death.

Just as Ancient Greek witches could be identified as descendants of Helios due to their flashing eyes, it is also possible that the Sith Pureblood may view themselves to be descendants of the sun. After all, their fiery eyes are like two miniature suns and their distinctive red skin are like the blood-red dawn. 

2) Magic of the Bones

In many ways, the Force is similar to the real-world belief of animism. Inside everything is something that is alive and powerful. In the bones, buried beneath the sands, are a vault of memories. Through feeding the bones - feeding the spirits within the bones - one can cultivate a relationship with the dead. One can redden the bones with flowers from cactus mixed with drops of blood, or blacken them with roots and soot. Incense smoke can be like food to the soul. This works for both animal and Sith bones.

Once awakened, bones can be your teachers, or used both as an offensive and defensive tool. The empty eye sockets of skulls can be placed in strategic places, eternally watching guard. Fangs and claws can be turned into magical talismans, to protect their masters and shred their enemies to pieces. Bones may whisper their wisdom to you. Learn from the tuk’ata how to protect and defend. Learn from the K’lor’slugs how to poison and strike.

3) Necromancy

With the talks of bones, we cannot avoid the topic of necromancy. In a lot of POC cultures, ancestor veneration plays an integral part of bringing families together. As the Sith Purebloods are POC-coded, and because we have seen in-game that ghosts of ancestors (Lord Kallig) may wish to help their descendants (the Sith Inquisitor), I believe ancestor veneration would have a prominent role in Sith culture. Ancestors may send you dreams for you to be prepared for upcoming threats. Ancestors may work their magic from beyond the grave to influence situations in the living world.

Aside from having a ghost literally show up, transmission of knowledge through dreams is one way that tradition can be passed down, in spite of the Sith Genocide that occured. Children may have been made orphans, but it does not mean that their parents can’t speak through them in an oneiric vision. Texts may have been burnt, cultural artifacts may have been destroyed, but magic prevails. History finds a way to be remembered.

Dream incubation can be used to receive information that would be otherwise unknown. Trances can be used to induce visions from the dead and from higher powers. Ointments made from poisonous herbs, smeared onto the body, can be used to induce the liminal state required for a person to get in touch with the otherworld.

There is also canonical evidence that necromancy was practiced among the Sith before the Dark Jedi colonised them: Dathka Graush, a Sith King of Korriban active in the decades prior to the arrival of the Dark Jedi Exiles in 6900 BBY, was among the earliest practitioners of Sith necromancy. Necromancy can be as dramatic as raising zombies using occult incantations, reanimating the freshly dead and the buried skeletons. However, I also want to go for a different approach.

Inspired by Ancient Greek necromancy, I believe the dead can be split into many types. Perhaps there are the restless dead, like the Greek aōroi, the spirits who could be appeased and channeled to wreak havoc. Perhaps there are the mighty dead, (war) heroes who have been elevated to the point where they are venerated and prayed to for strength and miracles. The dead can be called upon to glean prophecies, and deals can be made with them, pacts sealed in blood. The dead can teach you secrets and grant you powers, and you can send them forth to haunt your enemies until they are maddened. A Sith may ask the ravenous dead to feed upon their enemy, and pray that the power of the tomb claims the rest.

Some parts of the current Sith cultural beliefs may have been influenced by the beliefs of the Sith Pureblood (pre-Dark Jedi arrival), but twisted into a reactionary belief in response to the Jedi code. For example, the Jedi seems to have an accepting attitude towards death (“there is no death, there is only the Force”) while the current Sith seems to wish to overcome death, whether through having a long-lasting legacy or through occult means (like Darth Zash or Emperor Vitiate). This is why a Sith like Darth Marr who are not scared to die are viewed as being terrifying. I believe this culture of immense fear towards death is a new thing.

In my headcanon, the Sith Pureblood originally viewed death as something to respect and fear, but also understood it to be a necessity - and in some cases, a beautiful part of life. Through death, grapes are transformed into wine. There is sacredness in the sweet and cloying rot, a holiness to decay and entropy. Because of this, there may be a field of magic that focuses not just on reanimating corpses, but on hastening (or temporary slowing- with consequences) the way and speed at which something decomposes. Imagine a Sith gripping their enemies with their bare hands, and from that touch comes a death sentence: bodies begin to bloat, festering sickness seeping into muscles and bones, flesh turning necrotic before death consumes them.

4) Potions and Poisons

The art of pharmakeia and veneficium is something that came up in the Sith Inquisitor storyline. Zash makes offhand remarks about poisoning her foes, and the ghost that taught the Sith Inquisitor how to Force Walk requires the Inquisitor to drink a cup of poison first. Poison can both kill and teach. In the real world, many traditional witches who walk the poison path have made allies of their poison plants. In Greek myth and religion, Circe uses potions to transmute men into pigs, and transforms women into monsters by poisoning water with drugs.

Ziost, which became capital of the Ancient Sith Empire after the reign of the Sith Overlord Adas came to an end, was described to be a planet of dark forests and barren tundra. With forests comes plants, and with plants comes poison. Perhaps dirt from graveyards and places of bloodshed can be mixed with foul herbs, along with powdered molts of poison insects, and then infused into oil to be made into a tool for cursing enemies. Should a hair or piece of armor from one’s rival be found, one could powder that and mix the blend into a poppet, enabling a Sith to feed their enemy poison from a distance.

The flipside of poison is medicine. Healers may have been as abundant as poisoners, or perhaps healers were poisoners and poisoners were healers, for the difference between killing and treating is just application and dosage. Potions may also be made to bless and enhance the abilities of someone - something like how stims are used in the current setting - and washes and ritual baths may be used to free someone from unwanted afflictions.

5) Force Lightning

I believe Force lightning has always been used by the Sith Pureblood, but its prestige and popularity only has sky-rocketted once Vitiate became Emperor. Dromund Kaas’ constant lightning and perpetual thunderstorms may have been “a result of the Sith Emperor's experiments in arcane and forbidden uses of the dark side of the Force”. Hence, it may be possible that the usage of Force lightning became a symbol of power due to Vitiate’s influence.

6) Sith Artifacts and Tools

The most well-known artifact of the Sith is the Sith holocron. I am not certain but I believe the oldest Sith holocron may be the Telos Holocron, and one of the earliest contributors to the Telos Holocron was Ajunta Pall who was a Dark Jedi. The holocron’s purpose in storing information and passing down the legacy of a Sith Lord is linked to my view that it is the Dark Jedi who want to be immortalized and are afraid of death, not the original Sith Pureblood. Thus, I infer that the Sith holocrons are made by the Dark Jedi who colonized the Sith, which makes sense considering that it just looks like an alternative version of the Jedi holocron.

However, one clear power of the Sith holocrons is how they are able to ‘corrupt’ its user to the Dark Side. This made me wonder if the Sith Pureblood may have had artifacts and fetishes that served similar purposes in corrupting, influencing and swaying their enemies. If knowledge could be passed down through ghosts and dreams, then there is no need to spend time crafting the perfect holocron and effort could instead be focused upon creating tools of defense and offense.

It would have been very practical to create an artifact out of roots and bones, place it in places of ruin, death and grief such as places of murders, and enchant it to soak in the horrific sympathetic energies of the locales it was placed at until it becomes full, brimming with misery and torment. It could then be buried on the plot of land that a Sith’s enemy lived on, hence bringing suffering to their home and family. Something like that - something folk-ish, something requiring only skill, cunning and determination, not fanciful ceremonial rituals like the ones we see the current Siths doing - is what I believe defined the practice of the original Sith Pureblood.