#one who has fallen into despair at what he has wrought

[art-is-kayos]

Distil within me, cruelty

Erode away, humanity

Witness in its glory, life

Witness in its agonies, death

For to look is to go onwards

And to close your eyes is to dream.

[nekasu]

Neka's loyalty was absolute but not blind. Rather than unquestioningly follow her ever command, he was loyal to her as a person, her ideals. Had he known she was going off to die, he would have either tried to stop her or go with her, but that was just another failure on his part. There had to have been a reason she decided to do that instead of sending Ei, who was much stronger than Makoto. Would she have managed to survive where her sister did not, or simply died in her stead? It was a question that nagged him throughout his isolation; what else could one do but ruminate while unable to move or interact with others?

The people of Inazuma might look at Ei like a ticking bomb that could go off at any moment, but that was still better than the looks that he'd gotten all these years. After all, a youkai was already a monster, and kitsune were a special breed. Lying, vengeful tricksters that could eat people's souls, that's all he ever was to the mortals. While their fear was also a source of nourishment to youkai like himself, it only served as a reminder that they would never truly accept him as one of their own. The only one who'd ever really accepted him was Makoto, perhaps serving as the catalyst for his devotion toward her.

She changed? She wasn't the same as before? Hah, at least if nothing else, she'd realized just how foolish of an ideology 'Eternity' really was. Nothing was meant to last forever, and the value that things held was simply in the legacies they left behind, the lives they lived. "No, Ei. I'm the one who's changed. I'm no longer the person you knew me as, and who would remain the same knowing there was nobody left who cared about them? I was willing to accept death for my recklessness, and I will freely admit that part of me wanted to die, if only to ease my suffering if only for a little. I would simply have been just another casualty, nothing to worry about, right?"

"Don't delude yourself, Ei. That puppet is not you despite her looking like you. Would you have fallen for the same deception the mortals pulled upon you had it been your real self instead of a rigid, stagnant puppet? Would you say the shikigami I create are parts of me? No, they're just tools I make for a particular purpose. Perhaps she has her own personality and is more advanced than my shikigami, but that just proves my point in that she's not you."

Neka sighed; he'd only recently escaped his self-made prison, and still bore much of the affliction that tormented him all those centuries. In such a lowly state being constantly angry, an emotion the Neka she used to know rarely if ever showed, wore him out more than he wanted to admit.

Most of his newly acquired negative traits were simply wrought from the fact that he cared and he cared too much. Loneliness and despair caused by the woman he loved with all his heart dying, jadedness from realizing the people he cherished and helped turned his backs on him, and for tragedy befalling the Inazuma he willingly served. Deep down, he was still the same, but the boundless energy and optimism that Ei had come to know were tempered by time.

"Don't think that this means that I want to kill you. What good would that do? Would it bring me closure? Would it bring anyone who died back? No, it would do none of those things and would thrust Inazuma into yet another civil war."

"Who would lead in your stead? Not Yae, mortals cannot be trusted, and even I, while certainly the most qualified of candidates, would face opposition from every side as the one who couped the last Archon. Like I said, my loyalty isn't to you, but Inazuma. Even if I felt like you deserved everything I'd do to you, if it would bring more harm than good, then I won't do it."

All the while, he simply continued talking and paying little heed to her slowly approaching him. Did she expect forgiveness? Did she expect him to stab her or curse her to death? She would feel something wet staining her kimono, but rather than her blood, it was a tear, followed by many more. Neka offered no resistance to her hug, instead hanging there limply in her arms, verdant eyes glimmering with moisture in the light. "Ei, it was...so painful. So lonely. I wanted to die, even though she wanted me to live. I was just too much a coward to actually do it. I thought nobody wanted me anymore again..."

Continued from here

@nekasu

The Archon listened to every word he spoke, and he was right. For many moons, she allowed the people of Inazuma to suffer, barely hanging on due to her inability to deal with grief and death, as well as her bare acknowledgment to her role; she lacked the sight to see the bigger picture and it took the traveller to open up her eyes. This did not mean by any means that she was forgiven by her people. She did not fully understand why people still treated her as a God, but she knew one thing was clear; fear was a contributing factor. The way they stare at her as if she could turn back into the monster she was before always got to her emotionally, though she never liked to admit it. Becoming who she was today was a big achievement, and she never once intended to allow that suffering to happen again to her people.

Not to mention that she had not even attempted to search for Neka. Ei did not cling to hope, rather she assumed that he had died. It was an insult to the kitsune. Her heart hung with guilt and sorrow for him. Had she realised that there was hope he could be alive, she would have gone looking for him in an instant. “I see…” her response was so casual, as if she had been told something small and insignificant. When really, her mind was reeling. The amount of hate he had towards her was intense. It just seemed to keep growing rather than dying down. All that time ago, when she had met him … the adoration he had for Makoto was overwhelmingly beautiful. She could not blame him for being the opposite with her. Regardless, it had to be dealt with. He was clearly not going to calm down any time soon.

“I cannot blame you for being angry, coming back to present day Inazuma to learn that I had neglected the duties passed to me by my sister and furthermore… allowed the people of Inazuma to struggle for so long,” her voice was filled with deep regret - something she evidently could not hide from the Kitsune. “But I have changed. I am no longer who I used to be. Rather, I am more willing to put the work in to create a stable nation where my people can thrive. The Shogun is a part of that; she is a part of me.” She blinked. Slowly. As if to want to keep her eyes on him.

Ei then boldly walked closer to him, up until she was at least three feet away. “What would satisfy you?” The question seemed almost too … out of touch. She simply wanted to give him something - anything - that would result in the old him. Ei had deeply missed Neka, despite always seeming to dislike his personality. He was charming and grew on her as time passed. “I will do my best to give you anything. Whatever you demanded of me.” Even if it was a fight, she was … perhaps not so willing to go through what she had to with Chiyo, but she would most definitely fight him if she had to.

Of course, she could not imagine what else he could want other than a fight. Perhaps stability? Would he even want what Makoto once gave him? He seemed too angry… and yet, the thought lingered a little longer than she had anticipated. By this point, her emotions had overwhelmed her. “I… I have missed you.” It was barely a whisper. She then lurched forward and held him in her arms, her fingers caressing his hair. “I’m… sorry I failed you.” Even if he were to kill her now, which is likely (in her eyes at least), she would be happy knowing he was okay and satisfied overall.

[ainarosewood]

Gifts or Curses

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

FFxivWrite2022 Day 7 Prompt Pawn

Art thou a pawn or master of thy own fate, what hath thou wrought with thine own hand mortal?

Midgardsormr sneered at the Roegadyn before him.  

He intended then to leave but ere he could dissipate she snatched him out of the air and pulled his face in front of hers green eyes flashing with anger. “Listen here dragon I am dealing with your presence but now is not the time to mock me.  And I swear to all of the Twelve if what you did to the blessing is responsible for Moen’s death….”

He then felt remorse as he realized she was grieving for the fallen woman, Nay child even if thy blessing was accessible, due to thy mistress weakness, I believe the outcome would have been the same. 

Nimble Rabbit  stared at him for a moment longer then released him. Her shoulders still taught with anger she then slammed her fist into the stone of the wall and snarled, “Then what in seven hells use is it?  Why the hell was I gifted with this damn thing if it fails me when I need it most?  Why Hydaleyn!!”

Midgardsormr looked on with sorrow, wishing he could give her the answers she seeked.  He himself did not truly understand what the entity intended.  

His mind went unbidden to his flight from the dragon star.  His seven eggs held tightly against him in that vast cold desperate to keep them warm so they might survive.  Every star he passed was dead or dying. All of them had one thing in common: a small, avid creature black as night streaking in the sky and an overwhelming sense of despair and sorrow.  He had seen this on the Dragon Star too as he fled.  He flew as fast and as far as he could, his fiery mane extinguishing in the relentless cold of space until finally he saw a world bathed in life, in aether and he descended.  

Only to be met by a strange humanoid being who was overtly powerful at the edge of a lake brimming with life and aether.  Deep down he despaired for he knew if she chose to fight him he’d have not the strength to win and that would be the end for his brood.

“I beg of thee allow us to remain, mine children and I.  Far we have flown and this…this is the only star not beset by death or destruction.” he called wishing that his voice were stronger but to no avail his flight had severely weakened him.  He only preyed that the metal monstrosity that has brought his home star's end had not managed to fully follow him here to this glowing jewel of a star.

 The entity looked upon him, compassion filling  her brilliant blue gaze and she then stated, “I ask for a few deeds in return for thy sanctuary.  First, thou art to defend this lake, for it is the source of all magic here on Etheirys.  Thy eggs may bathe in these waters as well so they know life and strength. In return for this I ask they become stewards to this star, defending it and protecting it from harm.  Finally  there will come a day when a being will stand before you.  She will bear my mark, a glowing shield of protection.  When this occurs you will have to seal away this,” she waved a hand and a glowing ward appeared with multiple elemental crystals anchoring it. “It will not be hard to sense within her being. Once you have sealed it away, travel with her, test her, if she is strong enough your binds will release and she shall shine brighter than she did when you met my sweet spark. Agree to these terms and a life here on Etheirys shall be thine and thy children’s.”

Midgardsormr pondered her conditions, part of him wanted to refuse for she all but asked him to be in servitude in exchange for sanctuary and yet, was that too large a price to pay?   Would he allow his pride to deny him and his children what seemed to be their only chance for survival?  He could tell this entity truly felt for his plight there was no underlying malice, no ill intent she well and truly was offering him sanctuary in exchange for these deeds.

“If this by thy terms then I agree, for my children's sake.  Though I will say, the choice to defend this star is theirs, and theirs alone to make.  I will not bind them to such ere they are hatched.  I Midgardsormr shall make this covenant with thee…”

“Hydaelyn '' she responded, giving him a warm smile, “ And I accept thy terms as well. Now let me welcome thee and thy children to thy new home Midgardsormr.”  With that she held a stave before her and he felt aether surge from the lake surrounding him as it did he felt his essence tie into that of the lakes the source and as it did his vigor returned.  Roaring in joy he then set about placing his eggs carefully in the lake itself eager for them to draw upon its strength so they would grow strong.  

Midgardsormr then shook himself from his reprieve.  In the years that followed he time and again wondered if it had truly been the right choice to do as Hydaelyn bid.  When his eldest Bahaumt fell to the foul Alagans and then his eldest daughter Tiamat to the whispers of the cursed Ascians and then fettered by her own guilt. The day Azdaja disappeared into that voidgate leaving behind Vrtra to grieve and worry.  When Ratatoskr was murdered by mortals and his son Nidhogg lost his sense to rage, grief and guilt.  The pain and agony of his own death to the cursed airship.  Had it truly been worth it?  Was this really the last bastion of hope or had he simply cursed himself and his brood to death and despair in a different form?

These questions had danced in his mind for many ages and he felt a kinship for this Chosen of Hydaelyn for she too was granted a boon only for it to feel like a curse.  Deep down he was still unsure.  He knew not exactly what Hydaelyn had planned for him or for this mortal.  But he did know she needed to hear something at this time.

I know not why thy mistress granted thee the blessing nor why she agreed to allow me and mine to remain on this star.  But this I do know, despair will get thee no answers.  Do not give into it and stay strong if for no other than thyself.  Midgardsormr stated the diminutive dragon flying over and landing upon her shoulder.

Nimble Rabbit then looked at him and nodded, “Aye ye have the right o it.  To despair is to give up.  An I was raised te fight te the bitter end.  Thank ye Midgardsormr I needed te hear that.  And sorry fer grabbing ye like that.”

I am sturdier than thou thinks and I did goad thee.  Never mind past is past look to the future child he stated then dissipated before she got more sentiment out of him.

[kuramirocket]

On July 10, 1520, Aztec forces vanquished the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his men, driving them from Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztec empire. The Spanish soldiers were wounded and killed as they fled, trying in vain to drag stolen gold and jewels with them.

By September, an unexpected ally of the would-be conquerors had reached the city: the variola virus, which causes smallpox.

How the Aztecs responded to this threat would prove critical.

The Aztecs were no strangers to plagues. Among the speeches recorded in their rhetoric and moral philosophy, we find a warning to new kings concerning their divinely ordained role in the event of contagion:

Sickness will arrive during your time. How will it be when the city becomes, is made, a place of desolation? Just how will it be when everything lies in darkness, despair? You will also go rushing to your death right then and there. In an instant, you will be over.

Facing a plague, it was vital that the king respond with grace. They warned:

Do not be a fool. Do not rush your words, do not interrupt or confuse people. Instead find, grasp, arrive at the truth. Make no one weep. Cause no sadness. Injure no one. Do not show rage or frighten folks. Do not create a scandal or speak with vanity. Do not ridicule. For vain words and mockery are no longer your office. Never, of your own will, make yourself less, diminished. Bring no scorn upon the nation, its leadership, the government.

Retract your teeth and claws. Gladden your people. Unite them, humor them, please them. Make your nation happy. Help each find their proper place. That way you’ll be esteemed, renowned. And when our Lord extinguishes you, the old ones will weep and sigh.

If a king did not follow this advice, if his rule caused more suffering than it abated, then the people prayed to Tezcatlipoca for any number of consequences, including his death:

May he be made an example of. Let him receive some reprimand, whatever you choose. Perhaps punishment. Disease. Perhaps you’ll let your honor and glory fall to another of your friends, those who weep in sorrow now. For they do exist. They live. You have no want of friends. They are sighing before you, humble. Choose one of them.

Perhaps he [the bad ruler] will experience what the common folk do: suffering, anguish, lack of food and clothing. And perhaps you will give him the greatest punishments: paralysis, blindness, rotting infection.

Or will he instead soon depart this world? Will you bring about his death? Will he get to know our future home, the place with no exits, no smoke holes? Maybe he will meet the Lord of Death, Mictlanteuctli, mother and father of us all.

Clearly, the Aztecs took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously. Beyond uplifting morale, a king’s principal duty in times of contagion was deploying his subjects to “their proper place” so that the kingdom could continue to function. This included mobilizing the titicih, doctor-healers with vast herbal knowledge, most of them women pledged to the primal mother goddess Teteoh Innan.

What about the rest of the people? As with our own modern call for “thoughts and prayers,” the Aztecs believed their principal collective tool for fending off epidemics was a humble appeal to Tezcatlipoca. The very first speech of their text of rhetoric and moral philosophy was a supplication to destroy plague. After admitting how much they might deserve this scourge and recognizing the divine right of Tezcatlipoca to punish them however he sees fit, the desperate Aztecs tried to get their powerful god to consider the worst-case outcome of his vengeance:

O Master, how in truth can your heart desire this? How can you wish it? Have you abandoned your subjects? Is this all? Is this how it is now? Will the common folk just go away, be destroyed? Will the governed perish? Will emptiness and darkness prevail? Will your cities become choked with trees and vines, filled with fallen stones? Will the pyramids in your sacred places crumble to the ground?

Will your anger never be reversed? Will you look no more upon the common folk? For—ah!—this plague is destroying them! Darkness has fallen! Let this be enough. Stop amusing yourself, O Master, O Lord. Let the earth be at rest! I fall before you. I throw myself before you, casting myself into the place from which no one rises, the place of terror and fear, crying out: O Master, perform your office … do your job!

Smallpox arrived in Mesoamerica with a second wave of Spaniards who joined forces with Cortés. According to one account, they had with them an enslaved African man known as Francisco Eguía, who was suffering from smallpox. He, like many others on the continent of his birth, had no immunity to the disease carried there by the slave traders.

Eguía died in the care of Totonac people near Veracruz, the port city established by the Spanish some 250 miles east of the Aztec capital. His caretakers became infected. Smallpox spreads easily: not only blood and saliva, but also skin-to-skin contact (handshakes, hugs) and airborne respiratory droplets. It raced through a population with no herd immunity at all: along the coast, over the mountains, across the waters of Lake Texcoco, into the very heart of the populous empire.

The epidemic lasted 70 days in the city of Tenochtitlan. It killed 40 percent of the inhabitants, including the emperor, Cuitlahuac. Had he found it increasingly difficult to keep his people’s spirits up as tradition commanded? Had his leadership faltered? Did his subjects pray for his death?

Whatever the case, the memory of that devastation would echo for centuries. Some Nahuas—mostly the sons and grandsons of Aztec nobility—described the devastation decades after the conquest.

Their account harrows the soul:

It started during Tepeilhuitl [the 13th month of the solar calendar], when a vast human devastation spread over everyone. Some were covered in pustules, which spread everywhere, on people’s faces, heads, chests, etc. There was great loss of life; many people died of it.

They could not walk anymore. They just lay in bed in their homes. They could not move anymore, could not shift themselves, could not sit up or stretch out on their sides. They could not lay flat on their backs or even face down. If they even stirred, they screamed out in pain.

Many died of hunger, too. They starved because no one was left to care for the others; no one could attend to anyone else. On some people, the pustules were few and far between. They caused little discomfort, and those folks did not die. Still others had their faces marred.

By Panquetzaliztli [the 15th month of the solar year], it began to fade. At that time the brave warriors of the Mexica managed to recover.

But a hard lesson had been learned. None of the old remedies had worked. Entire families were gone. Funeral pyres effaced the sun.

The epidemic was only the beginning of the unexpected forces working in tandem to bring down the Aztec empire. On May 22, 1521—just as Tenochtitlan was beginning to recover, trying to rebuild trade routes, restock its supplies, replant its fields and aquatic chinampa gardens—Cortés returned.

This time he commanded more Spanish troops, men from the same second wave that had brought the smallpox. With them marched tens of thousands of Tlaxcaltecah warriors, the sworn enemies of the Aztecs. Smallpox had reached Tlaxcallan first, but its people—not as densely packed in urban areas like the Mexica—had fared better and were now ready to finish off their rivals.

The massive military force laid siege to the Aztec capital. Even with more than half the population dead or disabled, with little food or water or supplies, the Mexica held the city for three months.

Then, on August 13, 1521, it fell. Emptiness and darkness indeed prevailed.

Lines from a song composed by an unknown Mexica not long afterward sums up the emotions of the survivors:

It is our God who brings down

His wrath, His awesome might

upon our heads.

So friends, weep at the realization—

we abandon the Mexica Way.

Now the water is bitter,

the food is bitter: that

is what the Giver of Life

has wrought.

Without the smallpox, it’s much less likely Cortés and his allies could have taken Tenochtitlan. 

The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

“Somewhere around” because population estimates are difficult to come by, with extrapolations made from incomplete colonial sources that date back to precolonial times. For the ethnohistorian Charles Gibson, there is no “sure method for determining whether the later [colonial era] counts were more accurate or less accurate than the earlier ones,” so that “the magnitude of the unrecorded population seems unrecoverable.”

Nevertheless, Gibson’s best estimate is a population of 1,500,000 inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of first contact with Europeans. There was a sharp fall of about 325,000 by 1570; a drastic fall to about 70,000 by the mid-seventeenth century; followed by slow growth to about 275,000 by 1800. Gibson’s figures are simply staggering. They give us a rough impression, but tell us little about the suffering and massive social upheaval caused by these catastrophes.

Slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to the “Virgin Soil” theory, the epidemics were so desctructive because “the populations at risk have had no previous contact with the diseases that strike them and are therefore immunologically… defenceless,” as the psychiatrist David Jones writes in the William & Mary Quarterly. The theory is still widespread, often devolving into vague claims that indigenous people had “no immunity” to the new epidemics. By now we know that the lack of immunity played a role, but mostly early on. Current research instead emphasizes an interplay of influences, for the most part triggered by Europeans: slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to a group of scholars writing in the journal Latin American Antiquity, in colonial Mexico, “by the mid-17th century, many… communities had failed, victims of massive population decline, environmental degradation, and economic collapse.” This is why it’s crucial for today’s scholars to emphasize the influence of colonial policies—as opposed to the Virgin Soil theory, which shifts responsibility away from Europeans.

One peak of the epidemic occurred in the 1570s. The exact pathogen that caused that epidemic is not yet known. Some scholars have speculated that, since it struck mostly younger people, it might have been something unique to the New World and reminiscent of the Spanish Influenza outbreak, possibly a tropical hemorrhagic fever. Other recent theories include Salmonella, or a combination of diseases. Native communities were the main victims of this epidemic due to their poverty, malnourishment, and harsh working conditions compared to the Spanish population.

Three Circles in the Sun

Aztec authors from central Mexico noted their reactions to the epidemics in fascinating detail. Writing 100 years after the Spanish military takeover, they were painfully aware of the consequences of epidemics and colonization: epidemics had taken place before, but the unprecedented scale of the disasters caused widespread incomprehension, sadness, and anger.

Much of the extant writing by Aztec authors dates to the turn of the seventeenth century. Many of the authors had experienced the plague themselves, its effects still fresh in their memories. I want to focus on two pieces of writing: a report by the well-known historian Diego Muñoz Camargo from Tlaxcala, written in Spanish; and an anonymous text in the indigenous language, Nahuatl, from the Puebla region.

As Diego Muñoz Camargo, the famous historian from the era, wrote:

In 1576, another great pestilence struck this land, bringing death and destruction to the native population. It lasted over a year and brought ruin and decay to most of New Spain [the Spanish Viceroyalty covering today’s Mexico], as the native population was then almost extinct. One month before the outbreak of the disease, an obvious sign had been seen in the sky: three circles in the sun, resembling bleeding or exploding suns, in which the colours merged. The colours of those three circles were those of the rainbow and could be seen from eight o’clock until almost one o’clock at noon.

This passage demonstrates the great importance of omens for the Aztecs. 

It is not surprising that the second report, from the smaller community of Tecamachalco, also links diseases with the appearance of a comet. Probably written by the native noble Don Mateo Sánchez, the text shows the extent of the catastrophe in words quite similar to Diego Muñoz Camargo’s:

On the first day of August [of 1576] the great sickness began here in Techamachalco. It was really strong; there was no resisting. At the end of August began the processions because of the sickness. They finished on the ninth day. Because of it, many people died, young men and women, those who were old men and women, or children… When the month of October began, thirty people had been buried. In just two or three days they would die… They lost their senses. They thought of just anything and would die.

Several of Don Mateo’s family members also died, including his wife and the alcalde (mayor) of his quarter. Don Mateo then took over the post of alcalde. One can sense his incomprehension and anguish. The decimation of the indigenous elites is evident throughout his account.

This decimation contributed to the transformation of native societies well into the seventeenth century, including forced native labor and resettlements, the introduction of hierarchical Spanish laws and government, Christianity, and the alphabet. Together with increasing European immigration, the epidemic led to a massive upheaval of indigenous sociopolitical organization and ways of life, especially in the Valley of Mexico.

Don Mateo’s is not the only surviving account of the epidemic from an indigenous perspective. Other anonymous annals from Puebla and Tlaxcala from the era discuss earlier waves of disease, which remained firmly rooted in collective memory more than 100 years after the events. Like Mateo, these sources do not try to account for the origin of the disease, but they provide an idea of the scale and horror of the epidemic and the personal tragedies involved, the uprooting of families, of whole towns.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards’ narratives tried to explain the catastrophic effect the disease had on the indigenous population by pointing to difficult living conditions. But they also interpreted it as divine punishment for paganism and a sign of the native peoples’ alleged inferiority to Europeans. Of course, European remedies such as bloodletting, used in hospitals to treat indigenous patients, worsened conditions instead of healing them. Ultimately, the Spanish Crown feared above all a further loss of cheap or unpaid labour; the priests a loss of souls to be converted.

Holding Off Oblivion

Despite the harsh conditions, the descendants of the Aztecs did not give up—as has long been claimed in traditional scholarship. As the historian Camilla Townsend has argued, the demographic collapse lent urgency to the projects of major native historians—including the authors I’ve cited in this essay. Nearly all pre-Hispanic sources were destroyed by the Spanish, with some lost over time. The Chalca scholar Domingo de Chimalpahin commented on this confluence of factors: the destruction of sources and abandonment of communities strengthened his sense of responsibility to future generations. By writing history, he attempted to save his ancestors’ past from looming oblivion. Drawing on pre-Hispanic faith, continuing political participation, and recording the histories of their people: these are some of the ways in which Aztecs proactively shaped their lives following colonial devastation.

Centuries of colonial exploitation and violence have made the indigenous peoples of both Americas disproportionately vulnerable to current epidemics. This makes the resilience of indigenous peoples and cultures all the more incredible. Such resilience has developed over more than 500 years, in the face of continual adversity and disregard. Native American peoples provide varied and remarkable testimonies on weathering existential crises. The least we can do, in the midst of the current pandemic, is listen.

Other Source

[luzarya]

Of Pink Roses and Yellow Daffodils

Yuu x Vil

Summary: Yuu came from a world where the name of their soulmate is written on their chest and where one sided love led to flowers growing in your lungs.

Yuu had thought they wouldn't have to deal with such things, now being in Twisted Wonderland, yet it appears like their old world lingers into them.

(This focuses more on Yuu's feelings towards Vil. Vil makes only a brief appearance.)

ao3 link: here

warnings: Hanahaki Disease, blood, angst

parts: 1/2

-> second

word count: 2,683

--

When Yuu was brought into the world of Twisted Wonderland, their hope was immeasurable. No longer were they bound by the laws that dictated their homeland, no longer restricted by the death stricken rules.

Yet the moment they looked at the mirror, undressed from the waist up, their hope diminished. There laid the name of their soulmate- Vil Schoenheit, in clear black cursive, just above where their heart should have been. Upon seeing the mark, the dreadful, horrendous tattoo that has been there since birth, they fell to their knees, tears trailing down their cheeks as they wailed for hours.

Grim didn’t know what to make of the despairing human in front of them, but they remained silent, smart enough to realize that this was a moment that Yuu needed by themselves.

As the days went by, and Yuu’s adventures with Deuce and Ace continued, as the overblot incidents continued and ended by their hands, they were happy. No mark would dissuade them from the happiness they felt, nothing could stop them forming the friendships they had made.

Until they met their soulmate.

Yuu was flabbergasted at first, not knowing how to feel. Happy? Sad? Hopeful? Despair? Truly, knowing the fact that their soulmate was never in their world but instead in this one was something they needed to contemplate on. Surely, this meant that there was no going back to where they originated, or if they do, would this mean in heartbreak?

Yet, as their friends prepared for the competition, as Vil instructed them in the confines of their dorm, Yuu could feel the loss of breath with every step they took, petals coughed out every once and while, Yuu knew they were in trouble. Despair overwhelmed them as they sat in their bed, coughing as quietly as they could in their hand.

The yellow petals and specks of blood laid in their hand, no more coming out. Yuu let out a coarse fit of laughter. Oh how the universe hated them. In the short amount of time they had known Vil, Yuu had grown to love them.

Vil’s beauty was something to behold, their intellect and knowledge seeming to heighten their beauty. Oh how they were unafraid and uncaring of gender norms, oh how they walked the halls with great confidence. Each passing day that Yuu had seen Vil, their love for him grew as well. The fact that they were to be their soulmate didn’t help; in fact, it worsened it.

Yuu picked themselves up from their bed, careful with their hands to not leave a trace of their blood, making their way to the bathroom.

Another fit of coughs shook their body as another set of petals, this time pink, erupted from them. The sink was now a beautifully and chaotically decorated with pink and yellow petals, the blood seemingly in place with it all.

Yuu looked in the mirror, their eyes red and puffy from the pain, small bags underneath from the exhaustion. Their frame was slightly different as well, Skinnier than it was a week ago, though it wasn’t obvious as the rest of their symptoms. The petals in their throat had made it painful to consume anything edible, so the past few days have been wrought with a hungry stomach and chest pains.

Overall, their disheveled state was ugly and horrendous, perhaps this was their worst point of their life, besting their previous phases of life that have been riddled with pain and despair.

Knocking interrupted their wallowing of self-pity, the voice ringing out loudly in the bathroom, asking if they were okay.

With a coarse and high voice, Yuu replied, “All is well.”

Another violent fit of coughing, more painful than the last, shook their entire body. It was loud, no doubt their cries had awoken everyone in the dorm by now.

The knocking became louder, more frantic and Yuu gripped onto the sink with every fiber of their being. The fit ended, the sink now halfway filled with various petals and small flowers.

The last thing they saw was the door busting open as they fell onto the cold wooden floor.

Yuu woke up the next day in the infirmary, their throat sore and dry and their limbs too weak to move. Carefully they moved their head to the side and the other, noticing a lack of human presence all around.

They were awake for what felt like an eternity in silence, staring at the white ceiling as they processed last night’s events.

They heard the door open, yet they didn’t move their head. It wasn’t until they heard the person whisper out their name did they shift their eyes.

“You’re awake!”

The loud voice strained their ears but they dealt with the pain, as the figure, Crowley they now realized, continued to talk. Apparently everyone that had witnessed their body being taken from the bathroom were concerned, causing Vil to cancel practice as everyone was too worried to do anything.

“What… happened?” Yuu asked hoarsely. They regretted asking, the pain seeming to only intensify when they bothered to talk. Yuu didn’t want to know how much pain they would be if they ate anything.

“Well, according to Vil, they had found you unconscious on the ground,” Crowley started off, “and that the sink was filled with flower petals and blood. Pray tell, whatever had happened, Perfect?”

“Can I…. get something…. To write with? My…. throat is in…. Pain…”

“Yes, of course. Please do give me a moment.” Crowley scurried off to who knows where, as Yuu tried to sit up. The end result was another fit of coughs, the sound of hacking resonating throughout the room.

Crowley returned quickly, seeing the perfect coughing up petals and blood that stained the perfectly white bed sheets.

“Perfect! Drink this, it should aid with the pain.” Crowley handed Yuu a vial that was filled with a blue liquid. Knowing what it was, Yuu drank it as quickly as they could, knowing that there was another fit of coughs that would come. And come it did, ruining the bed sheets even further with the pink and yellow petals, the blood making the room smell like iron. Although, as Crowley had said, the potion did ease the pain, even if by the little.

“I brought you something to write with.” Crowley handed Yuu a small notepad and a nice black pen.

Yuu began to write.

This illness is from my universe. It’s not contagious, so no need to worry if it passes on. This illness is dependent on certain emotions. The most efficient way to cure it completely is surgery, as it originates in the chest, however that leads to a void of emotions afterwards.

Crowley looked confused at the note, “What do you mean it is dependent on emotions? Are you able to elaborate on this specific illness?”

Yuu nodded solemnly, and then began to write even more.

It’s called the Hanahaki disease. It only takes hold if the person believes that their love is unrequited. It goes away once the love is returned or if the person gets surgery to remove the flowers from their lungs.

“What a tragic disease!” Crowley’s voice was laced with concern, although Yuu could guess that losing them as a beast tamer would be something he was more concerned about than their actual wellbeing.

I’ll go through the surgery.

Crowley started at them, “Are you sure? You did say it was caused if they believed the love to be unrequited. How do you know for certain that it applies in your case?”

Yuu laughed at the thought of Vil loving them. There would be no reason why Vil would love them. Yuu had fallen in love too fast and too hard. Vil had been focused on the dance practice and making sure everyone was in tip top shape for the performance.

I know for certain. The person in question is too busy to think about love, there is no doubt that they are far too concerned with current events. Please Headmaster, let me go through the surgery before it’s too late.

Crowley hummed in thought, perhaps thinking about how expensive it would be to cover a surgery to remove branches from the lungs. Yuu couldn’t think of another way to get rid of them. No matter how much they wanted Vil to love them back, they knew that it wouldn’t happen.

If you could, remove their name. My world has it that those destined to you have their names inscribed on your chest, above the heart. I don’t want to be reminded, otherwise the disease will take hold again.

“What an odd world you once lived in. Well, do not fret! I will do as you asked. I will do everything in my ability to aid you with this disease, aren’t I so kind?”

Yuu rolled their eyes, but they were glad to know that Crowley was the same as ever.

Thank you, Headmaster. A million thanks.

Days had passed, and no one had come to visit. Vil had everyone practice once they knew about their wellbeing. It pained Yuu, as they felt lonely as ever.

It did ease the disease, if only a little bit. They still continue to cough out flowers in full bloom, pink roses and yellow daffodils being what came from them. How fitting, their meaning. They certainly felt no joy in this, nor was there any gratitude, yet grace was ironic, in a sense. Was it because that Vil was the epitome of beauty and grace that they coughed out pink roses?

And what of the yellow daffodils? They represented rebirth and new beginnings. Was it them coming to this new world that the disease had sprouted such flowers? Or is it what is to come afterwards of surgery, that they were to feel like new?

Yuu didn’t know for certain, but they wanted the pain to end. It was already painful enough that they knew Vil was never going to love them, but the fact that the disease had taken place in their lungs only served to make Yuu feel worse. They didn’t need a constant reminder of their one-sided love.

Crowley had stayed true to his word, as he managed to get an appointment for Yuu. Unfortunately it meant that Yuu had to leave off campus to go to an actual hospital, but it was fine. It made Yuu wonder why there wasn’t a hospital on campus, although they supposed perhaps having an infirmary was enough in most cases.

Getting to the hospital was all a blur, going from coughing out roses and daffodils to sleeping from the exhaustion from making the flowers to begin with. It didn’t help that they began to eat less, the pain in their throat making it difficult to eat anything.

Yuu only had hope they would be able to survive the surgery. The rates for the surgery were high in their world, after all, many people fell in love and got stricken with the disease all the time.

Their love and emotions may disappear with the surgery, yet Yuu never regret falling in love. Their only regret in all of this was letting themselves fall too hard in love.

The surgery had been a success, from what Yuu had been told. Yuu asked the surgeons to preserve the flowers, despite the pain they had caused. As weird as it was, Yuu wanted a reminder of love, a reminder of a feeling that they once felt.

And preserve them, they did. Yuu held the vase of pink roses and daffodils in their arms. The flowers were no longer bloody, as it was a sort of a hazard to keep blood on there. Nonetheless, the flowers were pretty and lovely, as once their love was for Vil. Yuu felt normal as usual, save for the slight discomfort in their throat and overall being.

Though, upon their return to the college, they were quickly ushered to their room, Grim bouncing around in joy the moment they saw them.

“You had the Great Grim concerned! A servant like you shouldn’t make me concerned!”

Despite the comment, Grim stayed with Yuu as they were forcibly bed ridden.

Deuce and Ace, of course, had made their way to the Perfect’s room, making sure everything was fine and asking questions. Yuu made sure not to delve too much about what had happened, only mentioning that it was a disease from their world that caused flora to sprout under certain conditions. Never did they mention what kind of conditions, nor did ever why they hadn’t stopped it earlier when they noticed when they did.

Right before they left, of which greatly saddened Yuu to be left alone again, they had mentioned they were making great strides of practicing, despite the obvious tension between Vil and Epel. Yuu was happy about the progress, perhaps their friends would be able to win the competition that they all have been working hard towards. Although, when Vil’s name had been said by their beloved friend, they had felt nothing, only a void where their love should have been once.

The surgery was clearly a success, but Yuu was unsure if the empty void was worth it.

Late that evening, surprisingly, Vil and Rook came to visit. It was nothing out of the ordinary, or at least, that is what Yuu had thought. The emptiness was still there when they looked at Vil, no longer feeling the same about their beauty nor their grace as they once did. Yuu could tell that the two had noticed something was off about them, but they didn’t ask.

When they left, Yuu could feel themselves becoming overwhelmed. They never anticipated feeling sadness after the whole ordeal, nor did they anticipate the cries that came out from them. Yet no matter how much they wanted to cry out and shout their despair away, no matter how much they wanted to wail as loudly as they could, their friends were still in the dorm, sleeping to prepare for the big day.

Yuu wondered, would it have been better if they confessed their feelings to Vil? Yet as soon as that question came, it quickly became answered, that no, it would not have been best to confess to Vil. Had they confessed, they were certain that Vil would have rejected them, and only progressed the illness even further, and perhaps even strain their relationship until the moment of Yuu’s certain death. And Yuu’s death would be a terrible loss for the college as a whole, as no matter how insignificant Yuu thinks they are, they are still the reason why the overblot incidents never ended in any casualties, since they were always the ones to end it. As much as Yuu would have liked to die with their love intact, it would have never benefited any party except for Yuu themselves.

So Yuu laid in their bed, quietly crying. Crying over the love they once held in their heart, because no matter what had happened in the end, their love had brought them hope. Pulling themselves out from bed, Yuu unbuttoned their shirt and pulled it down, and anything else in the way to get a clear view of their chest. Sure enough, where the name had once clearly been, there was nothing. What had remained was the scars from the surgery. Yuu didn’t know if they regretted having Vil’s name removed, but the deed had been done and there was nothing they could do about it.

Nothing at all.

Yet as they continued to wallow in their self-pity, Yuu knew that the surgery was the best option they had taken so far. What else could they have done that would have prevented their death? Nothing, that’s what.

There was nothing they could have done.

So all Yuu could do now was finish their session of tears, and focus on the future.

But for now they’ll give themselves this moment of mourning for the emotions that they once had possessed.

For that was all they could do.

[shirtlesssammy]

3x04: Sin City

Then:

Dean killed Azazel

Now:

A nun wanders an empty church, replacing hymnals. The priest finds her and offers to walk her to her car. They both find a parishioner in the balcony who gets their attention by announcing that “God’s not with us.” He then shoots himself in the head. Ooof. 

While Dean and Bobby work on the Colt, Sam informs them that he’s found sightings of demonic omens. Bobby stays behind to figure out how the Colt works while Dean and Sam take off for Ohio and the new case.

Interviewing the priest, the brothers learn that things changed in the town about two months prior --the same time they opened the devil’s gate. 

The brothers then head to their motel room, where Dean runs into an old hunter friend, Richie. They banter and then they all talk shop. Whatever’s happening, doesn’t make sense. (Sidenote: Dean’s pumped that the room has Magic Fingers. Yay, bby) Dean asks about anyone in town whose whole personality has changed. Richie answers, “There’s Trotter.” He’ll be at his bar in a couple hours. 

The town is anything but a boarded up factory town. It’s got coeds as far as the eye can see, and Dean’s ready to do some research. Trotter’s Bar is the epicenter of debauchery. They find the priest there. 

Sam wonders what the padre is doing there. He goes where the flock is. 

Dean then gets to flirt mildly with the bartender and fun fact: He likes Hurricanes. I feel like this is one part of Dean’s personality not explored in later seasons. Let the boy drink his fruity drinks, 202K! 

Before anyone can react, a man walks in and shoots another man dead. 

Dean tackles the assailant before he can off himself. Sam throws holy water on him, but he’s not possessed. The man admits that the victim slept with his wife. (Sam sees Dana Scully’s dad from across the bar. Man, things are REALLY WEIRD here.) (Natasha: Nooo he’s the general from Stargate!)

The cops later take the man away and tell Sam and Dean that the paper will be there shortly to take their pictures.

That’s the brothers’ cue to leave. Dean wonders where Richie is before they take off. 

Richie is with the bartender. She’s taken him to her parent’s country estate. It’s secluded and has toys. Just when things are getting interesting for poor Richie, the bartender reveals she’s really a demon, and she knows he’s a hunter. WHERPS. He tries attacking, but she snaps his neck in two seconds flat. Richie!

Later at the bar, Dean forgoes eating his burger to track down the missing Richie. Sam decides to follow Trotter. 

Bobby, meanwhile, is getting the Colt back into fighting shape. Ruby shows up and taunts him to test out the Colt. He does. The aim is true but the bullets aren’t right. She offers to help him with the gun. 

The brothers practice seriously dangerous cell phone usage (Seriously Sammy? You didn’t put it on silent? Seriously Dean? You’re driving while not hands free? UGH.) 

Dean’s back at the bar and a prostitute approaches him for a discounted good time. Dean doesn’t pay. (Or is that Sam? IDK, neither of them have to pay. Have you seen them!?) The bartender is back at work and saw the whole thing. It doesn’t deter her that Dean struck out with a prostitute and they head out for fun times elsewhere. 

Sam watches Dana Scully’s dad leave his office and heads in himself to investigate. Dana Scully’s Dad Trotter appears again and there’s a slight tussle before Sam realizes that he’s also not a demon. Sam awkwardly realizes his mistake and makes his exit. Sweet dumb boy. 

Dean, meanwhile, is heading down the same path as his dead buddy Richie. Dean’s no dummy though and sets up a devil’s trap. He pulls out his Latin book to exorcise her back to Hell. He doesn’t have it memorized yet and she starts up a demon wind machine. He loses the pages AND the basement door caves in. Worst Date Ever.

Later, Dean explores his new prison to the amusement of the demon trapped with him. She mocks him openly for not having an exorcism memorized. 

The demon taunts Dean expertly. Dean Bean’s offended at being labeled the dumb one and I am OFFENDED on his behalf! They wait to see whose rescue is going to arrive first - Dean’s or hers. 

Sam frets at the bar over his missing brother, and bribes the bartender for his whereabouts.

Meanwhile, Dean and the demon’s snarkfest marathon continues. She tells him that she didn’t even have to engage in mystical hijinks to send people in town into an evil tailspin. All she had to do was drop a few suggestions about the profit of vice to Trotter and humans took care of the rest. She describes humans as weak and corrupt. 

For Constantly Weak for Dean Winchester and SYMBOLISM Science:

Sam heads inside her (other) house and finds sulfur. The game is afoot!

Meanwhile, Dean and the demon enjoy a little philosophical exchange. “Do you believe in God, Dean?” she asks him while I chew my own arm off. She sets up the apocalyptic battle from the demon perspective. Humans have wrought carnage on their world, so it’s the demons’ turn to “do it right this time.” 

Sam’s back at the bar again, calling Bobby to report that he can’t find Dean. I guess the game is...not so afoot after all. The bartender offers him booze before downing a shot himself and, frustrated with the townsfolk, Sam zeroes in on the priest who’s still hanging out in the bar. 

Demon Casey tells Dean that she’s faithful to Lucifer, light-bringer and the one who will raise demons up. She’s a believer. Dean oh-so-casually asks what Hell is like and the BRAVADO masking the FEAR! Jensen Ackles, your face hurts me sometimes.

For HURTSSSSS MEEE Science:

She sees right through him. “It’s a pit of despair,” she tells him frankly. “Why do you think we want to come here?”

Sam, meanwhile, is involved in a terribly awkward discussion with the priest at the bar. He’s worried about his brother and thinks he might be…..in trouble. The priest offers to bring Sam to Casey. His eyes turn black as he turns away from Sam. 

The demon and Dean have settled into a friendly heart to heart at this point. She tells him that she actually likes him and thinks he did something good when he sold his soul to save Sam. 

Dean tries to laugh off her real talk. He thinks it’s freeing to be damned - he can live his life any way he wants now. He’s totally not scared at all. Not at all!!!

The demon riding the priest interrogates Sam, asking him about his aspirations for the future. Yeah! Why aren’t ya in college, Sam!

Dean and Demon Casey continue to bond, and the scene takes the tone of a couple kids just chilling in the basement talking about life. Which is...actually sort of accurate. 

Casey tells Dean that Yellow Eyes, a.k.a. Azazel, had a plan to bring the minions of Hell to Earth, but Dean killing him put a significant wrench in those plans. She tells him that Sam was supposed to lead the demon army. Uh. Wherps. Instead of Sam, there’s a power vacuum in Hell. Demons everywhere are fighting for the crown. “For the record,” she tells him, “I was ready to follow Sam.” And damn, if I don’t get the feeling that Dean likes her a little better because of that. 

Sam and his demon priest arrive. Dean issues a warning to Sam, but Sammy doesn’t have to worry because Bobby shows up with the Colt! Bobby hands off the gun to Sam, Ruby smirking in the background. The priest breaks into the basement and smashes through the devil’s trap holding Demon Casey in. They kiss while Dean looks on in surprise.

Surprise, Dean! They’ve been lovers for centuries! Casey begs the demon priest for Dean’s life and it gives just enough delay for Sam to shoot the priest with the Colt. The priest flashes out. Dean tries to stop Sam from killing Demon Casey but Sam shoots. She flashes out as well. Remember, kids, there’s no room for love on Supernatural unless it’s DOOMED LOVE. 

The next morning, Dean tries to figure out what they actually won from this hunt. There are two demons dead and one alive - and very bad - human. “Maybe these people wanna destroy themselves. Maybe it is a losing battle,” Dean opines to Bobby. He notes that Sam’s dispatch of both demons was “cold” and brings up Azazel’s words to him: When Sam came back, he might have come back different. They both agree (halfheartedly) that Sam is doing FINE and is definitely not at all concerning.

Sam and Ruby meet up in a hotel room. Sam’s suffering regrets and calls Ruby a “cold bitch.” She takes issue with this assessment, particularly since she’s saved his life a few times. I mean, knowing about Ruby aside, I fully agree here. Fun fact! The word “bitch” was used four times in this episode! Ruby continues to dangle the hope that she might be able to help save Dean from his deal. Sam levels the Colt at her.

Sam threatens to kill her, but it’s just empty words. Ruby warns him that the fight ahead won’t be easy, but she’ll be there by his side. A little “fallen angel” on his shoulder. (Shakes my head at this goddamn show.)

Where Everybody Knows Your Quotes:

Toys trump oils

A demon with a heart. Wow

You don't get it. All you got to do is nudge humans in the right direction

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

[abeautifuldayfortea]

Storm

Summary: For the lovely @ladylouoflothlorien who requested this, I hope you enjoy! A/N and timeline for this story is below the story. Reader is an elf child from Celebrian’s escort travelling from Imladris to Lothlorien in TA 2509. For context, Osgiliath was lost in TA 2475. Quote in italics from Unfinished Tales, JRR Tolkien.

Hi hon, could I please request something with Saruman & Reader where the reader was rescued by him as a child and has been raised by him. Something a little angsty where they’re watching his descent into madness and serving the dark lord. Maybe he tries to hide what’s going on from them but they were raised smart and it’s not exactly difficult to figure out. I think this definitely calls for some(?) angst but as for where the loyalties and morality of the reader lie by the end of it is completely up to you. I just saw you were interested in writing for Saruman and this popped into my head, which is strange because I haven’t written anything like this before!!

Words: 1380

From his window in Orthanc, Saruman watched with calculated interest as a lone figure rode hard, out of the safety of Isengard, shrinking and disappearing altogether as they turned behind the feet of the mountains. It was for the north that they rode, onwards toward Imladris and Doriath, seeking Radaghast with his message, and in time they would return, bearing news to him from distant lands. Something about the child had changed irrevocably and though they tried to conceal from him its nature, he could sense their mind had altered from the course that he had set it on. Even the firm persuasion of his voice could not fully ease their troubles.

Making fully sure they were out of view, he sat smoking in thoughtful silence within the privacy of his chambers. Never before had he reason to doubt their will or their capability ere the shadow of Sauron had taken up his mantle in Barad Dur. Yet now, his faith in them wavered for he saw within them a growing doubt, no more than a flicker, but what he was sure would in time grow to a fire that would consume them both. This he feared beyond all else and though he knew it was wise to dispose of them, his heart refused and reminded him of a simpler time, if ever there was one.

Beyond the whistling despair that painted the skirmish he had found them by  the gaping mouth of the Redhorn Pass as he journeyed south to the new capital of Minas Tirith to proffer advice. His absence had cost the Gondorians dearly and thirty years on, the sacking of Osgiliath still marred the hearts of many like a suffocating tar. They needed guidance and he would be the one to give it.

But there, at the Redhorn Pass he sensed the biting sharpness of a greater grief and fear. Overhead, the looming shadow of Caradhras cast itself, breathing its chill on the very ground at its roots like the beckoning onset of winter.

The hewn earth. The song of the mountains echoing down the channels. The iron tang of blood on the wind. A memory came to him then on the same winds, a time long ago, far away and hazy as though he stood on the other side of a frosted window, intruding on something that was both intimate and distant. The shaping of iron, the forging of rings and a young man with dark hair and his master by his side. His name was Curunír then.

The vision awoke with him a great unquenchable desire for a past he could not quite remember and yet he yearned for every ounce of it, but as he did, it faded and however hard Saruman pursued it, he could grasp at nothing but a frosty wind. Before his feet lay the scattered bodies of elves, the battered standard of Imladris laying torn … and something else. The bated breath of a child. He was watched.

Saruman turned then beyond the violence and bloodshed, and toward a copse of shivering young oak trees. An elf child. Young but not quite naïve. Impressionable still. His eyes lit.

He remembered with sour hatred the founding of the White Council and Gandalf. His endearment with the hobbit people of the north and though he had mocked him then, he understood now what bound him so tightly to that merry folk. And while his heart went out to the child, he was struck with the bitter undercurrent of jealousy for Gandalf’s hobbit folk. He would take them under his wing to forge as his creation. Not as a child of the woodlands but one that would love fire and iron.

“Well, will you not come forth and tell me your name?” His voice was a gentle suggestion, light, guised as an offer but beneath it was a power so compelling that they could not refuse it. And so it was that the child strode forward to meet Saruman without fear or suspicion and gave him their name. And it is told that they were ensnared and spellbound to him, for a person’s name is ever sweet to the ears of the one it belongs to. In Saruman’s face, the child saw the visage of their lifeless father, only older and wiser for that was the veil he assumed to their eyes. Everywhere Saruman went, the child followed, growing tall and lithe like the long shadows of dusk in the even longer march of time. Their sharp eyes were ever watching and learning, for along his many wandering travels, Saruman taught them the secret way of words and to delve beyond them to discern secret thoughts.

By the time Saruman received the Keys of Orthanc, he was just as endeared to his charge as they were to him and it was as though they were molded from his own flesh and blood. To his charge, he spoke openly of preserving the Free Peoples and while they knew of his research of magic rings, he hid from them his truest desire to be recognised and undisputedly powerful. To rule. Yet this they discerned also, for they walked together through many centuries and as the time passed them by, they saw that he strayed from the road he had set himself upon, walking in the murky in-between of good and evil.

It was at the second meeting of the White Council that it was revealed to them, clear as day. There would be no attack upon Dol Guldur despite Gandalf’s protestations. It was unlike him to be careless, to claim the Ring had fallen to the sea, to deny the possibility of Sauron’s return. Saruman was always thorough, and they knew this to be true. Gandalf sat then, silent, smoking and Saruman mocked him as he always had done.

A beat.

It was in the space of a thought that Gandalf passed his gaze over to the elf by Saruman’s side, searching for some unknown thing within their gaze.

Looking keenly at Saruman he drew his pipe and sent out a great ring of smoke with many smaller rings that followed it. Then he put up his hand, as if to grasp them, and they vanished. (Unfinished Tales, Tolkien)

And the moment passed as quickly as though it never happened. The child who was now no longer a child, watched on as the hazy fumes meandered lazily out of his hands and they knew then that they were not mistaken.

Altered and seduced as Saruman’s mind was, his charge remained steadfast by his side, for the love between them was too great, though they grew ever more uneasy at the methods he resorted to. A ring he had crafted and many coloured robes he wrought, but he did not don them. They noticed the long nights Saruman spent secluded within the high chamber of Orthanc, casting his mind this way and that and communing at times with some veiled power that they shuddered to think of. A host of orcs and men arrived at the gates of Isengard and were welcomed. “As I have given you a home, they too shall have theirs” he had said, and he cast such a pitiful look at them that his charge relented. Great pits were delved and filled with fire and it was with despair that the young elf found themselves at the shores of darkness, upon the cusp of a war that should never have been.

And yet now they rode hard to find Radaghast and set his beasts to Saruman’s task. Before them lay the chance to turn away, to divert the course of the coming war. A chance to warn of bloodshed. A chance to stop children being orphaned before their time. In a sleepless dream, they walked in the halls of memory, to a bloody day at the Redhorn Pass, Celebrian’s abduction, the loss of family and the beginning of a new one. A day when a weary traveller came by and took them in as his own child. 

An impossible choice. One that would result in war either way.

They laughed at the folly of it, a peal of bright bells on the air for in the moment for there was nothing they could do but bask in the freedom of clear air with the countless miles between themselves and Isengard. A fair wind danced beside them, masking the foul tang of iron deep beneath the impenetrable tower of Orthanc. Overhead, the stars wheeled as night came and went like the swift kiss of ignorance upon their brow and for a moment in the wan gaze of the moon, everything in the world was as it should be. The knowing silence of the coming storm.

A/N: This was a challenging request (and my first for that matter) and I had much trouble trying to fit in a plausible scenario that matched the original timeline. A goodly amount of research and two weeks worth of fretting over the timeline went into this, but it still feels off :/ and I can’t say that I’m happy with the finished product.

Because the request asked for the Saruman’s descent to evil, the child/reader would need to have a lifespan that would need to stretch for a minimum of 500 years or so. Elves are the only race (bar Tom Bombadil and other strange beings) that has a lifespan matching this and so it is the race that the reader in this story belongs to. Personally, I am of the opinion that elves would take in other orphaned elves and so the scenario from which the child is rescued from must be far enough from the major elf cities to warrant them being raised by Saruman. Hence, I placed them as a part of Celebrian’s escort bound for Lothlorien from Rivendell in the year TA 2509. This small party was ambushed by orcs at the Redhorn Pass (I chose to set the scene at the junction between the Redhorn Pass and the Redhorn Gate because the Pass is described as ‘narrow’ along the cliffs and hence there would not be much room for the reader to hide! The general timeline I used is below:

TA 1000 – Saruman arrives in ME and goes into the east on regular trips

TA 1601 – The Shire settled

TA 2400ish – Saruman returns to the west, discovers Gandalf’s possession of Narya

TA 2463 – White Council formed, Saruman becomes jealous of Gandalf because he is mooted to be head of the council instead of Saruman

TA 2475 – Osgiliath taken

TA 2509 – Celebrian captured

2759 – Saruman gets the keys to Orthanc and settles in Isengard

2851 – 2nd White Council meeting, Gandalf urges attack on dol Guldur, smoke ring incident

[one-boring-person]

hello!! i absolutely love your poncho x reader stuff, and i was hoping to request some poncho x reader post-guatemala where the reader is comforting poncho from a nightmare (most likely about the incident with the predator)? thank you so much!! keep up the good work uwu

Thank you so much! I'm glad you like this stuff!😊💛 I hope you enjoy this!

We'll Be Ok.

Poncho (Predator 1987) x reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of death, angst

Masterlist

No one found it easy to settle back into any routine, no one. Not even Dutch, who could usually pick himself up after a tough mission with ease, the stoic veteran having seen a lot in his unusually eventful life. He comes round often and puts on a brave face for the two of us, Poncho and I, but we can all tell it's eating away at him; we've known him long enough. 

If it's eating away at him, however, it's almost certainly tearing at Poncho, who took the fateful events of that mission in the jungle very badly, and has carried the consequences with him for months and months after we got back. Anyone can tell something's up, from the sluggish way he moves, to the darkening circles under his eyes, despite my best efforts to help him through this. Deep in my heart, I know he will take much longer than me to get over this pain, having known the team for years and years before I joined them, engraving the relationships and friendships right into his heart, where the reminders will always stay, a nod to the fallen men we all know.

Considering all this, it's no surprise then, when I wake to the sounds of him writhing beside me, gasps and cries of helpless terror escaping his parted lips, sweat coating his skin in a thick sheen. The duvet is tangled around his legs and bare chest, hands grasping at the mattress, his knuckles white from how tight his grip is, clawing at the surface below him. His hair is stuck to his head, breaths coming hard and fast, each sound that comes with them pulling at my heart as I sit upright, looking over the squirming man beside me. Poncho has long since stopped holding me whilst we sleep, afraid now that he'll hurt me during one of his hundreds of nightmares. I tried to protest, but he wouldn't have any of it.

Even now, I have to fight to stop myself from intercepting, knowing it will be worse if I try to shake him out of the hellscape in his head. I tried it a few times, but each time, it left him disoriented, terrified and on edge, ready to attack anything that moved, eyes wide and unseeing until he calmed down. Each time I have to watch him jerk and twist on the mattress, however, I feel the urge to reach over and bring him back to reality, fully aware of the torturing dreams that plague him, my heart hammering in my chest at the pure fear in his broken voice. I feel helpless, sitting there in the dark as my partner suffers, but there is little I can do. His therapy sessions don't help, and my own attempts to aid him seem fruitless, leaving me as despairing as he is.

In the suffocating darkness, I can just see his muscles tightening properly, violent tremors wracking his body now as the nightmare comes to a climax, his cries filtering out into whimpers of horror and grief. I have to steel myself for what I know will come next, knowing that it will always break me to witness it.

It starts off low, rapidly growing into a scream of helpless grief, the sound guttural and chilling, as sincere as anything ever will be. The pain in that one, agonising wail is enough to hack at the most hardened veterans, meaningless words and pleas somehow wrought into this one noise, portraying his daily emotion perfectly - if his therapist could hear him now, there would be a whole lot less superfluous stuff to go through. Anyone can see that this man is in pain.

My heart breaks in my chest, just as it does every night, my need to comfort him overwhelming, every instinct in me telling me to wake him and hold him close to me, to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything is fine. But I know doing this will leave him worse for wear, and that ain't something I want to do to him. I can't do that to him.

Finally, the scream cuts off, a sharp gasp replacing it as he jerks upright, eyes wide as they take in the surroundings, glittering in fear. His body is trembling, breaths shuddering in and out of his heaving lungs as he struggles to return to reality again. 

I don't touch him immediately, knowing that it will trigger his fight-or-flight reaction instantly, and so further confuse him. Eventually, he takes a deep breath, his body slouching as his hands come up to cup his face, eyes squeezing closed again. Hesitantly, I lean forwards and gently place my hand on his clammy shoulder,  swallowing tightly when he flinches away from me, before he relaxes into the touch, needing the contact to ground himself.

"Fuck, (Y/n), I'm not sure how much longer I can take this." He eventually mumbles, voice hoarse and quiet.

As I hear that, my heart breaks completely, only now noticing as a single tear rolls down his cheek.

"Oh, Poncho." I sigh, reaching out and pulling him into my body, smoothing my hands down his scarred back.

Limply, he falls into my grip, burying his face into my chest, reaching around me to hold onto me as if for dear life. Soothingly, I run my hands up his sticky skin, whispering sweet nothings to him, trying to reassure him as I press a kiss to his temple, glad that he can find some comfort in me. Weakly, he lifts his head to look at me, eyes clouded with grief.

"I miss them, (Y/n). I miss them so much." He finally whispers, voice broken, tears starting to stream down his cheeks as he lets go of his pent-up emotion, sobbing into my chest now.

Swallowing, I tighten my grip on him, stroking back his hair as he cries into me, body shaking as he sobs.

"Me too, Poncho, me too." I murmur, unsure of what else to say, "You're gonna be ok, we're gonna be ok. We've got to try and move on, together. We'll make it through, I promise you."

All he does is sniff and keep crying, my jaw tightening at the sound as I lean back against the headboard, knowing this is more comfortable. Together we stay sat like that, both needing the moment to let out our emotions and be with each other.

[heejinnien]

j.hoseok | mama

word count: 1.3k

pairing: hoseok x reader

synopsis: what would happen if you were hoseok’s mother, and he was visiting you after your death.

genre: angst

warnings: implied major character death, cemetery

author’s note: this is the first piece in the wings anthology! this is the first fic where i’ve written following a character in the story rather than the reader, although it is still reader insert. it might make you sad. thank you to @fluffy-fluffu and @taegularities for being my amazing beta readers.

link to wings anthology

cross posted to ao3 here

Hoseok trudges up the worn path to the cemetery, shoulders hunched as if they carry the weight of the world.

He carries with him a bouquet of flowers, made out of your favorite ones. His feet have travelled this path enough times by now for him to be able to navigate it with his eyes closed, gravel crunching underfoot. The outside of the cemetery is protected by a wrought iron fence, the entrance a small, simple gate that squeaks as he pulls it open. As he navigates the cemetery, he travels farther and farther away from the entrance. Gravel gives way underfoot to dirt, twigs snapping as his path becomes one of that less travelled.

He kneels by the familiar gravestone, gently brushing aside a vine that has begun to creep up the stone, and tenderly sets the flowers down in front of it. They seem out of place, the only living soul in this place of death and decay besides himself. Soon, however, they too will join death, crumbling into the ground beneath them.

“Hi, Mom,” he whispers, voice cracking in despair. He quickly clears his throat. “I hope you like the flowers. I remember they were your favorite.”

His trembles, and he closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. It’s been months since your death. It’s not always easy to visit you, the distance from Seoul to Gwangju no small length, especially amidst his busy schedule as an idol. Still, he tries to visit whenever he has a free moment, the rest of the boys understanding of it and even offering to drive him. This time, he decided to travel alone.

Hoseok opens his eyes once again, and smiles softly. “I thought it would get easier,” he admits. “After your death, I shut myself out from everyone around me.”

Memories of locking himself in his dark room flood back to him. He had kicked Jimin out of their shared room, forcing him to seek rest elsewhere, and remained locked inside for days, refusing to eat or drink. The concerned voices of his bandmates drifted through the door every now and then, asking him if he needed anything and offering their support, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything they said. Eventually, it had been Namjoon who had managed to bring him out of his grieving state.

The sound of the door opening faintly registered in the back of Hoseok’s mind, but he paid no attention to it. He figured it was one of the boys asking if he needed something again, and he couldn’t bear to face them in this state, so, he remained curled into a ball, facing the wall. The light from the hallway spilled into the room, illuminating the outline of a tall figure.

“Hoseok hyung,” Namjoon said gently. “You should eat something.”

Like many of the previous interactions, Hoseok didn’t respond, deigning to close his eyes in an effort to shut off the world around him. He heard Namjoon sigh softly, and then the sound of the door closing.

He rolled over, assuming his bandmate had gone. Instead, he was met with the sight of Namjoon dragging a chair over towards his bedside.

“Go away,” Hoseok croaked out. He was just tired, and it felt like a crushing weight had been added to his soul.

“Hoseok hyung,” Namjoon said, sitting and reaching for Hoseok’s hand, holding it tightly. Hoseok tugged at it, attempting to curl back into himself, but Namjoon held onto it firmly. “I know it’s been hard for you, but you have to take care of yourself. It’s what your mother would want.”

Hoseok stared at his bandmate, feeling as though he were teetering on the edge of breaking. Namjoon’s gaze softened, and his voice turned pleading.

“Please, hyung. Your sister has been calling us, worried about you, and you have all of us worried as well. I hate seeing you neglect yourself like this.”

At that, Hoseok felt himself crumble. He pulled on his hand again, trying to roll over before Namjoon could see his tears, but the leader held on. He held Hoseok against him as he sobbed, the latter feeling as though he had finally fallen off the precipice.

Afterwards, Namjoon convinced Hoseok to finally leave his room. He saw the glances his members exchanged and the way they looked at him, as if he were made of glass, and it made his stomach feel heavy. He wanted to retreat into his room once more, but instead he hid it behind a smile, reassuring them that he was okay and forcing himself to repeat it until it had almost become believable.

“I’ve always been grateful to my band members.”

Hoseok’s smiles wryly, a mixture of fondness for his members and the mind numbing grief that had consumed him the past few days pressing down upon his chest.

“I don’t know how I could’ve gotten through it without them.” He shifts his weight absentmindedly, sticks digging uncomfortably into his knees.

“I thought I would sing for you today, Mom.”

Hoseok pauses, the thought of his song adding a crushing weight to his already consuming grief. He shakes his head, forcing himself to continue for you.

“Time travel the year of 2006, crazy for dance.”

His voice pierces the still air, filled with melancholy. Without the upbeat track behind it, the heavy weight of the song crashes down upon him.

“Hey mama, now you can lean on me, I’ll always be by your side.”

Hoseok’s voice cracks, his grief crashing upon him like a tidal wave of sadness. Soon he is sobbing, tears running down his face uncontrollably. He forces himself to choke out the last of the refrain, the words leaving him no louder than a whisper as he feels his heart break with each one.

“Because you gave selflessly to me, because you were my support, hey mama, now you can believe in your son, you can smile.”

And Hoseok sobs, feeling as though his heart has been ripped open. He’s drowning in the sea of his wild, uncontrollable emotions, and he feels as though he’ll never swim again.

Faintly, he hears his name being called. He disregards it, too caught up in his agony to bring himself to care when he feels strong, warm arms wrapping themselves around him. He tries to pull away, but they hold on to him, pulling him close and hugging him tighter.

“It’s okay,” Jimin says consolingly, and soon the rest of BTS are around them, hugging Hoseok and holding the pieces of him together. They offer their silent solace, throwing him a lifeboat and carrying him until he is standing on his own again. He wipes away the last of his tears, giving them a small, heartbroken smile.

“Why are you guys here?” He chokes out, unable to believe the sight around him.

“We know your mother’s death has been hard on you, hyung,” Namjoon starts. “We knew you would never tell anyone, so we decided to come with you to make sure that you were okay.”

Hoseok’s heart swells, his eyes stinging with tears once again. He wipes at them furiously, letting out a dry laugh. “I’m pitiful, aren’t I.”

“No, hyung,” Jimin says, tightening his hold on Hoseok. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

Hoseok doesn’t realize that he’s begun to cry again until Taehyung reaches over, gently wiping a stray tear away. As he looks over each of his members, all he sees is the love and support reflected in their eyes.

“I love you guys,” Hoseok forces the words out past the huge clog that has formed in his throat, unable to express how grateful he is.

“We love you too, Jung Hoseok.”

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was SALOME, a DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. She is said to be IMMORTAL and uses SHE/HER pronouns. In this New Testament she serves as a MEMBER of the VICES. Blessed be her name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

She was the first mortal to be welcomed into the horde of Hell, the first mortal to be granted wings. Prior to her demise, Salome had been regarded as something of a witch during her time on earth, and it seems that her gifts grew ten-fold as she flourished within the infernal realm. They say she bewitched Herod into doing her bidding, and that it was by witchcraft that she had seated herself beside Lucifer’s throne. But it isn’t with disgust that they speak of this, but admiration. Many soon learned that it was not only the living that she manipulated, but the flesh and bones of the dead as well. Salome is able to animate them -- to make them dance for her at her leisure and for this gift of hers she has been anointed as the Vice of Pride, for she crushes any notion of it by making the dead dance at her will and whim. To her, they are nothing more than unsightly pets and ghastly lap-dogs -- to be used as she so desired. And it is only at her say-so that the horrific nightmare of serving Salome might be ended.

THE HISTORY.

GORE TW

When she descended into Hell, it seemed to sigh -- as though it thought the devastation that spilled from her was something decadent, something sweet. What could be more delectable than the blood of the holy prophet that stained her fingertips? What was richer than the devastation she wrought by doing nothing more than dancing? She was born a princess and her parents had always let it be known that she would want for nothing, that she not need to lift a finger in order to have her every desire met. They say that a child is their parent tenfold. From her mother she inherited the taste of power and Herodias suckled her daughter on it until she was intimately familiar with the hunger that came with it; a boundless one that grew more brutal with each passing year. From her father she inherited a wicked talent for getting onlookers onto their knees for her, groveling and crawling -- hoping to brush their fingers against her skin or to hear from her a single word, whether it be tainted with affection or abuse. It was an incredibly potent concoction of avarice and maliciousness that they bestowed on their child, and none would be the wiser. How could they look into such a beautiful face and see anything aside from the Aphrodite-like beauty that was bestowed upon it? It did not matter the wickedness that one could suffer at the hand of Salome, because they would undoubtedly beg for more so long as they knew that they would be able to hold her gaze, even if it meant for a fraction of a second. There was no doubt that she could have the blood of the innocent stain her lips and still, many would beg to kiss them.

Her hands would do just as well, though. Bestowed with these blessings at such a young age, she had not known what it was to do without -- or what it was to be slandered for wielding the god-given ( or devil-cursed ) talents that had been granted to her. He thought himself as something holy, that putrid stain known as John the Baptist. There was no doubt that he was, but that did not mean his words were golden and his abuse of her family’s name should go unchecked. Though she knew he was likely bound for the promised paradise, it was upon her ground that he walked and her air that he dared to breathe -- so really, she was ushering him on his intended journey. Why should she be condemned for that? It was with a smile upon her face that she danced, the image of his demise dancing before her eyes as she twisted and turned, as her feet alighted upon the gilded floor rhythmically. When asked for her trophy by the man who called himself her father and the land’s king, she did not hesitate. The head of John the Baptist, she cooed. It was the first time that she had seen fear glint in her father’s eyes -- the first time she saw true pride shine within her mother’s. The head of John the Baptist is what was put at her feet, upon a silver platter. As she beheld it, she could not help but admire the trophy that had been given to her, for what better way was there to be rendered in history than spilling the blood of a holy man and condemning the soul of a king?

When she met her own demise, it was not with fear or remorse. No, the minute her mortal heart stopped beating and she opened her eyes to the fires of Hell, there was only laughter to be heard -- pouring from her lips as melodic as a lark’s song, a stark contrast to the wailing and grinding of teeth. For her infamy, she was granted the gift of wings -- the first mortal to ever achieve such a metamorphosis, but what a fitting thing it was to see the wings which sprouted forth from her unblemished skin. The infernal hordes welcomed her, harkened her coming in riotous celebration, as enthralled and enraptured by her as the mortals had once been. Lucifer sat her beside him, thinking nothing of the wicked mechanisms that whirred and turned over within her mind as she sought out ways for making the most of her new kingdom. The hungering abyss within her was just as boundless in her infernal existence as it had been when her heart was beating rich and red. It seemed only to be satiated when blood was spilled or when she was able to witness adoration and fear war in her subjects’ eyes whenever they turned to her. But even that grew tiresome after one century bled into the next -- so much so that she toyed with the idea of ripping the Morningstar from his lofty throne, if only to have something diabolically interesting to temper her hunger. How she pouted when the merriment was torn from her fingertips, the great betrayer Judas and his liege lord the son of Lucifer upending the king of Hell from his throne.

This new world that was bright and shining, glimmered like a loose gem for her, ripe for the taking. And let it be known that she did not hesitate to take. She was the first to spill blood upon this new earth, curious to know in what ways her starvation might be tempered. The angel was like a fawn, stumbling along -- what predator would she be if she let such an opportunity pass her by? Once the creature’s wings had been torn off, Salome stood above her, marveling at the way that the celestial blood shone against her skin. Was this finally it? The answer to her hunger? The satiation to her starvation? There was no one to see her dance and laugh by the corpse of the fallen creature next to her, no one to witness the blissful laugh that spilled from her as she stepped in the blood that gleamed in the light. None were the wiser, all too easily swayed by Salome’s tale of how she had seen the Heretic, stumbling away from the corpse of the divine being, the angel’s dying words too despairing to utter aloud. It was because of her that the Heretics fell, just as John the Baptist had, thinking that they might survive the devastation that she wrought -- it was because of her that the Holy Land was taken, that it grew, flourished, and thrived. And if they will not give her the throne that she has earned, then she is more than content to dance upon the city’s ashes.

THE CONNECTIONS.

MICHAEL: Instrument. Salome often finds herself wondering whether it is a deliberate decision on Michael’s part to truly personify the definition of drab. Stick in the mud, square, wet blanket, mediocre, boring, rigid -- there are so many words that come to mind when she thinks of Michael the former Archangel, and not a single one of them could ever depict them as interesting. But tools were never meant to be a point of fascination, were they? They were only ever meant to be wielded and utilized, they were only ever meant to be practical -- and what is Michael, if not that? With proper strategy she knows that she can utilize them effectively so as to ensure that the unacknowledged throne of Infernum is vacated, allowing a power vacuum that can be filled by her and her alone. It’s just a matter of patience, poise, and precision -- all of which Salome has in abundance.

BASTIEN AVALOS: Delight. He looks at her like a man starved, like a man that thirsts, like a man that has not seen the sun. She is his feast, his goblet of rich wine, a creature far brighter than the sun. And she didn’t need to do much more than casts her eyes in his direction and let her gaze caress the more enticing aspects of his frame. It was nothing more than a breadth of a moment and he practically threw himself prostrate at her feet -- none could blame her for being utterly delighted by this long-sought-for form of devotion. It stemmed the ache of her longing for adoration. Not entirely, mind you, but just enough to delight in Bastien’s company when she felt a need for it. Even more delectable is the gossip that seems to rally in their wake whenever they are seen together, contemptuous glances from mortals and raised brows of demons. Though, in truth, nothing could keep her from indulging with him -- at least just a little.

EPHEMERA: Obsession. She hangs at the edges of Salome’s mind at all times, constantly just out of reach. Ephemera is both the moon and the sun, necessary and ever-present, inescapable in the worst of ways. There is nothing more frustrating, more ire-inducing, more vexing than having a creature of fascination so tantalizingly close and ungraspable. The only thing that seems to draw Ephemera nearer is the poison that slips from Salome’s tongue -- like honey to the taste but acid to the throat as one digests it. She stirs within the bellicose angel something reckless and ruinous but just when she thinks that the chaos of her fury might break free, she finds the angel stepping back from the precipice when Salome drags her too close. The beauty of annihilation is robbed from Salome, but time and time again she coaxes Ephemera still. She can’t seem to stop. She doesn’t even think she wants to.

RYUK: Mark. Salome remembers how those thieving little street rats worked -- how they had their dirty little posse target their victim, also known as their “mark”, and steal the coin purse right beneath the unwitting mark’s nose. They were always quick about it, eyes wide and innocent, hands quick and steady. Salome has designated Ryuk as her mark, and what she wants to steal from them? Power. She frequently visits them under the guise of companionship, a smile ever-present on her lips, feigning interest in the wide expanse of their existence and the many lessons that they have accumulated over the eons. And just when they well and truly find themselves entrenched in their obligation to her, she will take from them everything that they are worth. Their power, their will, their heart. And she will wield them as they were meant to be -- as a harbinger of doom.

Salome is portrayed by La'tecia Thomas and was written by ROSEY. She is currently TAKEN by PHOEBE.

[sweetlangdon]

Steal Into My Melancholy Heart (Michael Langdon x Reader Beauty and the Beast AU)

Notes: Here it is (finally), the start of the AHS: Apocalypse Beauty and the Beast AU. There’s going to be a lot of changes to canon. Some characters have been left out, others have a different backstory and purpose to suit this AU ‘verse. Hopefully everything makes sense as the story goes on! The title comes from the song “Evermore” in the 2017 version of Beauty and the Beast, because I can’t help myself.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: Some violence, mentions of gore and blood. 

 {Prologue}

A thin veil of moonlight fell across the obsidian spiral, a monolith shrouded in a layer of dense fog. It parted around Cordelia Goode’s shoes, chilly and damp, clouding an otherwise clear night. The Hawthorne School looked abandoned. That was for a purpose, for protection, but a feeling clawed its way deep into her gut that suggested maybe they were already too late.

That the warlocks had suffered the same fate as her girls.

She could still hear their screams, their agony echoing in her ears. The shadow of their blood still clung to her hands. Even in the dark, she saw the trails it had leached under her nails and how it sat in the creases between her knuckles. The house had reeked of it, the blood and carnage heavy in the air, bright red pooling on the immaculate floors. She’d sat there for the longest time, minutes turning to an hour she didn’t have, hollow with grief. That house was now their tomb. Cordelia had left their bodies where they’d fallen, cold and still and pale. Fingers and lips turning blue. The halls of her school silenced.

Four had survived. It was enough, for now, to hold together Cordelia’s shattered heart.

Madison, Mallory, Coco, and Emily trailed in her wake, footsteps whispering across the dry, desert earth. She could hear their quiet weeping, their sniffling and heartache so palpable it settled on her chest like stones. They hadn’t spoken on the plane ride here, too stricken with heartache and shock and anger that words didn’t seem enough. The march up to the doors of Hawthorne felt like a funeral procession. Somber. Bleak. Their black clothes, still holding the scent of their fallen sisters’ blood, a sign of mourning rather than tradition.

Cordelia steeled herself, wiping the last of her tears from the corner of her swollen eye with the edge of her thumb, as she came to a halt at the doors. Where they were still coming from, she didn’t know. How could she have any left to cry? What would she do if they found the warlocks slaughtered inside their school?

The quiet unnerved her. The hum of crickets, the distant sway of leaves in a nocturnal wind. The strange, dark cylinder towering over them stood resolute and still as a grave. If it had become one, then she couldn’t see a way out of this. She couldn’t see a light beyond the hurt and despair. Not right now. Not when they’d already lost so much.

Every muscle in Cordelia’s body tensed when the door slid open. The surviving witches, gathered at her sides, looked up once warm, flickering light spilled over the threshold and broke the chill of the night. Golden candle light illuminated the tears that glistened on their faces.

John Henry Moore leaned against the doorway, a pale wisp of smoke coiling up from the cigarette between his fingers. Cordelia’s knees almost buckled from relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she exhaled. “Are you all right? The students—are they all okay?”

One of John Henry’s dark eyebrows rose. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Why?”

“Michael Langdon isn’t here, is he?” Her tone had turned dangerous, the hate dripping from her curt question.

“Haven’t seen him since he fucked off into the woods, Cordelia.” He pushed off the wall and moved to let her and the girls through, then took a drag from his cigarette. He sounded annoyed. “What is it? Kind of late to be making unannounced house calls. It’s past curfew.”

“We’re not here for your witty comebacks, asshole,” Madison countered.

Before John Henry could take offense, Cordelia started down the hall toward the elevator, the girls following close behind, a cacophony of heels ricocheting across marble and stone.

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

“You want to explain what’s going on?”

They took the elevator down beneath the earth. John Henry leaned against the wall, taking long drags from his cigarette and eyeing the group of young witches congregated tightly opposite him. Madison was silently furious, arms crossed over her chest, her sharp glare fixed on the closed doors. Mallory sniffled, drabbing at her eyes with the edge of a long, black sleeve. Emily found solace in Coco, her head pressed to Coco’s shoulder. Cordelia looked beside herself, her gaze distant, restless as they waited for the elevator doors to hiss open.

“You were right.” Cordelia’s voice broke, frayed with the tears that still trickled down her cheeks. “About everything. You were right.”

“Now what’s all this?” Behold Chablis joined them as they filed into the cavernous heart of The Hawthorne School, a labyrinth of candle lit staircases and hallways. His question, rising sharply at the end, filled up the quiet. The students were locked away in their dormitories for the night. Safe and oblivious to the danger heading their way, for now.

“Miss Goode was just about to tell me.”

“Langdon,” her voice cut deeply into the name as her eyes fluttered closed to stave off more tears, “Michael Langdon…murdered my girls. We were lucky to escape when we did. And if we don’t act now, then this school—you and your students are next. I don’t know how much time we have.”

“Jesus.” John Henry muttered. He turned away, scratching at an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail.

Behold’s dark eyes widened. “I’ll evacuate the school.”

“No,” Cordelia said. “We might need them.”

“For what?” Behold asked. “I’m not leaving our boys to be some Antichrist’s cannon fodder, Miss Supreme. Not after he slaughtered your girls.”

“Coming here wasn’t about just warning you. We need a curse,” she explained. Madison and Mallory exchanged looks of surprise before they caught her eye. She’d kept her plans to herself, an impulsive decision on the flight to California. “And if memory serves, the reigning expert on curses is you.” She turned to John Henry.

At her pointed look, he scoffed. “We need a firing squad, not a curse.”

“Shockingly, I agree,” Coco said softly.

“You never said shit about that,” Madison said. “I mean, what the fuck, Cordelia?”

“We have to fight him,” Emily agreed. “I don’t care what it takes.”

Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of curse?”

John Henry held up a hand. “Forget it.”

“He has too much power now,” Cordelia reasoned. “We can’t kill him…we can’t even stop him if we tried. I felt that power when he broke past the defenses at Robichaux—Langdon’s the Devil’s son, and that makes him invincible. Our only choice is to play the long game. Survive the impossible, together, and create something that tears him down, bit by bit. Make him his own demise.”

“So your solution is,” Behold drawled, “to…sit back and watch the world go up in flames? Let him win?”

“He’ll think he’s won,” Cordelia said, a determined grin curving one side of her mouth despite the tears that welled in her eyes. “And then he’ll get what he deserves for all the chaos he’s wrought, slowly, until his death sets things right again. A hard reset. Everything back to the way it was.”

She’d had a lot of time to think on the plane.

John Henry laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “That’s a tall order.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Madison rolled her eyes.

“Wait,” Coco interrupted. “Can we…really do that?”

“No,” Behold answered at the same time John Henry deadpanned a halfhearted, “Definitely not.”

“Yes,” Cordelia insisted, her voice shaking. Her gaze flittered to Mallory, who hadn’t spoken a word of dissent or skepticism. “There’s enough power in this room—in this school. If we combine that magic, I know we can. I have to believe it, otherwise what else do we have left?”

“Curses are stubborn. Delicate,” John Henry said. “They have to be precise, not to mention the amount of magic they require. You can’t engineer a curse in a single night, Cordelia, it can’t be done. Not for what you’re asking.”

“We have to find a way.”

“It’s just not possible,” seemed to be John Henry’s final answer. Resolved to defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Behold offered. “Wish we could—”

“I think we should do it,” Mallory said. “I know…I know Cordelia’s right. We have enough magic right here in this room. We have to try.”

“What the hell, right?” Madison flicked her long hair behind her shoulder. “Mallory’s magic could power the whole curse by itself. I’ve seen it.”

The witches murmured their agreement.

“It’s not the magic I’m worried about,” John Henry replied. “Curses are unwieldy. I’ve never designed one this complex.”

“Well,” Coco said brightly. “First time for everything.”

***

They settled into the central hub of The Hawthorne School, their work lit by roaring fires and sconces on the walls. John Henry gave each of them a task based on their skill level, some facet of the curse that was theirs to render with their magic. By that time, he and Behold determined that they’d only need a few of the students lend their talents, and the rest would be sent in groups to scatter themselves in different directions across the state. To escape and survive the impossible, as Cordelia said.

Three Hawthorne students had joined the witches and John Henry, chosen by Behold’s own meticulous eye. He knew those boys well enough, saw their magic at work in his classes. They’d proven to be the most proficient with the incantations and sigils needed to design their curse.

Timothy, Andre, and Gallant circled around John Henry like a trio of baby ducklings, a force of habit that couldn’t be broken even under the unusual circumstances. The boys cast wary glances at the witches in their midst, unused to working alongside them. They were half-dressed in their Hawthorne uniforms, not quite so polished, the dress codes forgotten. Sleep still clouded their vision as they struggled with whatever archaic texts John Henry shoved at them.

The room was a mess—papers littered with John Henry’s inelegant scrawl, more discarded on the floor than kept for revision; old books heavy with a musty scent in careless piles for reference. Most were in Latin, others almost unreadable even to Cordelia’s rather astute magical knowledge.

She hoped these archaic words and symbols would be enough. There had been more than one argument ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings in the long hours they’d spent working on this. Cordelia knew what it would take, how she wanted the curse to evolve as time wore on, but translating that to magic had John Henry at his wit’s end.

There were variables to consider. And layers upon layers of incantations, each with a specific purpose. Not to mention, they had to put the entire world back together—and billions of lives—once the curse had slowly withered Langdon away. One wrong link in that chain and everything else would crumble. So, of course, there had been shouting matches and a litany of swearing and one instance of John Henry walking the fuck out of the room for another cigarette as tensions ran high.

“We need a failsafe,” John Henry decided.

Cordelia reached over the table of papers and books to reach her wine glass. “Like what?”

John Henry sighed, ink-stained fingers splayed on the tabletop. He slumped forward a little and stifled a yawn. “You said it yourself. Kid’s got the protection of fucking Satan. If this isn’t enough to wear that down and kill him over time, we’re gonna need backup. Another way to take the shot. So to speak.”

“Well, he’s still half-human.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” Behold mused. He refilled Cordelia’s wine glass with a languid sweep of his fingers.

“I’m talking about emotionally,” she explained. “He’s…sensitive. You saw his reaction when we retaliated. The way he cried over that woman. I don’t have much hope for whatever humanity is left in him, but if we can use it to bring him down, that might be our only shot. If the evil in him doesn’t break him, then maybe his heart will.”

“You think the Antichrist is capable of love?” Behold raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “That human heart of his—Michael’s heart—might.”

John Henry heaved another long-suffering sigh. “That’s a gamble.”  

Cordelia took a sip of wine, her gaze downcast to the scattering of notes. “It’s all we have.”

They chose the main foyer to lay their trap.

Right below where the two central staircases converged, there was ample floor space. Langdon would have to set foot there when he arrived at Hawthorne, and by the time he recognized the power that surrounded him, it would be too late. For that to work, they needed the curse to soak into every single fiber of the room, to make the space itself alive with the full force of their magic.

And piece by piece, it did.

Sigils were burned into the floor, where they disappeared out of sight. That was Mallory’s doing, her strong, unwavering magic building the foundations of the curse. She had the most work of all, though she didn’t complain about it. Not once. Not even when she and Cordelia and Behold had to figure out the complex magic involved in restoring the entire Earth. The hard reset Cordelia insisted on seemed to be beyond anyone’s capabilities. But she was the exception.

More sigils were inlaid in the walls. John Henry oversaw the precise order and placement of each one from the notes that no one could read because he’d written them. The incantations were the most important—and required every single witch and warlock to chant the ancient words as one. That was the trickiest part. John Henry, Behold, and Cordelia went over the exact pronunciation beforehand until their students were tired of it; archaic Latin wasn’t everyone’s best subject at either school of magic, and one wrong syllable would topple all their hard work.

Designing a curse was fucking exhausting.

Emily slumped onto the staircase. Through a yawn, she asked, “So, what happens now?”

“This is going to get ugly,” John Henry said, running a palm across his face. “He’s coming here for revenge. He’ll want blood.”

“Which means you all need to get yourselves out of here,” Behold agreed.

“The three of us will stay behind,” Cordelia said. She studied the weary faces in front of her, so young, trying to hide their fear. “We’ll get out once we know Langdon’s activated the curse. But if this works—”

“And it should,” John Henry grumbled.

“We’ll have to stick close,” Cordelia told them. “We have to see this through to the end.”

***

A midday sun blazed scorching hot across the dry desert earth. Michael Langdon inhaled the scent of dust and heat, pausing to consider the gruesome scene in front of him. Three large birds, their pitch black feathers fluttering, beady eyes reflecting the bright sky, poked at an animal carcass. He couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a rabbit or a squirrel; tufts of brown fur were lost in the gore, dark scarlet staining the cracked earth. Two of the birds fought over the animal’s innards, pulling at them with their sharp beaks. Michael turned away, slightly unsettled, the edge of his cape rustling in the wind. He had no reason to fear the blackbirds—they were harbingers of his father’s presence, they kept a watchful eye from above.

And they wouldn’t be the only ones to spill blood today.

Michael drew in another deep breath, his fingers curling into light fists at his sides. He wasn’t so blinded by his own rage and vengeance that he couldn’t sense the magic inside Hawthorne. It was almost oppressive. It had never been that way before, not when he was a student. Maybe then he hadn’t been so sensitive to it. The power inside him was far stronger than it had been when he turned the library into a furious snowstorm. But now Hawthorne’s magic felt different to him, seeping out of the strange building to coil at his shoes like a fine mist.

It was strong. Defensive, he thought, if he had to give it a particular quality. But it wouldn’t give him any trouble. No witch or warlock had the power to rival Satan’s own son.

Hawthorne was quiet. Michael noticed an unusual tension in the air, a breath away from snapping. He could still remember the meticulous class schedules and customs, how the halls were always buzzing with noise and footsteps and voices chanting. Lessons took up every odd corner and room. The only time he’d ever seen it this quiet had been long after curfew, when he’d slip away to visit Ms. Mead, memorize the layout of the school, or try and contact his father.

It was just after twelve thirty in the afternoon. And yet, the halls were abandoned.

No, Michael thought, a snarl on his lips. Evacuated.

Someone told them he was coming.

“Cordelia,” Michael growled.

“Hello, Michael.” The voice was a gruff, familiar one that hadn’t so much said his name as it had spat it back at his feet.

Michael found John Henry Moore sitting in the middle of one of the main staircases. A single, flickering flame from a lighter—which he appeared to have some trouble igniting—illuminated the purple shadows beneath his eyes and his jaw shadowed by stubble. His gaze was dark, sharp as a razor.

“I thought you would have been smart enough to leave,” Michael said. His voice carried, bouncing off the cavernous walls as he approached. “After all, you were the one to see past the bullshit. You had me all figured out.”

John Henry’s gaze didn’t break from him, not when he took a long drag from his cigarette. Michael tilted his head a little, a provocation for whatever sarcastic comment John Henry had to offer him. The school’s magic still pressed in on him at all sides, in relentless waves, though there was no one else in sight. He listened, fingers flexing at nothing, stirring up the air. Testing it.

With a rough flick of his wrist, Michael sent John Henry flying backward up the staircase. His lighter clattered onto the steps at the same time his body landed with a crack, his neck twisted at a sickening, abnormal angle. A thin ribbon of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth onto the floorboards. His open, sightless eyes reminded Michael of the blackbirds feasting on their gory prey.

Michael lifted his chin in approval. But when he stepped forward to admire his grim handiwork, the magic in the room seemed to shift. Michael staggered back from the intensity of it, the crushing weight he felt from all sides. It immobilized him, kept him rooted to the spot where he stood. His hands curled into fists so tight that his nails bit into the skin of his palms. He tried to push against it, break it down like he’d torn through the defenses at the witches’ school. A hoarse, mournful, frustrated cry ripped free from his throat as the magic overpowered him and forced his knees to collapse.

And when he looked up, beneath the curls that had fallen into his eyes, he saw how the room itself had changed. He watched the markings surface on the walls. Symbols that meant nothing to him, scored into the stone and wood and tile as if they’d been etched there by fire. He lifted his palm when they appeared under him like they’d scorch his flesh. The complicated patterns arranged one by one, circle by circle. There was no one else in the room with him, not that he could see, but the air echoed with voices. They chanted as one, their ghostly chorus filling up the silence. Words he’d never heard before.

Words, he realized, that were meant to harm him.

“You’re not used to weakness, are you?” another voice asked.

“Cordelia,” Michael spat.

The ground trembled under the influence of magic. Some of the fires in the sconces on the walls flickered out. Michael let out a sob when the suffocating weight of the magic surrounding him turned into a sudden flash of pain. He fought again, pushing a hand toward Cordelia, fingers rigid with agony and a surge of pure hatred. Cordelia didn’t even flinch.

“You’re just a sad, scared little boy,” she told him. “And if you want to embrace that evil, then fine. You do that. You can tear apart the world until there’s nothing left. But now…it will cost you, Michael.”

“It already has,” Michael sobbed through gritted teeth.

“No.” Cordelia shook her head. “Not like this. If you want to become a monster, then who are we to deny you that? Your actions will have consequences, now; ones you won’t have any control over. The further you descend into darkness, you’ll have to live with what your choices have done to you. Every time you look at your reflection—when you see all that beauty withering away, you’ll think of the lives you’ve stolen and all the times you could’ve stopped. But no amount of regret will help you. It’s too late, Michael.”

A pain Michael couldn’t find the words for took hold of him, forcing another strangled cry from his lips. He was sprawled on the floor, muscles tense, tears streaming down the swell of his cheekbones. He felt the magic seeping into him, latching onto his bones, branding itself onto his very soul.

“Enjoy your apocalypse.”

The air went still and silent. Michael sensed the remnants of the magic as it receded and let go of him. There was nothing left except the sound of his ragged breathing. When he pushed himself off the floor onto his elbows, ignoring the deep, lingering ache in his body, Cordelia had disappeared. Her escape, and the warlocks’ covert plan to destroy him, renewed the flicker of rage in his heart.

Michael staggered back into the daylight with a curse sitting in his veins like poison.

***

Tagging my usual list + people I think might enjoy this fic (I hope you don’t mind)! And as always, if you want to be tagged, just let me know!

@lastregasolitaria​ @mylippo​ @zeciex​ @lvngdvns​ @langdonsdemon​ @wvntersldr​ @sojournmichael​ @gabnelson98​ @antichristlangdxn​ @keavysmithxoxo​  @batgirlbride​  @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998​ @gentianea​ @cryptid-coalition​  @kinlovecody​ @yuriohoe04​ @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean​ @jcshadowkiss-blog​ @frozenhuntress67​ @sebastianshoe​ @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435​ @holylangdon​  @angsty-otters-blog​ @denaexr @mr-langdonn​ @micheallangdons​ @lostin-fern​ @crazedcatcuddler​ @michaelsapostle​ @wroteclassicaly​ @monsucre @ritualmichael​  @queencocoakimmie​ @bluelancesredswords​ @theharvestgirloffire @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26​ @readsalot73​ @americanhorrorstudies​  @tiny-ruby-seeds @confettucini​ @xavierplympton​ @kaetastic​ @blakewaterxx​ @duncvns​ @codyssfern​ @avesatanormalpeoplescareme​ @langdonsoceaneyes​

[lavellanlove]

47 from the drabble requests for Fenris?

Confession time? This is the first time I’ve written Fenris. I am nervous and excited, because he was my absolute favorite in DA2 and I am thrilled that we got a Fenaissance with Blue Wraith.

—————

Fenris jutted his hand through the door, gripping the locking mechanism hard and pulling it out with a sharp twist, much as he would a heart from a chest. 

Every time, some part of him hoped they’d be relieved at the prospect of freedom. But every time, it was the same.

They recoiled away.

Not that he blamed them. He knew too well how powerlessness stoked fear of the uncertain and unknown.

“I am the Blue Wraith,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. Calmly enough not to frighten them, but authoritative enough that they would trust he could protect them. “I have come to free you from this place. Gather your things. I have cleared a path. No one will stop you. You have my word.” 

Those in the small barrack glanced around at each other, low whispers passing between a few. Apparently some had heard the moniker, because they promptly began gather what meager possessions they had, wrapping them in their bed sheets and tying them like sacks. His partners in this operation waited by the door, ready to lead them all back out the way they came. Load them into carriages and get them as far from here as possible.

All but one who hadn’t moved, propped against the back wall. Whether she had distanced herself from them or they from her was not clear. By the vallaslin, Dalish. By the gauze, wounded. He could not help but notice she was missing her left forearm, but that did not seem a new injury.

He crouched down, offering her a hand to help her up. “Come.”

“Take them if they wish to go,” she said, hollow and resigned. “My place is here.”  

“No one’s place is here,” he snapped, immediately remorseful of how his words came out. It was not her fault this place that the pain of countless slaves echoed in the stone, that their despair flowed these caverns like a river of their blood. It was nearly deafening.

He wanted to raze this cursed place to rubble. Teach their oppressors the very same fear and pain they wrought. But he did not have time. With how many were captive down here, there would be more guards than the ones who had already fallen before him. Countless more. They were bound to show up sooner or later, and their arrival would undoubtedly make it harder for him to keep his promise to keep them safe.

Realizing the injuries might be the reason for her stubbornness, he softened a bit. “You need not stay because you are hurt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He scoffed. “Bold words for a woman who I’d wager cannot stand on her own two feet at the moment.”

“I would only slow you down,” she insisted.

“I have carried swords heavier than you.”

As the others made their escape, it became even clearer that it wasn’t in his head; it was loudest here. Not just in these barracks, by her specifically. 

“I believe there are people looking for you.”

“You are mistaken,” she insisted. “I am no one.”

Indeed. “Magisters don’t go to this length for no one. It was the thrum of their tracking spell that led me to this place.”

She snorted humorlessly. “Not just Magisters; I’m sure a great many people would pay a handsome price for my head on a pike.” She gestured to the side with her head. “Or in this case, my blood in their magrallen.”

He had no idea what a magrallen was. He had a feeling he did not wish to know. Which in this case, with Magisters involved, meant he needed to seek it out. “That way? It should be destroyed.”

“No.” she said quickly. “No living person knows how to construct one. It may prove necessary in the battle to come.”

He scoffed. “There. You sound like a mage already. There is always a reason to justify more power.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand very well,” he growled. “The lyrium branded under my skin makes it rather hard to forget.”

“No. You don’t. This is bigger than Magisters and slaves. The fate of the entire world hangs in the balance. The lives of every being in Thedas. If Fen’Harel succeeds, everything you’ve worked for here and everything your friends work for elsewhere will be lost.”

“…what does this have to do with me not destroying that wicked thing?”

“He has power beyond what anyone imagined possible, and grows stronger every day. He can kill men in their sleep, or turn battalions to stone with a glance. Stopping him will require something extraordinary. And I have not figured out what that is, yet.”

His scowl deepened at the implication “You mean to say you are here on purpose?”

She shook her head. “Not like this. This was… a miscalculation.”

“Miscalculation? No. This was madness, thinking you could don enslavement like a cloak and shuck it back off again. How long have you been here?”

She was quiet for a moment, trying to think, wincing as though the idea of not knowing was almost painful. “I lost track.”

“It is a wonder it has not broken you entirely.”

“Hasn’t it?” she said, with what might have passed for a laugh with more spirit behind it. 

He just shook his head once. He had seen broken. Lived it. She did not understand how much further there was to fall.

“If you stay here any longer, you will find out for yourself. A fate I will not resign you to.”  Whoever she was, she was important to more than one Magister. Not as a person, but a tool. As he had been, once. He could not leave her behind.

He extended his hand again. More insistently. 

This time, she took it. 

Upon getting her to her feet, she staggered for a moment, holding her side and closing her eyes. She looked liable to teeter over, and he stood ready to catch her when she did. Only then did he notice the scraggly wisps of light under her fingers, trembling as she pressed them to her wound. He realized she was trying to heal herself.

“You’re a mage.”

“I’m a person. Having magic was not a choice I made, nor the choice I would have made if given one. I acknowledge it is here, but refuse to let it define me.”

He supposed that was fair enough. “What’s your name?”

“Avira.”

After a few moments, she took a deep breath, rolled back her shoulders, and took a shaky step, then another, gaining confidence in her strength and balance as she headed for the door.

But she was heading the wrong way, a fallen guard’s blade in hand, further into the bowels of this wretched place. She did so with what could only be described as a resolute sense of purpose.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Well, someone has to destroy their phylacteries,” she replied. She stopped for a moment, glancing over her shoulder. “Along with anyone who stands in my way.”

He chuckled dryly, hefting his sword off his back. There was no decision to be made. He would accompany her. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Love Without Measure or End

a Prayer by Charles Spurgeon

Lord, we would come to Thee, but do Thou come to us. Draw us and we will run after Thee. Blessed Spirit, help our infirmities, for we know not what we should pray for as we ought. Come, Holy Spirit, and give right thoughts and right utterance that we may all be able to pray in the common prayer, the whole company feeling that for each one there is a portion. We are grateful as we remember that if the minister in the sanctuary should not be able to pray for any one of us there is One who bears the names of all His redeemed upon His breast and upon His shoulder, who will take care with the love of His heart and the power of His hand to maintain the cause of all His own.

Dear Savior, we put ourselves under Thy sacred patronage. Advocate with the Father, plead for us this day, yea, make intercession for the transgressors. We desire to praise the name of the Lord with our whole heart, so many of us as have tasted that the Lord is gracious. Truly Thou hast delivered us from the gulf of dark despair, wherein we wretched sinners lay. Thou hast brought us up also out of the horrible pit and out of the miry clay. Thou hast set our feet upon a rock and the new song which Thou hast put into our mouths we would not stifle, but we would bless the Lord whose mercy endureth forever.

We thank Thee, Lord, for the love without beginning which chose us or ever the earth was, for the love without measure which entered into covenant for our redemption, for the love without failure which in due time appeared in the person of Christ and wrought out our redemption, for that love which has never changed, though we have wandered, that love which abideth faithful even when we are unfaithful.

O God, we praise Thee for keeping us till this day and for the full assurance that Thou wilt never let us go. Some can say, “He restoreth my soul,” they had wandered, wandered sadly, but Thou hast brought them back again. Lord, keep us from wandering, then will we sing, “Unto Him that is able to keep us from stumbling and to present us faultless before His presence with exceeding joy.” Bless the Lord, our inmost soul blesses the Lord. Blessed be the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the Triune. Blessed be the Lord forever office sustained by each divine person and for the divine blessing which has come streaming down to us through each one of those, condescending titles worn by the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.

We feel like singing all the time. We would take down our harp from the willows, if we had hung it there, and we would waken every string to the sweetest melody of praise unto the Lord our God. Yet, Lord, we cannot close with praise, for we are obliged to come before Thee with humble confession of sin. We are not worthy of the least of all these favors. We cannot say, “He is worthy for whom Thou shouldst do this thing,” nay, but we are altogether unworthy and Thy gifts are according to the riches of Thy grace, for which again we praise Thee.

Lord, forgive us all our sin. May Thy pardoned ones have a renewed sense of their acceptance in the Beloved. If any cloud has arisen to hide Thee from any believing eye, take that cloud away. If in our march through this world, so full of mire as it is, we have any spot on us, dear Savior, wash our feet with that blessed foot-bath and then say to us, “Ye are clean every whit.” May we know it so, that there is no condemnation, no separation, sin is removed as to its separating as well as its destroying power, and may we enter into full fellowship with God. May we walk in the light as God is in the light and have fellowship with Him, while the blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin. Let no child of Thine have any dead work upon his conscience and may our conscience be purged from dead works to serve the living and true God.

And oh! if there are any that after having made the profession of religion have gone astray by any form of sin, Lord, restore them. If they have fallen by strong drink, if they have fallen by unchastity, if they have fallen by dishonesty, if, in any way, they have stained their garments, oh! that Thy mighty grace might bring them back and put them yet among the children. But give them not up, set them not as Admah, make them not as Zeboim, but let Thy repentings be kindled and Thy bowels of compassion be moved for them, and let them also be moved, and may they return with weeping and with supplication and find Thee a God ready to pardon.

Furthermore, we ask of Thee, our Father, this day to perfect Thy work within our hearts. We are saved, but we would be saved from sin of every form and degree—from sins that lie within and we are scarcely aware that they are there. If we have any pride of which we are not conscious, any unbelief of which we are not aware, if there is a clinging to the creature, a form of idolatry which we have not yet perceived, we pray Thee, Lord, to search us as with candles till Thou dost spy out the evil and then put it away. We are not satisfied with pardoned sin, “We pray, create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Help us in our daily life, in our families, in our relations as husbands or wives, parents or children, masters or servants, in our business transactions with our fellow men, in our dealings with the Church of God, may we be true, upright, pure, kept from the great transgression because we are kept from the minor.

Oh! that we may be such as glorify Christ. Save us, we pray Thee, from the common religion. Give us the peculiar grace of a peculiar people. May we abide in Christ. May we live near to God. Let not the frivolities of the world have any power over us whatever. May we be too full grown in grace to be bewitched with the toys which are only becoming in children. Oh! give us to serve Thee and especially, and this prayer we have already prayed but we pray it again, make us useful in the salvation of our fellow man. O Lord, have we lived so long in the world and yet are our children unconverted? May we never rest until they are truly saved. Have we been going up and down in business and are those round about us as yet unaware of our Christian character? Have we never spoken to them the Word of Life? Lord, arouse us to a deep concern for all with whom we come in contact from day to day. Make us all missionaries at home or in the street, or in our workshop, wherever Providence has cast our lot, may we there shine as lights in the world.

Lord, keep us right, true in doctrine, true in experience, true in life, true in word, true in deed. Let us have an intense agony of spirit concerning the many who are going down to the everlasting fire of which our Master spoke. Lord, save them! LORD, SAVE THEM! Stay, we pray Thee, the torrents of sin that run down the streets of London, purge the dead sea of sin, in which so many of the heathen are lying asoak. Oh! that the day were come when the name of Jesus shall be a household word, when everybody knew of His love, and of His death, and of His blood, and of its cleansing power. Lord, save men, gather out the company of the redeemed people. Let those whom the Father gave to Christ be brought out from among the ruins of the fall to be His joy and crown. “Let the people praise Thee, O God, yea, let all the people praise Thee.” Let the ends of the earth fear Him who died to save them. Let the whole earth be filled with the glory of God.

This is our great prayer and we crown it with this, Come, Lord Jesus, come Lord and tarry not. Come in the fulness of Thy power and the splendour of Thy glory! Come quickly, even so come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.

[blackwinged-silversolace]

Let the Human In

A starter for @hiislegacy : named after this song... ;-; ....yep.

Dying, or what had felt like death, for a time was as solitary as it was crowded. It was truly an oppressive thing to feel what one had once been his known self,  and to witness it slowly corrode away. Washed out of reach within the surrounding numbness of nothing and vastness of everything convoluted. Amidst  the sea of voices he was a shapeless entity, a scattered blackness preserved by the only thing that had remained of his former self, the one feeling. Hatred. 

And there he festered, witnessing his stigma as it parted the tidal beauty and power around him like a repulsive wedge.  

Connected to nothing but a part of it all, he had nothing but thought, nothing but the power that surrounded his stagnant consciousness, just out of reach and with nothing to bond it to. For so long he had nothing but reflection, remembering the moment in Nibelheim where he had reunited with Mother at last, and the cold steel that cleaved him near in two. A last thought had allowed his dying body to plummet downward, into this place of purgatory and divination. He had done well to store everything apart from his new purpose far from his own reach. 

Chosen, it was fate to have done it all by Her side, and only as his body became a frozen crystalline statue within Gaia's core had it become evident he was not alone in his consciousness. 

Jenova….

Mother was there, she had always been, and over time even he could barely make the distinction of his own voice, against her impositions, for she had merged with him. 

When he fell into that reactor, for a time, everything flowed within an endless green, and she whispered lovingly what was to be taken back. He allowed it, accepted it, and together they had slowly cast their influence over Gaia. In following her, the planet would meet a merciful end, and the venom of betrayal and human treachery would cease to be. As part of him, they would be made beautiful, eternal.

But this had all been done before

They had sought out those failed copies, and entered their feeble minds, contorted the observable facets of reality, until they had infected all who bore her cellular lineage. The threads of their web caught and wove tight, those soulless husks that unfittingly carried their blood-rite, and through the ties Mother and Son wrought calamity upon the planet that belonged to them….and would bring the pieces of themselves together again. Only, there was One who would tirelessly seek to break the cord of their genetic dominance. Cloud. 

It happens this way, always the same.

It is cold there. In between.

I will not return there again.

This time, as his illusionary form took substance beyond the prison of the planetary core, and he finds himself emerging at the edge of Midgarian debris, upon a torn and abandoned construction site on the upper plate where again he sets his feet upon concrete. Of course it was a singular motive that had brought him here; to further corrupt Strife’s mind, and set course for the final Reunion, but as Sephiroth peers through the gaping hole that burrows down through intricate metal foundations, and toward the sparkling lights that dimly glimmered up from the slums far below… there is something gnawing at his mind, making his false body rigid, the pit of his stomach sink and all he can taste is iron. So much like blood...so much like something human….

This fate is my own, 

… but, then, if this has truly all been done before...

Is it mine at all?

How tiring.

Mother’s voice, her impatient demands come in as if by distorted radio static, causing Sephiroth’s eyes to bite shut in a grimace. Breathing heavy, the feedback of her anger was nearly enough to cause even he, the Nightmare of Gaia, to crumble onto his legs.

 But soon focus is found, reprieve is again his, and with new determination his feline pupil’s open, narrow bitterly, and are haloed by a furious blaze of green as his enhanced sight finally homed in on his target’s position and he leaps from his perch to descend upon the mercenary who tailed his current company. 

But reprieve never lasts.  As he slows the controlled fall, watches as none of AVALANCHE seems to sense the Silver intruder, he lands softly behind them. A smirk, satisfied and cruel is beamed upon the back of the blonde puppet, while he casts out his own influence toward him. However the current of his infectious thought is interrupted as the whispers of fate flood out from the air around Calamity’s Son and surround the enemy, Sephiroth’s pupil’s are blown wide, for something had struck him. As if someone had taken advantage of the blooming chaos, and used the Whispers as cover, someone had attacked; a powerful surge of energy sinks into the very core of Sephiroth's being. It was a heavy blow, as if it reached into forgotten places to sink claws inside and tear open an old fear. 

Whatever magic or influence it was that gripped him, it ebbed away at his reason, the vast tainted power he used only moment’s before drained from his form, and replaced it with a plunging sense of isolation he had not felt since…-- A being never meant to exist…-- Overcame any other desire, and Sephiroth’s face for a moment contorts in horror. For it took only that fleeting moment for her voice to be silenced. -- What am I?-- He cannot feel anything but terror, as if drowning amidst a sea of scrutiny-- Am I a human being? -- heaved between his present and the litany of images from his past, had come to blind him, they flash wildly behind his lids and Sephiroth finds himself gasping, distantly he knows he has fallen onto his knees. He knows he should regain his senses….but it is all he can do to clutch at his ears and stare agony upon the dirt path below, his teeth protest as they grit tight in attempt to overcome the pain of many lifetimes that led him here….seeking...what exactly? 

Human.

Monster.

Calamity. 

Hero.

"What is this--?!" Sephiroth growls, unintentionally doing so aloud through the grit of his teeth… Someone had done something to cause this… the Cetra? It had to be… 

Alone...

Alone.

Hate and despair.

Forgive.

Enraged Sephiroth scowls up at the one closest, Cloud, and he rasps out against the swelling madness and the burning of his lungs. "Make...her...stop."  It is all he can muster before he groans against another surge, and his stare falls again to the earthy floor as he pants through his fallen silver strands, he can barely see even their brilliant color against the dirt now...his vision so woefully hazed. He wonders if this is how he would die this time...how pathetic.

[crmediagal]

Updated On AO3!!!

Seeds of Redemption by CRMediaGal

Synopsis: The First Order may have fallen, but the Proclamation has  risen in its stead. As the galaxy is threatened by the coming of a  Second Darkness, Ben Solo must painstakingly navigate both sides, the  Dark Side and the Light. Only he is no longer alone in this fight, with  far more at stake to lose than he ever would have dreamed.

Rated M, AU. TFA, TLJ, TROS, and Post-TROS. Originally written and published between December 2015 - April 2018.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9  

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18  

Chapter 19

Chapter 20 *NEW!*

Excerpt:

“Please tell me you’re lying,” she choked, each word overpowered by the gusts’ howling, and yet, discernible to Ben thanks to their intimate Force connection.

“You know I’m not,” came his frosty, unforgiving reply.

 Rey stammered, tears falling more freely, “I… I don’t understand…”

“Yes, you do.” He paused, his account of the attack heavy on Rey’s heart. “He feared my powers. He knew what I was becoming and was too afraid to confront it.”

“But—”

“I had turned.”

Rey squared her shoulders. “You’re his flesh and blood,” she exclaimed, finding it difficult to rationalise. “You’re his family! You’re his sister’s only son—”

“I’m also a ‘monster’, remember?” he crudely opined, taking Rey to task on one of her recent descriptors of him from the not-too-distant past; but this wasn’t an argument and Rey felt it. He was stating a cruel fact, much like a parent informs their child that the colour of the sky is blue. “This is my family dynamic. You can’t choose what you want to see—”

“Don’t!”

 Rey whirled her head towards the ocean in order to wipe away the tears that continued their furious descent. Yet, rage and despair and every ill feeling in between boiled her blood and kept her eyes burning, focused.

 All of her life, Rey had yearned for such a belonging as the one Ben seemed privileged to have grown up with, with such admirable figures as Han Solo and Luke Skywalker to call his family; but as it had morbidly been revealed to her, that home hadn’t been as homey and warm as Rey imagined. It was embroiled in estrangement, miscommunication, and, now, attempted murder.

 Rey’s thoughts spun out of synch, unable to attach themselves to comforting excuses or anything sensible that might explain away what she had seen in Ben’s memory. As her pained eyes slowly fell back onto Ben, quiet and emotionless (at least, outwardly), his strength of character gutted her.

“You… You don’t blame him?” she questioned through a strained murmur, sensing the concealed turmoil that had, ultimately, soiled Ben’s heart.

 He blinked and cocked his head sidelong. “Why would I blame him for ensuring that I became what I was destined to be?”

“Oh, do shut it,” Rey carped and bore her teeth. “A Sith of Darkness is not who you were meant to be, and we both know that now! Is your life worth so little to you, Ben?”

“Is it worth something to you?” he challenged in short, eyes narrowed and abrasive.

“YES!” Rey shot back, fighting the brim of tears as she stared up at him longingly. Her expression was remarkably wise. “And it should have mattered to your uncle just as much!”

 Ben shrugged off her point. “The old man feels guilty.”

“Guilt is to be expected but—”

“I thought you wanted me to face my transgressions, Rey? This is one of them.”

 Rey reared back. “What, excusing your uncle’s attempt on your life?”

“If you’d like.”

 Rey’s outrage exploded. “NO! That’s insane!”

“I tend to agree.” Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his stare hardening. “You, too, desired to do to me what my uncle attempted not too long ago.” He shot Rey a sneer that could curdle milk.

 Rey felt as though the wind had, at last, knocked her over, but, somehow, she was still standing. “That’s unnecessary…”

“But the truth, nonetheless,” Ben coolly countered, no solace evident in that blunt bestowment.

 Rey took a moment to collect herself. “You’re hurting, Ben.” Her voice was soft and understanding and she didn’t miss how his eyes flickered. “I understand why. Your uncle’s wrought with guilt; I understand that now, too.”

 Ben’s sneer darkened, casting an eerie ambience against the piercing winds that tousled his luscious, feathery hair. “His guilt is inconsequential to his actions.”

“Yet, there are times still when you wish he’d succeeded.” Rey shook her head. “Don’t, Ben… Whatever you may think of yourself, you deserve to live.”

 Seeing past the man’s walls and straight into that uncomfortable, brittle flash of anguish Ben strove every effort to hide from others, Rey found clarity. Maybe bringing Master Luke back into the fold to help the Resistance wasn’t the Force’s only will. Luke Skywalker wasn’t the Light’s only hope nor was she.

‘It’s you,’ Rey murmured over the ocean’s rage, breathless, with such certainty as to rustle the trees and part the livid skies. “Of course… Ben…” Her hand reached for him. “It’s always been you.”

 Ben didn’t speak, prompting Rey to step forward and seize his arm. He flinched under her intrusive gaze but maintained his footing.

“I’ll help you.” Her declaration was urgent but gentle. “I swear it. You’re not alone, Ben. Not anymore. Your way is clear; clearer than it’s ever been.”

 Their eyes remained locked, each Force sensitive suspended by the other’s wordless but intensive focus. Neither’s energy saw fit to yield, though the violent gusts around them began to quiet, much like Ben Solo’s forsaken soul finally reconciling; finally coming home.

 ‘Home.’

[warwaged-archive]

Meta for Kelantir and the day Arthas visited. Where was she? What does she remember about it?

Kelantir was part of the royal guard before the Fall, as seems to be the case with a considerable number of those who went on to become Blood Knights. Most of them, I think, were likely in Silvermoon itself when it begun, maybe guarding the palace; while they are royal guards, Anasterian did seem to favor magisters, and if I remember correctly, he was with them when Arthas attacked. I think the royal guard is never properly established, but they probably didn’t guard just the king, but the Sunstriders in general; even if Kael’thas wasn’t there, I’m sure there must’ve been other Sunstriders there, if not immediate family to the king (think Lyandra, except probably not that distant relatives). Which is what I think she would have been busy with; she would have been on duty guarding one of the Sunstriders (rip Sunstrider I just made up because clearly she didn’t succeed in that guard duty).

Anyways, she was in Silvermoon when it happened, and like many others, likely doubted the Scourge to be a threat to the city itself, having faith their magical defenses would hold; of course, they don’t, because Drathir sucks sold them out to Arthas. So for a considerable amount of time, she was one of those preparing to defend the city and dealing with the tension of knowing of what was coming their way, but trusting no matter how much destruction the Scourge wrought, it wouldn’t be able to breach Silvermoon. I think she would remember the tension of the preparing and waiting very vividly, even if this wasn’t the worst part; and I think she’d remember how disheartening it was to see their Ranger General fallen and turned against them, as well as the despair upon learning Arthas actually had the tools to dispel the shield.

Overall, I think it is the feelings she’d remember most vividly; the fear, the sorrow, the tension, the absolute hopelessness but also the urge to continue fighting, to survive. I think she doesn’t remember the Fall in a clear manner as far as images go, except for a few specific moments; it is the worse of it that would have stuck with her, everything else is a mess and she doesn’t remember it clearly. Kelantir has very clear memories related to the above mentioned moments. She remembers Sylvanas’ twisted voice more so than she remembers seeing her fallen, when Arthas parades what he did to Sylvanas to lower the elves’ morale; as far as she’s concerned that was definitely a successful blow (if Sylvanas fell what hope do the rest of them have). She remembers the sight of Scourge flooding Silvermoon when he unmakes the shield (it should be impossible but it isn’t, and he’s there, and what can they do to stop him then? nothing). She remembers the fight when Arthas reaches the Sunwell, but that isn’t as clear a memory. The other particularly vivid memory she has is about her father’s death; he died in what ultimately proved to be a futile effort to protect the Sunstrider they were guarding from the Scourge, and was raised as Scourge himself shortly afterwards — and he nearly killed Kelantir then, because she didn’t manage to fight him, or even to defend herself. She only survived because of her brother’s timely interference, and was in too much of a shock to really be aware of what was going on until returning to Silvermoon, so she doesn’t really remember anything from the next few hours.

The more time passed, the more her memories would be willfully suppressed, but the above mentioned stuck no matter how much she wished they didn’t; she won’t ever be able to forget it, not completely, but she definitely tries.