#our lives groveling at the feet of god in a desperate attempt to get into heaven

[rememberedbyamark]

I just don't think God wants you to suffer for him, sorry

[mxvladdy]

Diavolo- True Form

Whoooooooo weeeee! ‘Pologies for the wait on these longer posts. I’ve been hit with a one two punch of house emergencies and sudden costly ass repairs, so my creative juices have been rightly squashed as of late.

Plus side I got my drawing tablet and drafting table back so I can neaten up my blog lay out now (yay!) 

Anyway this one was a challenge in the best possible ways. I really like Diavolo because of how little we know about him so it gave me some wiggle room. Or at least what I know of him- im only on like chapter 23 of the stories. Idk if I did him justice as this is angsty af but I sure had a blast writing it!

Hope ya like! Next up: Beelzebub 

Trigger warning: Mention of blood, and swearing. 

Diavolo-

He'll never show you, so don't ask. His true form is god-like in its own right and such knowledge, such truly raw demonic power in its natural form is not for your mortal eyes.

No matter what your lineage, it would break you. And despite his roles and being the literal devil, he doesn’t want you suffering.

Sometimes when he thinks you wouldn't notice he relaxes his hold on reality, just a fraction. He wants to relieve some of the tension that is always building just below the surface. Like closing your eyes when you have a tension headache. The mental energy he has to exert to keep face is enormous. Regular glamour doesn’t work nearly as well as his own, or Barbato’s magic.

But you see hints during your downtime spent in his company. A ripple in his reflection on the window pane. Unexplainable shadows dancing across his exposed skin. Too many teeth in his mouth when he laughs. Sometimes when you stare into his eyes you see something indescribable staring back behind them. His usually warm and inviting gaze darkening. A barest flicker, a hulking bestial thing kept locked behind in his golden gaze. It's enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

On certain nights when you can slip away from the brothers you stay in his room. Lying  awake, you watch his magic wane and shift as he slumbers. Sometimes you see runes, or at times letters. You are tempted to write them down and ask Solomon. But something stops you each time.

The worst images are the faces. Unknown souls trapped beneath his flesh clawing to be freed. Silent screams fading back into his body as he dreams. Your fragile fingers trace the patterns they leave as you wait for the next day wrapped in his embrace.

Only once have you seen more of his form then he would ever wish. The depths of his strength and mental fortitude were unknown to you so the slip up took you both by surprise. He masks the error well, but the sudden shift in energy in the room couldn’t be suppressed .

You are suddenly so aware of the oppressive weight of gravity on your frame. Your bones grinding together under the force of his aura. You panic, desperate by the need to breathe, but are unable to draw even the smallest bit of oxygen as it is robbed from the room. Time and reality wrapped too, distorting in ways only you thought only Barbatos could do. You knew in that moment the sudden dread of death, how mortally was but a rusty shackle tethering you down.

He collects himself, dispelling the energy and locking his glamour down tight to protect you. But that split second of fury felt like an eternity to you as you sink to the floor. You hiccup a shaky sob and shiver. Your fragile human mind bowing under the strain of what it cannot comprehend. Scolding hot tears fall from your cheeks, before splashing crimson the stone below you.

You didn't approach him again for over a month. No matter how strong you are, some things were better off unseen.

Mini Fic

He didn’t know. For once in his ancient pitiful existence, he had been unaware of his surroundings. It had been for just a moment, one tiny crack in his veneer. The foolishness of Mammon and Belphegor’s actions finally poked the right nerve. He wouldn’t hurt them, for Lucifer’s sake. That prideful demon would never forgive him if he did. But he could scare them. A quick look at his true self; a flash of the deepest bowels of hell. Enough to give them a reminder of their positions and standing in his court. He had expected their whimpers of fear, could taste the acidic tinge of it exuding from their pores. What he didn’t expect though was your blood curdling screams alongside.

Ironically, he would have to thank the second eldest later. His fast thinking is the only thing that saved you from complete damnation. His body shielded yours, taking the brunt of the stronger daemons hellish might for you. What little magic Mammon still had left used to protect you. Though, while your vision was blocked, you could still feel his oppressive presence. It racked your mortal flesh. Diavolo knew what affects his power had on humans. He spent years breaking and consuming damned souls with zeal after all.

The brothers had run from him after that, screaming for Simone. Barbatos following close behind, a look of consternation on his usually impassive face. You had been so limp in Mammon's arms. Diavolo could do nothing, shocked by his own weak will and realization that he might have ruined everything. You had been whisked away so quickly by his faithful servant and the brothers that he hadn’t had a chance to look you over himself. But the brief moment he saw will haunt him for years to come. Your eyes red from the sudden haemolacria, the blood staining your clothes and face. Your fingers digging away at your soft skin, black and purple blotches staining what he could see. Mouth opened wide on a silent scream. He knew what you must have seen. The souls of the damned trapped under his glamour breaking free to latch on to your unmarred soul trying to drag you back with them.

Against his butler's advice he stands at your door now days later trying to see you. He couldn’t sit around and just hear updates second hand. The brothers had been keeping guard most days in a valiant attempt to keep him away. But he could only be waylaid for so long before he used his rank against them.

He had arranged a full council meeting. Every one of the brothers knowing full well it was to get them out of his way. Yet, the order was absolute. This time none of the brothers could reject it. Barbatos would keep them in that room for eternity if he so wished for it. He hated using his age and power against them, but he saw no other way to get to you.

It was foolish now, standing as he was in front of your door. A part of him hoping you would turn the knob and let him in. Let him comfort you for once, instead of the asinine distractions the brothers offered. He could help too. Hells, he wanted to. He wanted to be closer to you. Power discrepancy be damned. The other part of him knowing it was for the best that you didn’t. Your guardian and tormentor all in one. He listens to your muffled sobs for a moment fighting with his feet to stay cemented to the floor instead of heading back in defeat.  

"When my father was still around he took me down to the deepest depths of the kingdom. Where the worst of the traitors and sinners are imprisoned." His deep baritone rumbles through your door during a break in your crying. "It’s a place few seldom go; even now I have yet to return. Back then he told me ‘there will never be a human soul that is undeserving of punishment. Even the ones destined for the celestial realm are tethered to sin.’ At that time I believed him. The things I saw in your realm... " The prince chuckles wearily.

He remembers the ever present scowl on the old King's face. His dark eyes looking out at the sea of damned souls he controlled. Even as a young daemon, fresh into his wings and still sharpening his horns to impress others he could tell how much his father detested his position. How it had warped him, turning him bitter and cold, even to his mate and only child.

Diavolo never wanted to be like that. Not to the ones he supposedly cared for at the very least. "I think that is why he hated the other realms so much.” He continued. “Humans, for their ability to choose which realm they would eventually end up in after they pass. That even the worst sinners could find redemption enough at the last moment to get to the pearly gates. While daemons, no matter how well they served, or the duties they did for the good of their own would never be seen as equals to our celestial counterparts or yours. That this existence is all we'll ever be destined to have. Nightmares and monsters, stories to tell little human children to keep them in line.” He pauses, collecting himself. “I believed wholeheartedly that every human deserved the punishments only my kind could dowel out. But, in this past year I have spent with you, I find myself changing. You are so undeserving of such torment. Somehow you are understanding and forgiving beyond measure to us. You handle our ill tempers with such grace. For daemons such as us, it is staggering, and humbling. I regret that I have hurt you so deeply and have broken your trust. I swear it as the head of this realm I would never intentionally do so." He looks at the door handle willing it to open. " I am so sorry."

Your crying picks up again. Huge heaving sobs that rattle your chest. Great Father, he just keeps making it worse. Clearing his head Diavolo turns.

Rejection of this nature was new to him. No one had ever dared to ignore him, especially such as this. The royal in him- his father's blood- seethed that he would even stoop so low as to grovel to a short lived thing like yourself. Even deeper yet, it demanded another taste of your essences. You little soul kept safe behind your rib cage. He wanted it added to his collection, kept tucked away deep within his maws.

It was sick; it was wrong. He chokes on the idea. The intrusive thought burrowing deep. How deplorable was he? Perhaps the angels were right to keep him out of heaven.

You didn't show to class the following day, or the days after. Unsurprising to him and the seven of the inner council. He figured the other day wouldn’t change anything. But it was utter agony to him. These days trapped in his office only getting short and curt updates on your health from Lucifer. It had been a special kind of torment.

Today he sat once again at his desk staring at some godforsaken bitching of a royal cousin. He knew this whelp. Some backwater thrice removed eons ago. Yet he was demanding an audience? The gall. The ink of their eligible handwriting makes him cross eyed. Would this day ever cease? He looks to his hourglass, the sands within seemingly frozen in time.

"My Lord, perhaps you should take a moment to stretch your legs?" Barbatos moved from his corner. Gloved hand coming to rest on top of the same three lines he had been reading for the past two hours. "This work could wait another evening I’m certain ."

"Did I do the right thing my friend?" Diavolo doesn't even bother answering the question his servant posed. They both knew he wouldn't. "This program. Our human exchange students. Solomon is one thing, but-"

"Your will and path is absolute." Barbatos states. "There are no mistakes within you, merely stumblings onto different paths."

With a gentle push Barbatos moves the hulking demon out of his way to collect and organize the scrolls and letters scattered about the large desk. "You made the right choice bringing them here. Look at what they have done. They are entertainment to you are they not?"

The prince rose knocking his desk aside and descended on his butler. His true form out in all its unholy glory now. His highly condensed magic distorting the study as if he was a black hole. The axis of the room shifts. His priceless collection of books and toys disintegrating from the cold radiation he emits.

It was all for show really. There was nothing he could do to an ancient being such as Barbatos. So he lashed out, throwing a tantrum in the security of his office. The hopeless agitation he felt fueling the flames of his rage. His butler had only added holy water to his already festering wounds.

Barbatos had been by his side for time in memoriam. The crafty bastard had helped raise him. Had shaped him into the ruler he was today. If anyone could break and remold him it would be his oldest companion.

The dark haired daemon waited for the waves of agitation to dry up. Moving only when the prince was in his more presentable demonic form. Large barrel chest heaving as he reined himself in. “Are you back to your senses?” He asks coolly, already categorizing the items to replace and furniture to be mended.

"I had not meant for it to go like this."  Diavolo croaks into his hands collapsing back on what remained of his desk. Building a bridge between realms, yes. That noble idea was the greater purpose of this program, but the rest of it. The classes, and dances. The parties where he threw his newest toys about to see how they would react to things other mortals worshiped? That had been for his own curiosity and amusement. Lesser beings navigating a foreign world blind to the dangers that were right under their very nose. Bring a mortal with no magic into his realm? Deep down he knew this was an inevitability. Especially with the freedoms he granted them. He just didn’t think he would get so attached.

“No one believes that you would hurt them on purpose.” His butler cuts off his downward spiral. “It would ruin the program. That is what you are so stressed about, right?” Barbatos eyes him skeptically. Diavolo, himself, and Lucifer had spent many sleepless weeks constructing and negotiating this program. If the Arch Angels heard a mortal was hurt down here it could very well end this little escapade. But the look in the prince’s eyes told a different story.

A warm glow emanated from his cheeks and he was unable to meet the old daemon’s gaze. Ah. "Or perhaps things have changed?" Barbatos smiles coyly up from beneath his bangs. "You are your mother's son after all. Neither of you were ever able to stem your bleeding hearts for long." Diavolo squawked indignantly but didn’t argue. Instead he merely turns a darker shade of red and curses under his breath.

He skipped out on court that evening. Not that he cared much. The other nobles would no doubt use the time to gossip about his whereabouts and uncouth behavior of late. Truth be told, he was avoiding the brothers more than anything else. They had made it expressly clear (some more then others) how they felt about him currently. He wouldn't doubt that Belphegor had a few more brothers on his side now.

Instead he stood at your door once more with a tea tray in hand. He had bumped into Simone on the way. The angel had come to bring you dinner and to check up on the last of your wounds. Celestial magic worked miracles on those who have been touched by the darker arts. Diavolo was grateful for his talents. And, by some miracle, Simone had made it abundantly clear he was not going to bring this to the higher ups on his end either.

Upon seeing the prince slinking up the house's stairwell the other man had simply smiled and offered him the tray. “I suddenly got a message from Luke. Could you perhaps drop this by our friend’s door?” Diavolo had accepted without preamble, large hands dwarfing the platter of little tea cakes and sandwiches. The young cherubs work no doubt. His cooking was a fine treat, and a great incentive to at least open the door.

“Hello again.” He knocks twice. “I just wanted to check in on you. I know I am the last person you wish to see but I was hoping to talk?” Silence greets him. Were you awake? He breathes deeply and focuses on picking up your vitals. You were up, your heart thumping steady somewhere in the room. That was good. “I also have dinner for you. Simone had an urgent matter to attend to so he- for better or worse- entrusted this to me.”

Diavolo searches hopelessly for something else to say. He couldn’t just leave the food and go. He needed to see you. “I don’t plan on staying long today. I understand when I am not wanted, but I cannot help myself but be worried for you. Perhaps this is just me contritioning, because I know I caused this. The amount of times I have been called a ‘ass’ by Solomon over this have been staggering.” He rambles. After another bout of silence from your end he coincides. “I see- I will leave the food by the door and let you rest.” Defeated he puts the food down and turns to leave.

The door clicks open slowly. One bloodshot eye peeking through the crack. “Oh mio piccolo mortale.” He loses his grip on your shared tongue at a loss. You looked- you must have been in the hall longer then he or the brothers had known. Such damage couldn’t be done in a few moments. Your skin was healing as nicely as Lucifer had said, but the deep purple scarring still remained on the surface. The burn pattern of it all was random. Twisting wounds that reflected an oily sheen from the light of the hallway. “I-.”

“I know-” You cut him off with a raised hand. “and I feel as though I owe you an apology too.” Your voice was so weak and shaky. A mockery of your normally strong and jovial tone. Hearing you laugh at school had brightened the dreary halls. He hadn’t realized it until you weren't there.

“You owe me nothing.” Diavolo says in earnest. He watches you contemplate your next words before throwing whatever you were going to say away.

“Would you like to come in?” Your eyes drop to the tray. “Luke always makes more than I can eat.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” He backs out. All his plans crashing and burning around his feet. His actions had been irreparable.

“Perhaps not,” You open the door wider taking the tray and heading to your side table, leaving him no room to argue. “But then again, being a lamb among such wolves as yourself and the brothers isn’t smart either.” You meant it as a joke but he couldn’t even muster a chuckle. It was true. Gods. “Dia-” You approach him again but falter at the last second.

As much as you wanted to be close to him again the memories were still so fresh in your mind. The cold hell fire of his magic ensnaring you, searing your skin. The whispered words of sinners long since past still echoing in your head, all in languages you’ve never heard before. The worst though had to be the screaming. Lost souls begging for help. Some sounded so familiar…You shutter involuntarily.

You wanted to hate him for this. Curse him for putting you through this pain. But how much could you blame him? Or any of them? They were daemons. Whether he meant to hurt you or not, it truly had only been a matter of time before it happened. It would be hypocritical of you to fear or hate him forever over this. Six of the seven brothers have threatened your life before, and you have forgiven them. Hell, one of them actually killed you. What’s more was that Diavolo’s wrath hadn’t even been directed at you.

Wrong place at the right time; seemed to be your forte. “Please, come in.” You repeat again firmer than before mustering up either courage or sheer human stupidity to order him in. You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “We need to talk.”  

He enters, following at your heel like a lost puppy. All air of princedom gone as you clicked the door shut. Diavolo fiddles with his hands, old habits from childhood coming with his nerves. He didn’t know what to expect anymore. Yelling? Some kind of beratement? A plea to go home and never look back?  He would let you.

You pass by him, giving him a large berth of space to get to your seat. “Tea?”  

Diavolo jerks his head to you. He had forgotten momentarily the plate of food he had used to get access to you. You smile sheepishly pushing it and a plate of sweets towards him with your unbandaged knuckles. He doesn’t move till your hand retracts back to your lap. You jerk your head to the open seat waiting for him. You weren’t going to take no for an answer.

“I- thank you.” The daemon sits making himself as small as possible in the straight back chair. He takes the porcelain and drinks mindlessly. The scalding hot tea doing little to help the tightness of his throat, but it did thaw some of the ice in his mind.

“Are-how…” He fumbles so unsure of what to do next. “I see you’ve been keeping up with your school work.” Diavolo closes his eyes, wincing internally at his words. That’s what he comes up with? Idiotic.

You smile anyway, eyeing the massive pile of books and paperwork spewn about your bed. “Yeah. I’ve taken to doing my school work with Levi in his room. Mammon and Beel are nice enough to drop it off to the teachers when they are due.” He nods. He knew this of course. But it was nice to hear it from you. But yet, you don’t meet his eyes. Far too afraid to see what hid behind them.

The thought of being dragged back into those dark depths again makes your pulse quicken. You instead stare at your nail beds, finding them more interesting. They were purple now. The nails stained black by the contact with his magic. “Will- will that go away?” He asks. Demonic curses or taints were nigh impossible to remove fully. Disgustingly, he hoped they didn’t. Then your nails would match his. The darker depths of his soul coo at the idea, happy that in a small way every daemon would know your his. Not as good as a pact, but as close as he could get to being a part of your little mortal life.

“I’m not sure.” You reply honestly bringing your hands up to place them on the table. “Simone and Solomon have done what they could. But, it is as good as it’s going to get for now. They say it could fade with time.” You look up at him, eyes gazing to the left of his face. “Luke thinks I should see a stronger angel.” Diavolo winces, the thought stung, and terrified him. “I told him no.”

That surprised him. This was your chance. The celestial realm had been skeptical from the beginning. If they knew, it would be a perfect caveat for them to step in. “Why?” Finally you look at him. The fear was still there. Hesitation evident in your eyes. Yet you forced yourself to look at him, fighting through your trepidation.

“Did you mean what you said earlier? About your father and what you think of me?”

“Of course.” He replies without hesitation reaching for your cold hands. You flinch but don’t move away. It felt-nice. His warmth chasing away the perpetual chill that covered your fingertips. Idly you stroke his strong hands with your thumbs.

“Then, I think we can work on this privately.” Slowly but surely you felt like you could fix this. Not for the program, but for yourself.  

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame V

Author’s Note: Chapter 5, things take a turn for the dramatic and a bit angsty here. I really am having fun getting reacquainted with this story, and I have a lot planned for future chapters and an ending. Thanks for being such a wonderful audience, your feedback is always appreciated!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2307

Warnings: Master/Servant dynamic, mentions of suicide attempt, blood, angst

Ivar was exhausted as he propelled his way forward through the city streets. He had opted to stay up on the walls with his warriors through the cold night. It had served to enliven the men into a frenzy to have his presence, but he had only done so out of avoidance.

As the days went by, it seemed his little nun had less to say to him. The truth of the priest's death weighed heavily on you, and you carried it around like a sickness. You had lost your desire to argue or even to spare a simple word. Ivar was disappointed. He had given up trying to teach you his language when you had refused to repeat everything he taught you. The only way he could spurn a reaction out of you was to address you as Ólaug, but even that enjoyment had waned.

Thoughts of revenge against Lagertha were never far from his mind, nor was Kattegat. The heathen army was not destined to stay in York, but while Ubbe and Hvitserk were fixated on settling in on Saxon farmlands, Ivar had other ambitions. He was torn by the enticing idea to travel and become a conqueror, or return to Norway and have his revenge for his mother's death. His brothers looked to have abandoned that notion, leaving him alone and frustrated with his hatred. They would say it was because they did not want to fight with Bjorn, but Ivar knew it was that they didn't love their mother as much as he had.

Ivar did not like feeling so lost. It made him feel like a boy again, only now Floki wasn't there to give him guidance. He was certain he was fated to cross paths with the rangy lunatic one day, but what madness would lead them back together was not foretold. Without Helga, Floki had become as empty as a horn with no mead. Ragnar had vanished for ten years, yet Ivar could not recall his mother ever being heartsick over his absence. Not all love was meant to last.

The concept of love and marriage was something he had been considering more often as of late. As a leader to his people and a son of Ragnar, it would be expected of him to have a wife and heir. Ubbe was already married, and Hvitserk likely had fathered a brood of children he didn't know about. Where did that leave him? Even if he took a wife, it wouldn't be long before the people would speak about the lack of an heir. Ivar did not consider himself to be nurturing, but for his own children, he would have tried. Now it seemed impossible that they could ever exist.

"Ivar."

He was broken out of his dour thoughts by Hvitserk. It took half of his own stride for his brother to catch up to him. Even with the braces and crutch, his mobility was limited, but he chose to take the muscles he had built as a victory. Though his legs were useless, they no longer hung from his waist like gnarled tree branches. They almost appeared normal, except that they couldn't bear his weight. 

"You have news," Ivar guessed to Hvitserk, who had slowed to match his pace.

"Our scouting party has returned with word that the Saxons have made camp south of here. They don't appear to have a plan of attack yet. Maybe now is the best time to negotiate for land when we have the advantage."

Hvitserk's tone was pleading, and Ivar was sure he could get him to grovel with the right persuasion. 

"Yes, we have the advantage. So why compromise our position for negotiations that will end in rejection," Ivar said, and he delighted as Hvitserk's face fell. "The Christians do not want us here, brother. If we want land then we'll take it."

"At least let me or Ubbe go. We don't have to give up our position behind the walls, but we can send one of us to negotiate, as a son of Ragnar."

"And risk losing a brother to the enemy? No, that would be foolish and I would appear ill-advised," He said, rounding the corner towards his room with Hvitserk following. 

His intention hadn't been to return to his chamber, but with Hvitserk's desperation and his lethargy, fate had brought him back to the familiar door. Thoughts of sleep were welcome, even if he detested retiring during daylight. 

"This decision should be made with all three of us. We need to sit down with Ubbe first before anything is final," Hvitserk said, not abandoning his cause.

Ivar let out a sigh before casting a long look at his brother. This was important to him, and to Ubbe. He didn't want to continue to have strife with his brothers, even if they didn't share the same aspirations for the army. "I agree."

"Really?" Hvitserk's mouth hung half opened as if awaiting another argument. "Well...then let's do that."

"Yes, fine." Ivar waved his hand, hoping to banish him from his sight. 

Opening the door to his room, he had hoped Hvitserk would take the hint to leave, but instead, they were met with a startling sight. The air stung with the smell of copper, and there was Ólaug, on your knees weeping. The stone floor before you had a puddle of blood, enough to fill a large pitcher, and you were clutching your left wrist. A gash had been cut there, and lying on the ground next to the blood was the weapon. It was a broken piece of a clay plate.

Ivar threw his crutch to the side and dropped to the ground in a heap of twisted bones and metal. His braces were heavy, but he managed to crawl to you quicker than he would have walked. Ignoring any proper thoughts of decency, he pulled you to him to inspect the damage.

"Get a healer, now," He shouted to Hvitserk who had stuck to the doorway, disturbed by what he had witnessed. The order got him moving, and he disappeared to fetch a healer while Ivar tried to stanch the bleeding with his larger hand over yours.

"You stupid Christian, look what you've done," Ivar hissed. He was sitting in your blood, the warmth seeping through his trousers. Your back was held tight to his chest while he tried to keep from jostling you around.

"Forgive me," You uttered over again, and Ivar knew the words were not meant for him.

This was the closest you had been together since the first night you had spoken. You were still devoted to your weak God, and Ivar wasn't certain you had even taken heed of his proximity. To take one's own life was cowardice, and he couldn't understand what had driven you to act on such an impulse. You were pitiful, in need of comfort, and he was enraged. After the courtesy, he had shown you this was how you chose to escape him. His hand clenched tight on your arm, his nails biting into flesh until you whimpered.

Just as he contemplated finishing the work you had started, and it would have been simple to take the clay shard to your throat, Hvitserk returned with a healer.

"You need to move, Prince. I must see what I'm dealing with," said Audhild. She was their most senior healer, a broad woman with wiry blonde hair and shrewd green eyes. With skillful hands, she tended to battle wounds, not Christian thralls. If she had any grievances about being summoned, she hid them behind a stern face of practicality. 

Ivar passed you over to Audhild. You had grown cold and quiet, ceasing your own utterances to your God. Hvitserk was at his side with a hand and his crutch to lift him off the floor. The first thing Ivar sought once he got back on his feet was the bucket of tepid, clean water to wash up. He had been covered in the blood of his enemies before, but when his hands hit the water and darkened it to a murk, he felt a strange sadness.

"What happened to her hair?" Hvitserk questioned, coming to stand at Ivar's side.

"She did that to herself," mumbled Ivar. He wasn't in the mood to entertain all of Hvitserk's questions. "Just more Christian nonsense."

"It could have been worse," Hvitserk intoned in a low voice. "At least she didn't keep this hidden and try to kill you in your sleep."

Ivar looked at the jagged piece of clay in Hvitserk's hand before resuming his wash up. He couldn't make out his own reflection through the filth of the water, but he could feel the frown on his face. The thought had never crossed his mind, and he was certain it hadn't crossed his nun's either. 

"No, she would never risk the wrath of her God by murdering me," He said, drying his hands on a rag.

"You sound confident." Hvitserk's tone lacked the same strength. 

"Yes, here we are," He quipped, tossing the sodden rag at his brother. "This isn't my blood that was spilled."

Hvitserk set the rag aside, along with the makeshift knife. He seemed prepared to argue further but was interrupted by Audhild. She had far less blood on her hands and appeared satisfied with her work. 

"The cut was not deep enough to be fatal. A part of her must have wanted to live," said the healer.

"No, it was fear of her God. Sinners go to Hell." It was utter nonsense that kept you alive, he was certain of it.

Audhild's eyes crinkled to a squint, unsure what to make of this information. "Well, her wound will heal, but she'll need to eat and drink to replenish what she lost."

Ivar peered passed Audhild to his thrall. You were whiter than your old virginal robes, and your head was bowed. Except for the rise and fall of your chest, you were still like a statue. He had no kind thoughts towards you at that moment.

"Take her to the kitchen to be fed. She can remain there with the other thralls," said Ivar, turning away. 

Hvitserk perked up at the remark and came forward. "You aren't keeping her?"

"No, I have no use for a cowardly slave."

While Hvitserk looked alarmed by his callousness, Audhild appeared thoughtful. "Excuse me my Prince, but before you make that decision, might I inquire about her usefulness? If she was a nun prior to this, then she should have skills to aid me. They tend to their sick and dying, not to goats and pigs."

"Fine then, you take her," Ivar huffed. "Just get her away from me."

Audhild said nothing more, taking her dismissal as she went to collect you from the floor. 

You startled from the healer's touch on your shoulder but stood up when you understood you were being ordered away. Ivar fought the need to watch you depart but surrendered to the urge at the last moment. You were looking back at him also, curiosity alight in your sad eyes. And there was fear also. You broke the gaze that lingered between you both, following Audhild out of the room.

"Why did you do that?" Hvitserk asked the moment they were alone. 

"I already told you," Ivar bit back, in no mood to have to explain his rationale to his slow-witted brother. "Go and fetch Ubbe. I want to hear what plan you think you have to negotiate with the Saxons."

Hvitserk took on a concerned frown. He must have known there was little hope for their plan of a sit down with the Saxons now. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as Ivar assumed.

He trudged to the door, halting once he got to the entryway to get the last word in. "I have seen these nuns do this before. You shouldn't have been so quick to release her, brother. Something must have happened to make her act on impulse like that."

Maybe something had occurred to spurn such a reaction from you, but at the moment Ivar could not see through his fury to consider such possibilities. You had tried to use death as a means to escape him after he had shared parts of himself with you. He told you of his parents, and you had spoken in kind of your own. By granting you those stories, he had allowed you to know him. It was more than he had given to another in years, and this was how he was rewarded. The Gods were not smiling down on him today.

"I'm not like you, father," He said aloud, with the hope that his words would reach Ragnar in Valhalla. "I can't befriend a Christian."

He staggered over to the abandoned washbasin. It would need emptying by another thrall now. The broken clay shard remained atop the soiled cloth, and Ivar felt it in his hand. His rage had peaked, and he squeezed the piece of clay until it drew blood from his palm. When the sting of the blade ceased, he pitched it across the room, shattering it to pieces.

The silence in the room made it impossible to ignore that he was alone once again. Ivar collapsed onto his pallet of furs, braces still intact on his legs, and the exhaustion returning along with this new hurt squeezing his chest. He was tired of being let down by others. No one ever remained at his side. 

Hvitserk was wrong. He couldn't keep you after knowing you would rather die than be his thrall. Lying on his side, Ivar could see the dark stain of your blood on his floor, and he turned away. Yes, he was better off without you tearing everything he had built apart.

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[brialavellan]

It has been 20 years since Inquisitor ‘Manehn Lavellan defeated Corypheus, and 18 years since the Exalted Council. Solas is furthering his plans and so far, all efforts to stop him seem to be in vain….until the Well of Sorrows begins to speak to ‘Manehn once more. Led by ancient magics and beset by enemies from Ferelden and Orlais to Antiva and Tevinter, ‘Manehn must gather allies old and new in a race against time to defeat Solas - at any cost.

(NOW ON AO3)

Chapter 1 ||  Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8  || Chapter 9  || Chapter 10 

CH 11: For the Love of the People

There were no screams.

No cries of warning.

The only sound they heard was the soft whoosh of arrows through open windows, connecting with the head of each victim, their jaws agape in shock as their limp bodies slumped over from their chairs and fell to the floor.

Four elves in black leather armor slung their bows on their backs and crept into the small red-brick house. Briala, in her russet-brown leather armor, weaved her way around the pools of blood and hunched under the table where their victims had been playing a game of cards. 

She got on her hands and knees and her eyes scanned the floors and baseboards for any breaks in the pattern, her fingers tapping the wood to feel for anomalies. She noticed a loose spot. She rapped on the wood and the wood echoed back. She pulled out her dagger, wedged it between the wooden boards, and pushed down hard. The wood snapped and revealed another cache filled with pieces of rolled parchment. She gently pulled the scraps of parchment from the small earthen hole and began to sift through each one while her agents meandered around her, checking all ingresses for suspicious intruders or curious visitors. The writing was nearly illegible on all of them but when you put them together, the meaning was clear. 

Charter’s codebreakers (with Briala’s assistance) had deciphered the old notes they found on the dead elves at the Divine’s Ascension celebration. The codes had changed since they found the notes on the dead elves, but not by enough. Using the cache of notes that Briala had found in Val Royeaux’s catacombs, Briala and Charter were able to deduce that Fen’harel’s agents used a form of alphabetic substitution, with multiple substitution alphabets. There was a pattern to the changes, a method to the madness. It had to be this way, so that lower level associates did not have to work as feverishly to memorize more alphabets. Keys had to be easily memorized. 

And Briala had the latest key.

She did not have to work very hard to translate what she had found. And what she read merely confirmed her suspicions.

They had planned to assassinate Duke Alfonse Blanchard, whose duchy encompassed Emprise de Leon and with whom Briala had a strong trade relationship.

And they had planned to assassinate him tonight. 

Had planned. 

Until plans changed.

“Duke Blanchard?” one of the elves, a young dark skinned woman with a small afro groaned. “The youngest brother, he is. Last one left. Worked for him as a bard. Paid well. Bit of a tit. But not murder-worthy. Why’d Fen’harel want ‘im dead?”

“Don’t know. Don’t believe in self-appointed gods anyway,” her sibling, a young man with cornrows, said. “Where was he at when Halamshiral burned down, eh? Seems like a god could’ve stopped that, after all.” He chuckled darkly.

“It’s a ploy to weaken the Dales,” Briala said. “Fen’harel’s agents claim to fight for the people but…” she paused, “I know it doesn’t feel like enough, but we didn’t earn what we have through open warfare.”

“It’s stupid to assasinate with stabbing. Too messy,” piped a pale, freckled agent with crimson hair, changing the subject. “And killing the kids too. Come on! That’s just over…well…overkill.” 

“So this it for today?” an older, ruddy-faced elven woman with salt-and-pepper curls asked. “Or we’ve got more? I know a Red Jenny in Val Royeaux who could take a peek’n’sneak. Maybe find a few to shoot if she’s not tripping up a nob or two.”

“No, that’s too dangerous,” Briala said. “The rest will go to ground but they weren’t as much of an immediate threat as the one here and the two in Halamshiral. We’ve saved the lives of three allies. We’ve saved the Dales for now. You all did good work here.” 

“‘Course we did,” the man in the cornrows said with a grin and earned a ribbing from his sister. 

She pointed to the siblings. “Adele, Alain, you’ll come back with me to Emprise du Lion.” she said. “We need to inform Duke Blanchard that we just saved his life.” 

She walked up to the other two and handed them each a small roll of parchment. “Crimson and Lily, you will both stay here until I give you more orders. Burn these after you read them. Make sure Fen’harel doesn’t send more agents.” 

She paused and took a hard look at the faces of her agents. 

“I know it just looks like he is merely trying to weaken my alliances. But he is destroying everything you all have built. We built a home in the Dales, where elves are treated as free men. Where we live on our terms, not as second class citizens, but as equal people, woven within the fabric of Orlais. They are our people, yes. I don’t wish to fight them, but they would destroy what we have crafted over twenty years for a foolish ill-conceived attempt at rebellion that will take as many elven lives as they claim to save. What we have is not perfect, but it’s ours. And I’ll defend what we have to the death.”

All four elves nodded at her words with solemn gratitude. Briala saw no hesitation, no twitch of an eye or biting of lips. They were loyal. So far. But being betrayed had burned her too much and she could not help but feel that she was missing something. Not a key or a code. Fabrication or not, the mystery of the freckled elven man still cast a shadow of doubt. 

“There’s no doubt here if you’re looking for it, Marquise,” Crimson said with a smile. “We’ll do what needs to be done. We know you will too.”

————————

The tavern was bustling, near bursting at the seams with the sound of drunken merriment. The type of desperate merriment when you have little to lose, and you lose, and you lose more. So you take what you can, and don’t dare hope for more. This was enough, for now. But Alienage streets still simmered with resentment across Orlais. The undercurrent still sullied the mood of the revelers just enough where they could be dangerous.

Katrina sat at the back of the tavern, tracing the rim of her mug of water. A young elven man with greasy blonde hair in pauper’s clothes approached and slipped her a coin, one that marked him as ally, and leader, of the Val Royeaux cell. All of Solas’s agents worked independently, but all knew Katrina. His lieutenant. His closest confidant (or as close of a confidant as Fen’harel kept). Her will was his. Her position, unassailable. Her dedication, unwavering. 

And all of his agents stood in awe before her.

The young man bowed deeply, almost touching his own feet. “Lieutenant, it is a great honor…”

“I don’t ask for honor,” Katrina chastised him. “And you shouldn’t grovel at my feet. You are elven. Have some pride.”

The young man straightened up and cracked his knuckles, “You’re right, of course, my apologies, Lady Katrina,” he said with a raspy Orlesian accent as he took a seat.

“Have you heard the news from Emprise du Leon and Halamshiral?”

“Just minutes ago,” he said, his croaky voice barely managing more than a whisper, “Claudette said there’s not a trace of them left. From any of them. Not even bodies. If that’s true then -”

Katrina stopped him, “They’re dead, Jacques. Briala found them out.”

“Briala…” his voice cracked with disgust. “She plays at revolution, but kills more elves than humans.”

“I remember,” Katrina said. She had told the Inquisition long ago. She warned them that the elf who fancied herself Ambassador was no more than Celene’s pet, barely above a bed warmer. In her eyes, Briala was just a high class courtesan. She would jump into the arms of anyone who could give her the power she grasped for.

“If she knows about them,” Jacques whispered, fidgeting in his seat, “then she knows about the rest of us. She can bring us all down. She -”

“Jacques, just change your codes and watch your backs,” she told him, exasperated, “this is just a minor setback. Nothing more, nothing less. They run around dousing small fires but don’t see the blazing inferno on the horizon. Our leader plays a longer game, beyond their understanding and even beyond ours. You must trust him as he trusts us.”

“Of course, of course, of course,” Jacques said, nodding as he spoke, more so as a prayer than a true affirmation. 

“Besides,” Katrina said with an icy smile. “Briala may have power and wealth. But we,” she gestured to the patrons in the crowded tavern. “We have the People.”

Katrina rose from the table and slipped her way through the throng of patrons towards the counter, hoisting herself on top of the counter-top despite the tavern keep’s feeble protest.

“Everyone listen up!” she yelled over the din of drunken patrons, “I want to make a toast to all of us!”

The patrons settled down for just a moment, just long enough to entertain whatever drunken rabble they expected. 

“For decades, centuries, millenia, we’ve been pushed around, right?” she started, “We’ve been beat down and told we’re less than nothing. We get treated like dirt, like dregs, by humans! All the damn time!”

The racket began to give way to confused murmuring. A heckler yelled at her to get to the fucking point already.

“But you know what? Humans don’t treat us like that because they hate us. They do it because they’re jealous of us. They do it because they are frightened by us!”

She continued, fire in her chest and her voice in a frenzy. 

“We conquered Thedas before they arrived! We rose with Shartan and Andraste and brought the Tevinter Imperium to its knees! Our people have defeated Blights! Our people healed the Breach!” 

The confused murmuring gave way to a chorus of righteous pride. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of taking shit! I’m tired of being treated like nothing! No, less than nothing! We are more than the humans could ever dream! And one day, we’re gonna show them!”

The righteous pride gave way to raucous cheering. Katrina raised a closed fist and the rest followed suit, a drunken crescendo singing a single verse.

The elvhen will rise again!

————————

“And here is the hero of our hour, Marquise Briala!” Duke Alfonse Blanchard called out as Briala walked through the stained glass doors of his summer chateau and rushed to greet her, taking her hand and leading her inside, her two agents following behind and giving each other an almost-amused look. “I could not have had a more stalwart ally in these troubled times. And your timing is most impeccable.“

He greeted her in a yellow plaidweave waistcoat with tails that almost touched the floor, burgundy heeled boots, and black breeches with a burgundy stripe down the sides, a style, Briala noted, two seasons out of fashion. She maintained her sweet smile despite her horror. With any other person, these crimes of fashion would be nigh unforgivable but he was so charming, so adept at the Grand Game, that one could almost forgive his gaudy tastes. Without his charm, he would have lost his lands and his head like both of his brothers, who were found to be conspiring with the Venatori twenty years prior. 

As the four made their way inside to the large marble-tiled and gilded-golden foyer, a group of lesser nobles crowded around them from a balcony that overlooked the foyer. He did make sure to address Briala, of course, but spoke mainly for the crowd.

“I have long supported the free reign of the Dales and through my connections, we have built a partnership built on equity and mutual trust. It is a triumph for us and for Orlais. May our partnership show a new path forward to all who would witness it. And may we celebrate with a toast!” 

He raised his crystal glass and drank deeply. The attendees clapped and drank as well as he finished his soliloquy. Briala noticed his northern partners did not clap as enthusiastically and took smaller sips of their toasts versus his smaller, southern supporters. 

Her coalition was holding fast, she noted, but it was still too small. The southern duchys noticed the sea change among the Council of Heralds. They knew as long as the Chantry stood behind their Herald of Andraste, the Herald stood behind Briala, and as long as Celene did not move against any of them that their ascension was assured. 

The northern neighbors were not pleased. As Briala was falling out of favor with Celene, her center of power around Val Royeaux and the North was growing increasingly hostile. They were her most ardent supporters in the Civil War. Besides outliers like Ghislain, she had almost no Northern support. 

If Celene was trying to undermine the Chantry, that could make some Northern allies rush to her side, since the Grand Enchanter had made sure the Council of Heralds was stacked with those most loyal to her. The Southern partners would then jump at the chance to undermine Celene further and expand their own influence. In that way, Celene was stuck, unable to act against Briala more forcefully. But as Natalie and her ilk sought to undermine the Chantry from within, then Celene’s power would grow. 

Enough to rid herself of the meddlesome marquise.

Briala milled around and mingled with the guests for a while, examining each gesture and every syllable spoken, building her list of allies and adversaries, those who she could count on and those she could not. Nobles might bend their knees as she greeted them, but every act was a performance on the world’s greatest stage. Her two agents followed, close enough to protect but far enough away to blend into the scenery, to note what she might miss. On this stage, elves were relegated to minor characters, but her agents, along with many other elves, used their invisibility to their advantage. 

Even allyship, now matter how publicly declared, was always conditional among the nobility. Like rats on a sinking ship, her allies would scatter at the first sign of trouble. Even Duke Blanchard’s words, no matter how grand, were empty platitudes even if he did feel personal gratitude.

The only true ally she had ever had, who gave her everything and expected nothing, was ‘Manehn.

“I hope you like hot weather,” the Duke said, beaming as he approached, “The Lady Montilyet has invited all her trading partners to a soiree. The Marquise de Serault, the Duke de Ghislain and several others will be there. I’ll make sure you have an invitation.” 

“I’m honored.” Briala said, just loud enough for her words to echo, “I did have an engagement with the Comtesse Cosette of Lydes, but I can postpone that for another date.”

She did not have an engagement with Comtesse Cosette of Lydes. This was a public, retaliatory snubbing, payback for her trying to entrap Briala into an inequitable trade deal six months before and for trying to poison her two fêtes ago. As Briala rose, her status would now fall. The two agents noted the Comtesse’s dismay and slightly smiled at her distress. Lydes might start to submit now, if only to save face. 

“And do bring the Herald, of course, would you?” the Duke added after a long pause to witness this spectacle. “She just insisted that the Herald come. And it would be quite splendid to have the Savior of Orlais in attendance, don’t you think?”

Briala nodded with a placid smile. “I do.”

————————

Under cover of a moonless night, ‘Manehn and Davhalla arrived back at the Cathedral, saddle-sore from four days of hard riding. They had traded 20 sovereigns for two riding horses in the nearest trade town outside the Brecilian Forest, and had nearly gotten themselves arrested because the local townspeople could not fathom two Dalish elves that could rub two coppers together, much less two Dalish elves with more money than most there saw in a month.

One of Briala’s people, a courier, met them at the gates with a missive and a somber glance.

“News from Kirkwall,” he said as he pressed the letter into ‘Manehn’s hand. She stared at him for several seconds, shaking the note at him, until he realized his error, took the missive back and broke the seal with both of his hands. 

“A riot,” he grimly read from the page, “in the Alienage. Troublemakers set fire. Lots dead, mostly elves. Definitely Fen’harel’s doing.”

‘Manehn’s veins turned to ice and her jaw tightened.

“Your daughter is safe,” he added, seeing ‘Manehn freeze, “She’s with our people. She’ll be back in three days. Four if the currents don’t agree.” 

‘Manehn breathed an audible sigh of relief as the courier departed. 

“I shouldn’t have kept her alone,” she said, shaking her head and rubbing her temple. “I shouldn’t have even taken her to Kirkwall. I don’t even know what I was thinking, getting her involved in this.”

“She’s nineteen now, ‘Manehn. You can’t keep her sheltered forever,” Davhalla said to her. “She’s learning under guidance, structure and without her risking her life unnecessarily.”

“I’ve done nothing but just put her in danger. Repeatedly. What would’ve happened if she couldn’t banish that demon or if Solas’s people had - ”

“She is a Dreamer. She is the daughter of one of the most influential and powerful elves in Orlais,” Davhalla said grimly. “She is always in danger. She needs to be given the tools to defend herself. She needs to learn how to fight, especially given her eagerness to do so.”

“She shouldn’t have to.”

“None of us should have to, but we do anyway, don’t we?” Davhalla said with a yawn and a stretch of her arms as she walked away towards the Apartments.

‘Manehn retired to her room, eager to sleep but equally eager to soothe her rattled nerves. She found two servants and had them draw a hot bath while she undid the straps down her arm and across her chest that latched her dagger to her stump and set it on her desk. As the servants heated the water, she lit a candle, grabbed a magnifying glass, and scanned every inch of her blade. The pins that kept it sheathed were wearing, she noted, and the blade was blunting. She would have Dagna take a look at it. 

Later. 

She would take care of everything later.

She was too tired for racing thoughts and insomnia tonight. Too tired to take the honey wine that she usually needed to put herself to sleep. If only she could pause time, she thought, then maybe she could know peace. Had it really been so long that a spectre did not shadow her? Whether it was the fate of her clan, her people, or all of Thedas, she did not remember a time where she did not carry a burden. Carrying that burden had weathered her as much, if not more, than the mere passage of time. 

She sent the servants away, slipped off her clothes and sunk the bath, savoring the slight sizzle on her skin from the hot water as the filth washed away. She slid further into the tub, propped up her feet and leaned her head slightly back  until her hair touched the water. If she slipped further down, she thought, if she submerged herself completely, could she stay there? Could she surrender what glimmer of life remained within her?

She pulled herself back up and shuddered as the cool air hit her skin. She would not succumb. 

She pulled herself out of her bath, grabbed a towel and headed to bed. She hoped that for this night, she would sleep well.

[ladyalice101]

@abi117 shared this article with me the other day, and I immediately thought of the leaked set photos where jon knelt to Cersei .. and then I thought of the kidnap plot .. and then .... my fingers slipped. 

read on ao3. 

don’t blame me, love made me crazy

Jon is very sure that, if she’s still alive, Sansa will be furious with him.

There is very little that is more important to Sansa than Northern Independence – as she has made abundantly clear over the past few moons – including her own life.

But to Jon, nothing is more important than Sansa.

As the ash and smoke had cleared after the Battle for Winterfell, as the bodies were collected and moved and burnt in pyres, as Jon had searched everywhere for his beautiful sister-cousin, it had slowly become clear that she wasn’t to be found.

The castle had been thrown into a frenzy when they’d realised that Sansa was neither in Winterfell nor amongst the dead, and it wasn’t for three days that they’d learnt what had become of her.

The scroll Cersei had sent had also held a lock of Sansa’s fiery hair, and as the meeting of the Lords raged around him as they all debated on what to do, Jon had been unable to speak or listen as he’d stared at the etches in the wooden table and imagined all of the terrible things Cersei would be doing to her.

All it took was one foolish Lord to suggest that they leave the Lady Sansa in King’s Landing, because after all they still have their King and no Dragon Queen to worry about – “so why bother sending our exhausted men across the country to retrieve one woman who’s probably dead anyway?” – for Jon to stand from his chair. It had scraped across the floor and sent every single man silent, including that who had dared to suggest they leave Sansa in Cersei’s clutches. Jon didn’t know who he was, still doesn’t, but his face is memorised so that when Jon gets back he’ll have his head.

Jon knows – gods, he knows – that he is playing right into Cersei’s hands, probably even better than she’d imagined. He knows that he’s in no state of mind for this, because he’ll likely pay any price Cersei demands of him if she lets Sansa go free.  

Any political savvy Jon had had within him had died with Daenerys.

He is too exhausted now to do much other than climb atop the only dragon that remained in the world and fly south.

He’d intended to ride a horse, but the thought of Sansa in King’s Landing for longer than the two days it will take him to fly down . . . he would have killed three horses and near on himself, if he’d had to, but he has a dragon now and so he goes as quick as he can.

By the time he arrives in King’s Landing, he’s slept only for a minute or two here and there in the two days it took him to fly, and perhaps even less than that in the days before, when he had no idea where she was and every time he’d closed his eyes to sleep all he could see was the variety of ways she might be being tortured.

Jon had hoped that he was stronger than this, but – when he stumbles into the Throne Room of the Red Keep, sleep deprived and sick to his stomach with guilt and worry and fear, he catches sight of Sansa gagged and bound by Cersei’s side, her red hair sheared to her jaw and a bruise blooming across her cheek, and he immediately falls to his knees.

Cersei doesn’t even need to smile her cruel, vicious smile for Jon to know that he has already lost.

Sansa may hate him for this, for how quickly and easily he has revealed his desperation, but he can’t care. Not when he wants her to leave with her life. Above all else, that’s what matters to him: that she’s alive, and home.

Because despite it all, despite the whispers that have followed him since he came back to life that claim him a god, or the praise that he is the greatest swordsman to ever live, or the stories he knows are shared that always, always glorify his battles and make them seem easier than they were, make it out like he brought victory when really it was sheer luck; despite it all, he is just a man, who is in love with a woman, and who couldn’t bear to see her die.

“Please,” he croaks, eyes downcast in that way that he has learnt so well since becoming acquainted with Daenerys, “please, let her go. I’ll give you anything.”

He hears Cersei stand, but he daren’t look up at her. Her feet come into his line of vision, her black dress swirling around her shoes, and still he stays prostrated before her.

Pathetic, perhaps, and certainly not the man he was raised to be but - . . . he doesn’t know what else to do, and he’s far past gambling with Sansa’s life. He has known nothing but keeping her safe and protected since he emerged into this cursed second life, and has committed each act he has with only one goal in mind.

I’ll protect you, I promise.

“Your miserable grovelling has made this much less satisfying than I’d hoped it would, bastard.”

Jon stays quiet.

He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, all he wants is Sansa in his arms, and then back in Winterfell (for surely Cersei will not let them both leave, and Jon made his peace with dying in the South the moment he stepped foot on Dragonstone and Daenerys had his boat taken away).

“You’re just like your father,” Cersei says, a haughty tone to her voice. “You have a dragon to bargain with, to threaten me with, and yet you’ve still come here with the hope that your desperate words will convince me to set her free?”

Jon wonders how this might have ended, if he’d come to Cersei with the determination of fire and blood rather than the melancholy of his true House, and he knows that he could never have condemned a whole city to burn just because he is in love.

Cersei bends down and grasps his chin in her fingers, and when she brushes her lips over his temple Jon gets a strong whiff of wine on her breath.

“You’re pretty like Rhaegar, though, aren’t you?”

For a moment, fear grips his heart as he realises Cersei has learnt the truth of his parentage. It releases a moment later when he remembers that he doesn’t have to worry about the secret spreading now Daenerys is gone.

Cersei pulls away from him, her green eyes piercing his soul, and as she turns her back to him and walks back to her Throne, she calls over her shoulder, “You’re in love with her, then?”

“More than you know.”

The frown that mars Cersei’s face after his confession is unexpected, but he stays focussed on it. He doesn’t dare turn to Sansa and see her reaction to the truth.

“I know a thing or two about Targaryen men in love with Stark women,” Cersei says, then lets a contemplative silence fall over the hall.

Jon doesn’t move from where he’s knelt, even though his entire body aches and begs to be released into sleep. You don’t need her! He wants to scream. Not now you have me. I’m the Targaryen, a threat to your reign.

“I’d planned to take you, and kill your dearest Sansa of course,” Cersei says, after they’ve sat in silence for so long Jon becomes unsure whether his knees will ever unbend, “but I think that if I did, you might just throw yourself from a window, and I have much more important uses for you than that.”

Jon dares to cast his eyes over to Sansa at that. She’s staring back at him, an unreadable if fairly passive expression on her face. She’s still wearing the dress he saw her in last: the black one, with the leather armour laid over the torso, a look so fierce that the first time he saw her in it hr almost fell to his knees to grasp the hem of it and beg for her forgiveness (or to fuck him, maybe, he still isn’t sure which request would have spilt from his lips).

Aside from the bruise, and the way her hair has been hacked at, she looks relatively unharmed. It’s likely untrue, but Jon will gain nothing by trying to pull apart the aloof expression she’s adopted. He would know; he’s tried many times before.

“I’ll let her go,” Cersei agrees finally. “Back North, where she belongs. As part of my Kingdom, but I suspect you already knew that. In return, you’re to stay here, bastard.”

Both of these demands Jon had expected. It makes it no easier to witness Sansa’s frown, and to feel his heart break over the thought that the last time he’ll ever see her she is displeased with him.

But they are things he can live with if it means her freedom and her life.

The gag is pulled from Sansa’s mouth, and then she’s thrust onto her feet. The harsh shove of the guard makes her stumble, and it’s enough to make Jon attempt to rise to his feet, but then hands are clamped down on his shoulders and he can’t move.

“Your Grace,” Sansa says, coy and clipped as she curtsey’s. “Thank you for your kindness. If you would permit me just one more thing, I would like to say goodbye to Jon.”

Cersei quirks an amused brow, then waves her hand in permittance and takes the final gulp from her goblet.

Sansa’s steps are sure and true as she comes towards him, and she wastes no time in kneeling down for him. In a move that mimics Cersei, she grasps his chin; she is much more tender than Cersei was, much more loving. Her fingers caress his jaw, and then she leans in and kisses him.

Jon feels like his brain and heart stop, and while the kiss lasts only a second at most, he still chases after her lips, desperately wanting more.

Cersei’s amused laugh cuts through the air, but Jon’s eyes are still closed as he wishes that the moment never had to end; that he could live forever in that second in which his lips were pressed against Sansa’s, where they belonged.

“Oh, if only Ned Stark could see you now!” Cersei says with delight, clapping her hands together once. “How I would relish watching his face turn down in that infuriating frown of his.”

Sansa nuzzles her nose against his, a wolf-like gesture of care, but her fingers dip into his jaw just a little bit tighter, giving way to the possessiveness underneath.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers, “I won’t let her marry you.”

Jon hadn’t been worried about that, but as soon as Sansa says it he realises that this must be what Cersei meant when she said more important uses for you.

Sansa stays hovered over him, and he wishes she would kiss him again, but she doesn’t. She just stays with her face pressed against his, and Jon thinks that if this is the last time he ever see’s her, then at least they had this. It is so comforting, in fact, that Jon is sure he falls asleep against her cheek, because one moment he is basking in the peace of her, and the next a terrible, wet cough permeates the air.

He opens his eyes and goes to pull away from Sansa, but she cups his face with her hands and hushes him, brushing the curls by his temple in a such a soothing way that he relaxes into her again.

Another cough, louder this time, and then a gasp. Jon has seen enough death in his life to know the sound of it intimately.

Footsteps echo, desperate and hurried, and then Cersei’s rasping voice hisses, “What have you done?”

Jon doesn’t let Sansa distract him this time. He pulls away from her to watch as Cersei falls to her knees, grasping desperately at her throat, her face an ugly shade of red and purple, with blood dripping from her mouth.

Sansa doesn’t move away from Jon as guards rush over to their queen, and Jon can’t tear his eyes away from Cersei.

“An ugly death,” Sansa admits to him, her voice a whisper in his ear. “But now she gets to be with her son. And she can die like him, too.”

“You did this?” Jon asks.

“In her wine goblet.”

Sansa doesn’t elaborate further, but he doesn’t need any more detail. He likely should feel disgusted that Sansa could bestow what is obviously a slow and painful death upon another person, but - . . . his first life changed him, and his death changed him even more. He feels nothing for Cersei, despite the way she’s died, like he felt nothing for Ramsey, or Daenerys.

They are just deaths, necessary deaths, because Jon and Sansa have been put in a position in which they’re forced to choose: us or them.

It is not his fault that they have come out victorious on all counts.

“Go on, then,” Sansa encourages him, kissing the arc of his cheekbone, “get your sword. Kill the guards.”

Jon rises to his feet immediately, and gets his sword from where it lays, abandoned by a guard that had rushed over to his dying queen. Jon makes his way through the handful of them easily and quickly, and soon enough they are left alone in the Throne Room that stinks of death and blood.

Jon turns back to Sansa, blood splattered across his clothes. She smiles at him, a small thing, but his heart swells nonetheless.

Sansa moves over to where Cersei lies, empty eyes staring at the sky. She bends down to Cersei’s prone body and picks the golden circlet from the dead woman’s head.

When she places it atop her own head, the gold of it swimming in the beauty of her now-short hair, Jon’s breath is blown from his lungs.

The bruise that is flowered on her cheek doesn’t dim her beauty in the slightest, and the blue of her eyes sparkle as her gaze falls back on him.

Sansa doesn’t remove the Queen’s crown as she makes her way over to him, and the diamond encrusted points of it dig into the skin of his cheek when she pulls him close.

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa sighs, and he can’t quite make out her tone, can’t figure out the intricacies of the way his name sounds on her tongue, the way each letter dances as if she’s tasting them in her mouth. She backs him up, so that his knee’s hit the Iron Throne and he falls into it. “Thank you for coming. My silly, brave Northman.”

Sansa sinks down on top of him, her fingers spearing through the curls at the nape of his neck, and she brushes her lips over his. Even such a gentle, brief kiss is better than he could have imagined, and the noise that escapes his throat sounds like the whimper of a dog.

It pleases Sansa, however, as she smiles against him and then captures his mouth in a much harder kiss. She fills his hands and his mouth and his mind with her body, and then he fills her, too, right there on the Iron Throne, the dead bodies of their enemies still littering the floor.

She bites his ear when she peaks, and he pants between her breasts when he spills, and afterwards, she straightens herself from his lap and lets her dress fall back down around her ankles like she didn’t just fuck him atop the Iron Throne, while he stays sitting there, a confused yet satiated mess.

With Cersei’s crown still perched delicately on her head, Jon knows that Sansa, despite having been kidnapped, has outmanoeuvred them all; including him.

But Jon doesn’t mind. This is a battle he is happy to lose.

[eqcentriceqclectic-blog]

Inherited Demons

2019/12/07 – Nothing Right

Nothing I do is ever right. In His eyes, I will always be a feral horse that needs to be put to the whip. If I don’t and I get free, he hopes that my freedom in the wild will end in cold realisation in my last moments as I am beset by wolves. Even, if objectively right, it is as if an offense on his very existence—as if he were a god or a ghost and disbelief in him would condemn him to abyssal oblivion. And so, being right or doing well is actively discouraged—either through deafening and oppressive silence, or through roaring rage and insufferable indignation. He may be seen as quiet, but that is not to be taken as docility or humility—no; it is a sinister and seething silence. Normally, improvement is supposed to be seen as positive.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve either wanted to run away from home or outright kill myself. It desperate times, they’ve been my mantra or my prayers to soothe my wretched soul. What stopped me from running away? Fear of failure. Fear of strangers. Fear of retribution. An incompetency instilled in me long ago. One I replicated and instilled in a brother placed into my charge, even as a shell of a person—shattered shards looking for a reflection. It wasn’t until that reflection attempted to kill himself that I realised what my shoddily-assembled puzzle-of-a-person had done. I had become that which I had despised all my life--that dictatorial and patriarchal demon for which is suffered beneath had impregnated in me a piece of its insidious soul. It had gripped me in its agonising grasp, and regurgitated the darkness imparted to it, into my screaming-tear-streaked face. And thus, the cycle would continue like a horror-franchise that just won’t die. That was the day I realised—despite my love for the pure curiosity and optimism of children and the undeniable yearning to cradle and raise small-beings of my ghostly-ovaries—that I could not perpetuate this curse. To adopt a family-less entity into this story would be tantamount to sacrificing them to the demon that inhabits our family-line with my own bloodied hands.

I remember when I was bird-sitting Rita (a cousin’s feather-child) and He attempted to interact with it while wildly inebriated—like he enjoys doing—and held out his hand. Rita, as finicky conures tend to be, bit him HARD as she did not know him and did not like him. I feared for that bird’s life as I recognised the drunken rage that overtaken his alcohol-laden-bubbly-demeanor, as he shouted some profanity at the bird. I called out, to let him know I was present, and explained to him why she bit him before telling him to leave her alone.A similar incident happened years ago when I had my bird, Vira. She was a feisty bird and I loved her bravery and assertiveness but the curse infused in me by Him did not make distinctions between humans, non-human animals, plants, or inanimate objects. She and my brother have both bore witness to the same rage and self-perceived-indignity-fuelled-wrath I bore witness to growing up. I loved her dearly, but could not reconcile my own behaviour—I could not split this demonic presence within myself with the love I had for all living things as they both were a part of who I was and it was maddening. But as with all things deeply-unsettling, we seek to take flight from it—as is natural—to get as far as we can from it and forget about it so we can go about our days. To face it, would be to face the demon—itself, a part of you—and to face your own guilt and culpability in its sins, for without you, it would not be able to do its work as a formless, parasitic, lifeless virus. To face your own guilt and responsibility in hurting others is a terrifying thing; it chills you to your core and tears it to shreds because you want to believe you are a good person who does good things, and when you are not the hero of your own story, then you can never be a hero in any story—if you are the villain in your own story, then you will be the villain in all stories.

Looking myself in my own shattered mirror, I could finally see the demon bleeding forth from behind my ill-assembled portrait… I could only play at perfection for so long before all the mismatched pieces fell apart and revealed the vast darkness that mocked me beneath. Like a self-indulgent actor without a true mirror to look into, I enchanted myself with delusions that I was not He and that I was above that which lurked at the bottom of every bottle. And all the while, I was a cheap imitation of him—like a copy-cat-killer imprinting on a serial-killer worshipped by the media. I didn’t need alcohol to justify my crimes, for I had a divine mandate bestowed upon me by my ancestors, which was bestowed upon them by successive emperors, and god-kings before them, and thus the gods themselves. Chinese patriarchy is as insidious a poison as it is insipid as it permeates into every aspect of life in the family. It may not have been such a poison, but it certainly is now. As they say, “Power, absolute, corrupts—absolutely.”

In Chinese culture, there is a powerful emphasis put upon passing on the family name—so much so that female-infanticide was a widespread practice in China. My grandmother used the phrase ‘tuang-tong jeng’ frequently when urging her living descendants to procreate and pray for sons. Also present in Chinese culture is the misguided belief that because all elders are to be afforded respect, it automatically blesses them with the power to always be right—no matter the circumstances. It can be seen in dazzling display with successive Chinese-emperors slaughtering countless people over the millennia, simply for disagreeing or embarrassing the father-of-the-nation with reality and truth. Is it not why the satirical fable of the Emperor and his “new clothes” exists? An emperor that is willfully-blind is one that is indulgent and willfully-negligent—and those that could not see beyond their own gilded mirrors, often led to the starvation of the masses they were given dominion over, and ultimately, their dynasty’s demise. Once they lost their divine mandate, another emperor would rise and a spoiled descendant of his would lead it to ruin, in cycles unending.

After help assembling my mirror to match those that see me for who I am, only now am I able to see the apparition hiding behind it. As puppet-master and puppet entwined as one, it is my responsibility to sever those strings that snake around my offending limbs. It is my responsibility to cast off the shadows that shroud me, as it has become me. It has infused into my essence and become its own—my own—demon, separate from His, but no less His satanic-spawn. Only after acknowledging its existence, screaming its name, can I even begin to excise it like the viral cancer it is. The process is never-ending, for if you ever believe you have destroyed it, your complacency will allow it respite to recover and thus spite your own efforts to defeat it in the first place. We must always strive to be better, despite our accomplishments and desires to revel and relish our achievements—for idle hands do the devil’s work. Resting on our laurels is like laying and brooding upon our nest-eggs atop a poisoned heath—our savings and our accolades will rot along with us. We’ll only fester along our heaped up hoard, as a magnificent dragon does upon all its glittering greed. If I’ve gleaned anything over the past two or so years, it’s that our own pride and arrogance will always be our downfall. It understand that it was my own hubris in believing I was less of a terrible person than he was, only to find myself, one day, staring back at Him in the mirror. I saw me, regurgitating exactly what putrid horrors was spat into my own face, at someone else—someone I was told was below me—simply because they were younger or less of a person than I was. And that is how He still sees me: lowly, basal, lost, stupid, barbaric, “sub-human”—and worst of all—a child. And one that is unbridled, feral, and wild—but worst of all, “uncontrollable”. And, also, wholly unimpressed with the infallibility of the patriarchal parental dictatorship to which begs rebellion and resistance.

I will no longer scrape my head at His feet simply because he decided he would do the “holy” duty of acceding to his mother’s wishes of him to marry a woman he didn’t know, and would never love, and bear for him a son he could present to his parents—just because he is my father and my elder. He is as flawed as we all are and I will not grovel at His feet simply because he thinks he is my superior simply because he is my father and my elder. Respect is earned—not demanded—and throughout the years, my respect for him corroded away until there was no flesh left to burn off. Similarly, I have but few happy memories of Him, as the visceral emotional abuse and on-going threats of physical abuse incinerated the vast majority of them as Vesuvius did the people of Pompeii, or the atomic bomb did to the people of Nagasaki. Neither annihilating disaster completely removed the people from existence, as there remained ashy shells or radioactive shadows in their wakes—such are my happy-memories left, as obtuse imprints in the eroding beach-sands: as vague stories of ‘Snow Black and the Seven Dwarves’, as ephemeral visions of rehabilitating young birds blown to the ground by torrential storms, and as echoes of lessons on why not to step on ants. Stronger and clearer are the memories of being slapped for protesting against a particular untested brand of pizza or being chased with a large wooden stick purchased from Home Depot for refusing a hair-cut from Him. Another, particularly, peculiar poison of His was his inherited creed of beating his own child if that child was bullied to tears (or into action)—a shadow he internalised from his own father when being bullied by neighbourhood Vietnamese kids for being Chinese, back in Vietnam.

Growing up as a child in a house-of-cards propped up by two maternal hopes for their fifth-born children was a bittersweet hell, as many are—sweet enough for hope to grow but not enough to survive under the withering harsh bitterness. Perhaps it’s more of a purgatory: not horrible enough to cause one to kill oneself, but just enough to wish so. Those two grandmothers were my oases of love and care in an arid dusty desert of moonless, endless, nights. They were my guiding stars, above all the rabid fighting and gnashing teeth of childish gore-cloaked-hyaenas that called themselves my parents. My grandmothers were the life-sustaining waters, and my parents were the malarial insects that abated my existence. When my brother attempted to kill himself, I came to find out—of course, through another one of their petty and accusative arguments—that neither of them ever dreamed of having children and raising them. Why? Because they were still children, themselves—they were mostly raised by their elder siblings as their immigrant parents worked to carve a life in an increasingly hostile environment. That environment they grew up in abruptly changed as conditions in Vietnam deteriorated and they it was decided that they all needed to flee through hell and high-water (and marauding pirates). The Peter-Pan-like situation became even more so during His teen and young-adult years; formed here, in Canada, under his elder brother and without parents or grandparents to guide these “Lost Boys” fell into a world of alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, and guns that their new peers immersed them in. His elder brother went from a sixteen-year old running a small textiles business that employed workers in Vietnam to an alcoholic who would gamble his way into a depression in Canada. He would go from an inquisitive child making toys out of trash and sticks and swimming in monsoon-flooded roads to a teen drinking himself into a stupor and smoking until his adult teeth would become grey and lined with tar. Children raising children does not yield the positive results, and least of all depressed children raising children—this is true of my parents, and of myself. I had no business being in-charge of my baby brother—absolutely zero—especially with the foul fecal froth spilling from their mouths, to mine, as it then spilled down to my younger brother as I abused him emotionally, verbally and physically as my parents did to me. As explained in the paragraphs above, it did not occur to me until later what I was doing was wrong—it was just what I’ve known and what I felt.

I started to notice how my cousins, aunts, and uncles would look at me as I terrorised my brother over his mistakes—or my perception of his mistakes and improprieties. My logical reasoning at the time was that, “I’m not allowed to do that; why is he?” They always looked startled—or, “unsettled,” maybe is a better word—at my outbursts and threats. I remember once, in a restaurant—where I sat next to him while we were seated amongst our cousins and the adults were sat across from us—where he refused to eat a certain food and I became unreasonably enraged at him and I threatened to cut the head off of the stuffed toy (acquired from Midway arcade in Niagara Falls) if he did not eat it. I had stunned everyone and their hearts broke for my brother, just a young child being terrorised by a teen sibling. Breaking this cycle of abuse was tough—especially while still being abused, yourself. After, breaking free from physical (less so, emotional and verbal) abuse, all the injustice and indignity and rage continued spilling on to the easiest and most vulnerable target, who—under patriarchal rules—would lack arbitrary familial immunity from my wrath and cruelty. Where I could verbally, emotionally, and physically abuse him for whatever I wished, I could only cry, whimper, cower, and hide. However, I did exact vengeance upon them by hiding or damaging the belongings of my parents in protest of their mistreatment of me. There was one instance when I was about six or seven and I fled out of the back of the house after having been shouted out of the tear-stained washroom I had locked myself into on the top floor of the house. On my way passed the car, after deciding that I would run away from home, my eyes burned with salted indignation and so I picked up a stone from the gravel bed and scraped profanities onto the car’s paint and transferred my raw emotions into words. I dropped the stone and continued past the garage and through the laneway until I reached the side-walk, still crying. I stood there, thinking, and came to a realisation that I could not go any further—for if I did, I would be kidnapped and killed by a stranger. So, I walked down to the corner and right back to the front of the house and down the alleyway back to the backyard and back into the house where my parents were still searching—His wooden stick still in-hand—without a clue that I had tried to run away (or that I had keyed words of profanity on to the car with a pebble).

In 2017, when Grandma first became weak after years of mismanaging her own hypertension-medication, I became involved in her healthcare in the balmy month of July. Before then, I didn’t even know she had hypertension and thought she took medication just because it was something a person did when they got as old as she did. After accompanying grandma and Him to both the hospital and her nephrologist, I began researching Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD). I learned about how the kidney can be damaged by high blood-pressure and looked into the medication she was taking, going so far as to see which medications could be contra-indicated. I advised Him that grandma’s medication (since she became inconsolable and beyond fearful for her life and no longer was able to manage them herself and became paranoid that we (including the doctors) were trying to poison her and began refusing to take them for a while) should be split into two as then the hypertensive-medications were be better able to manage her blood-pressure through the day instead of causing a sharp drop for the day while allowing it to rise again in the evening--one of her medications for hypertension-management was even specifically designed to be taken at night which is when blood-pressure is supposed to naturally drop. He likes to take credit for this. He also likes to take credit for what he didn’t even believe for a long time—her weakness that started in the first place. When her health was declining in April of 2017, after her nephrologist cut her off from the round of erythropoietin he had initially put her on in the winter prior, He did not believe that it was her health, but her age. I would become increasingly frantic in asserting that this was the reason as the months dragged on and by July, she could barely get out of bed because of how anemic she was. I, unlike He, had done research into what “erythropoietin” was and why she needed to take those shots. I was upset at her nephrologist for cutting her off from those shots because he thought her red-blood-cell count was too high (after a blood-test in March/April) and he’d see her back in three months (this was the cadence of her visits to him: every three months, so approximately four times a year). Again, by July, she was so weak that He took her to the hospital twice in the latter half of that month and once in August where I accompanied them after ending my seasonal job a few days prior. I urged him again that it was the lack of erythropoietin shots and resulting anemia that made her so weak—but he again asserted that it was because she was old. Thankfully, the nephrologist prescribed another round of erythropoietin shots (one shot, every other week, for three months—so six syringes in total). However, the ordeal and fear of death had warped her mind—the nurse at the nephrologist’s office told us that because her GFR was so low, she would likely need dialysis but that dialysis for people aged eighty and up were too at risk of developing a central-line infection—and surgery for a kidney transplant would provide an ever higher risk of mortality. She also told us that she most likely only had two-years left to live—guess what? It’s been over two-years now. I guess it’s the same for when Push got the morbid news that she only had three months left to live and lived another three years. Anyway, I digress. After horrifying and terribly painful months of trying to sleep with an insomniac grandmother in the next room having an end-life crisis, chanting all through the night of her tragic ending, and trying to manage her anxiety, panic, and paranoia in the day-time after both He and mom went to work, and brother went to school, she snapped and her dementia advanced by leagues. In the years prior, I started to notice she became much less brave and much more reserved and careful—in addition to misplacing her watch and other things that told a story of short-term memory loss. She became a lot less aware of her surroundings where, before—as a mischievous little child—I would stand behind the wall at the base of the stairs and try to surprise her but just get a sweet old smirk and an adorable elderly quip as she walked by her silly grandson. However, ever since reaching ninety, just walking to her room and asking what she was watching would startle her half to death (and our floors are obscenely creaky)—she became a lot less aware of her surroundings and where things (or people were). Around this time, she also started to hear ringing in her ears when there was only dead-silence. After she became increasingly unhinged and violent, there became a need to hospitalise her—not for her weakness or anemia, this time, but for her aggression. She probably had not slept for over a month, by this point, and this was most likely the source of said aggression, paranoia, and anxiety. On the car ride there, she was openly hostile to Him while he was driving and my attempts to stop her so as to avoid having a car-accident turned her aggression towards me. When finally passing triage and reaching the waiting area of the emergency department, Grandma continued her violence, painfully hitting Him and I with her gold-and-jade-laden rings. When a room finally opened up, she refused to go and wanted to go back home (even after days and days and days of wanting to be taken to the hospital) and when we tried to gently push her towards the room, she suddenly turned around, and as it with the power of all the elephant matriarchs of the world pushed me and Him out of the room and began assaulting us before the nurses quickly called for orderlies and security to bring her down and tie her arms and legs to the hospital-bed in the room. Because of what had just transpired, she was upgraded to the sub-accute emergency section with a room closer (and facing) the nurses-station. She was sedated with haloperidol through injection because she refused to take an oral dose but during the process Him, I, a nurse, and two security guards needed to hold her down and she still was almost able to bite the nurse (and myself). After that, we were put into contact with the Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) to discuss placing her in an assisted-living facility and both 4th Uncle and He were seriously considering it and passed on the responsibility of coordinating with LHIN to me due to my higher education and superior command of English. They also put in a referral for us to the hospital’s geriatrics department and scheduled us to see a Dr. Cheng at a later date after the attending physician provided a temporary round of anxiolytics (lorazepam). When taking the lorazepam, she was much more docile and also able to sleep and it felt like we got her back from the throes of insanity—that is, until we had to take increasing doses and it became unfeasible to continue. Her violent tirades returned, along with her insomnia and we went to see the geriatrician. He proved to be—not just incompetent, but—wildly careless and inadequate; his bed-side manner was shockingly crass and crude. He never really listened when we came in for the appointment and seemed in a hurry to get us out the door with a new round of pills for her to take: haloperidol, sertraline—you name it, she probably was prescribed it. Some of them were worse than others, like haloperidol which left her a stumbling and drooling mess—taken long enough, left her bid-ridden and Him changing diapers and bed-sheets. Eventually, I decided it was time to stop seeing the geriatrician as I was also so upset with his flippant demeanor when at appointments in his office. He took a little while to convince, as He was afraid of Grandma reverting back to her violent and difficult self even though I was the one home alone with her while everyone else was gone for a majority of the day at work or school. As that was the case, the representatives from LHIN mostly dealt with me when they came by the house whether it was the social-worker on the case or the professionals she would send to the house. The most helpful professional was an occupational therapist who educated me upon dementia and Alzheimer’s as well as providing emotional support and advice on the situation with the geriatrician and his exceedingly terrible medications. Before this, in my ignorance, I was yelling and screaming at Grandma, confused as to how she could go from a completely normal and loving grandmother who I would give up the my own mother for to someone I was afraid of being around. After the occupational therapist left, my relationship with Grandma started slowly shifting back to one of positive interactions and normalcy. He, however, refused to read the educational materials the occupational therapist left to enlighten us on Grandma’s dementia because he refused to believe she had dementia because of how quick and abrupt the change was. He wanted to believe that she was doing this on purpose and after retiring before the Christmas of 2017, would often get into drunken tirades and yell so loud you could hear him throughout the house and even in the backyard. This continued afterwards, as well, and followed the cycles of her decline into bed-riddance (either from the anti-psychotics prescribed by the incompetent geriatrician, or the lack in erythropoietin) and ascent back into insanity and unnatural strength. In another descent in early 2018, after her nephrologist AGAIN decided that her RBC-level was too high and cut her off from erythropoietin for another three months, I again became insistent that He call the nephrologist to prescribe another round of shots. He was stubborn, as always is the case, and believed that her being bed-ridden and defecating in a diaper meant that it was her time—as if you were just born with a pre-determined age at which someone would die at. I was enraged so I took matters into my own hands after getting home from work one day in May and called the nephrologists’ office and angrily berated the secretary, to which she told me that all we had to do was call in after running out and they would send the prescription and shots to the pharmacist and we could pick them up. I sat there after the call, part-relieved that it meant Grandma wouldn’t have to go through another round of panic and part-annoyed that He did not want to do it because of laziness and self-importance (the belief that He is smarter than I, even without doing any research or having any prior knowledge about anything, even though He was always the one who took her to the nephrologist’s and family physician’s appointments). He does the same with plants and ended up condemning our eight-year-old starfruit plant to die in the cold, despite my protest. He always thinks he’s the smartest person, regardless of what experience/knowledge he has or doesn’t have in a particular subject—and I’ve inherited a similar manner of speaking-as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, as if I was 100% sure about what I was saying (which often gets me into trouble).

Depression In every waking day, the demon lurks within your shadow—always just out of the corner of your eye. As that sun sets and the lights go out, that shadow becomes an all-consuming spectre that fills the room as much as it does your mind—it eats that light your try to light inside, unhinging its jaws and swallowing the sun whole like a constrictor after it had crushed all the air from your lungs. A breath-taking darkness sends your heart into a frantic panic, straining and screaming and searching for every last bubble of air in the blood starting to leak from your eyes. Crimson tears streak down, acrid and burning, like streams of fiery lava making their way to the salty sorrowful depths of the oceans. Your head is feverishly throbbing with starvation, suffocating and drowning in itself as it melts from the draconic hell-fires lit under you by the shadowy-figure. You are more palatable to it when scared out of your mind and injuriously maimed by your own hand, so it eats at you night by night, piece-by-piece—it could be days, months, years, or even decades—but it is patient and diabolical. You are to it, like finely aged-wines or cheeses are to a wealthy connoisseur with too much money to know what to do with.

An Unwelcome Stranger Is His child, in his home, being a burden upon him. It doesn’t matter if this person does anything good, because—ultimately—this person is a stranger. A worthless stranger borne of his flesh and blood, that only continues to feast like a fat leech, engorging itself on His blood.

[fantroll-purgatory]

@m0nsterb0yfriend

btw this is meant to be a very evil character, i didnt go into it all here but he is not good

Alternia or Beforus: Alternia!

Name (preferably include how you came up with it and why): 

Mythra (from Mithridates VI of Pontus, he slowly poisoned himself over many years until he became immune to many different types) Acleus (From Asclepius the greek hero and god of medicine)

ill be honest im not too set on the last name so if you have something different i would love that 

Hmmmm. You didn’t go into the kinds of evil he does, but given his Experiments and his attempt to be superior and all that, I think I could justify naming him after  Rottissimo from Repo! The Genetic Opera. So… Rottis sounds like a good idea. 

Mythra Rottis! 

Age: 7 sweeps

Strife Specibus: umm sawkind, he uses a bone saw

Fetch Modus: i was thinking it would be cool if he had a like,, bar code type modus? when he enters an item , the item would get a barcode and would be entered in this book. to get the item back he would have to look thru hundreds of barcodes and scan the right one. 

That’s definitely a way to keep things nice and concealed, no one can know what he’s got in his pocket if he’s just got a billion barcodes. A nice, systematic organizational structure… that is only occasionally very, very, very confusing.

Blood color: Purple

Symbol and meaning: Capriborn - sign of the malignant 

Trolltag: eruditeMedicaster

Erudite - having or showing great knowledge or learning.

Medicaster - a quack doctor 

i was thinking this is maybe too on the nose ? 

Since he’s a braggart, I can see him using erudite to describe himself, but I doubt he’d describe himself as a Quack Doctor. So maybe eruditeAmelioration? Amelioration means progress, improvement, Bettering. It’s fitting for him to describe himself as a Smart Pinnacle Of Advancement. 

Quirk: Talk~ With A Very ~cripted Tone That Put~ HIM Above All Others. 

S turns into ~ and anything that references himself, pronouns or his name will be in all caps and capitalizes every word. 

Haha very megalomaniac, adore it.

Special Abilities (if any): None

Purples have those fun chucklevoodoos to play around with. His could have a more anatomical stint. Maybe some fun experimentation with how people react to imagining that they’ve burped up certain organs? That’s a terrifying prospect, at least.

Lusus: a northern fur seal

Personality:  Mythra only cares about one thing - himself. he lives to improve himself and make him better than everyone else, better than he already believes he is. he spends almost every waking moment working on his next project to improve himself. When talking to anyone he tends to focus on what he needs and then immediately dip out of the convo taking hours or days to get back to whatever they other person needed, if at all. Mythra is obsessed with keeping all his work secret however, only showing the finish product. A true perfectionist thru and thru. As well as a complete coward. Mythra cant stand anyone standing up to him so he just screams over them all before running away. The idea of someone have words with him about his actions terrifies him. He is a very selfish and demanding person, although extremely forthright. 

There is only one person who mythra believes is allowed to hold his attention, his moirail. While yeah he drops anything for them, he complains the entire time. Insulting them nearly every other sentence, its a wonder how they actually talk about anything. any other person must work to talk to him which makes it so only the truly desperate talk to him. 

I do love this a Lot. He’s such a bastard. 

Interests:  Medicinal Sciences, certain kinds of……. “Taxidermy”, mediocre video streaming of him talking or him and his experiments, and he is always in the mood to learn more as long as it fits his rules 

I see he’s got a robot face, so he must have a little bit of a robotics interest. Is he here for biotech implants?

Title: Heir of Rage

I can see why you would come to this conclusion, but I don’t feel like inheritor of rage is something that’s jiving well with your character. It’s a little too surface-level obvious. I’m guessing you want you’re Not going to want this boy to grow for the better and he’ll instead have a title that emphasizes some of his worser traits, which, in my opinion, would be… Thief of Heart. 

He’s got those classic heartplayer signs. The Infatuation with himself, being so focused on his identity that he finds himself sometimes neglecting other people, but to the Extreme. What’s a relationship? He doesn’t know. He’s peak egoist and being a thief would just ramp that up to a million. All the identifiable traits are his. He’s perfect. He’s amazing. Look at him and his resplendent form. Oh no he just stole your soul and ran off with it for nefarious purposes. His inverse, of course, would be Page of Mind, which means he passively exploits intellect and thought, which is also very on-brand for this particular boy.

Land: im uhh,, not sure ?

I don’t know what his quest should be, but I do know what HE should think it should be. A planet of the sick and dying, Mythra should swoop in to save the day, healing the people… And then permanently indebt them to him so that they are forced to grovel at his feet and follow his commands, lest they lose their lives/minds/etc! He is the ultimate and they shall be his puny army against the denizen! 

So perhaps his land could be the Land of Bills and Pestilence. 

Dream Planet: Derse 

This makes our new sign Caprio, the Opaque. 

Design: 

I really didn’t have much redesigning to do here! Some horn edits to make them swoopier, a little heavier over-eye lining on his Organic Eye to make him look more nefarious, some color swaps on the jacket/eye/card to match his blood color, and an edit of the pantline outline to make it more visible. He’s got a solid design all around! 

Thank you for sharing and I hope this helped!

-CD

[splat-dragon]

The Final Death was just part of the circle of life. You were born, you lived, you died. You ‘lived’ in the Land of the Dead for however long you were Remembered, and then you went through the Final Death and whatever came after.  

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please sweethearts, forgive me, Imelda, Coco, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to leave you, I don't want to leave you, not before, not again, never again.'

And Héctor was being forgotten. He had been born, he had lived for twenty one years, he had died. He had been remembered for almost seventy years. Now it was his turn for the Final Death.

Translations:

Primos - Cousins

Tia - Aunt

Cabrón - Dumbass

Charro suit - a style of clothing typically associated with mariachi performers

¡Dios! - God!

¡Basta, basta! - Enough, enough!

¡Por favor, Dios, haz que pare, haz que pare! ¡Duele! - Please, god, make it stop, make it stop! It hurts!

Ayúdame... por favor... que alguien me ayude... - Help me… please… someone help me…

Por favor, no otra vez - Please, not again

Lo siento, lo siento mucho, por favor cariño, perdóname, Imelda, Coco, lo siento mucho, no quería dejarte, no quiero dejarte, no antes, no otra vez, nunca más - I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please sweethearts, forgive me, Imelda, Coco, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to leave you, I don't want to leave you, not before, not again, never again

He felt so heavy. Like he had skin again, meat and muscle to drive him into the ground.

 But no matter how many times he looked at his hands, nothing changed. Still, his yellowed bones stared back at him, cracked and chipped metacarpals and phalanges trembling. Years of over-use in life had worn them down, and death had not been kind to them either.

 So he dropped it back to his chest, running his thumb along the brim of his straw hat. It had been a gift from a primo, one who had succumbed to the Final Death many years ago, and Héctor couldn’t help but to wonder if he would see his tio again.

 No one knew what happened after the Final Death, and so he supposed he would just have to find out himself. Would he just cease to exist? To never get the chance to tell Coco just how sorry he was? That he had tried to come home, truly, he had, and that he never should have left? That he loved her, oh, he loved her, loved her more than he thought was possible? Or would he see her again when she, too, succumbed to the Final Death a long, long, long time from now, as they all did? Grovel at her feet, tell her all the things he had wanted to say when he greeted her at the Department of Family Reunions, although he would never deserve her forgiveness?

He hadn’t been out of his shack in a week, and he knew his primos were worried. It wasn’t unheard of for him to hide away in his shack, but never in the middle of the year—always after Dia de Muertos, after a failed attempt to cross the bridge (“What did you expect, cabrón?!” Chich would always bark), licking his wounds and feeling sorry for himself, planning next year’s attempt.

 Tia Maria had come to his door twice, and he had sent her away both times, claiming to be busy. Chich had come by once, threatening to knock down the door if he wasn’t out by the end of the week.

 Héctor knew, though, he wouldn’t make it to the end of the week.

 He felt so, so heavy, and so, so tired. Moving his thumb to stroke the rim of his hat took all of his strength, and as much as he wanted to change into his charro suit, the one he had taken with him into death, that Imelda had bought him as a wedding gift, he couldn’t fathom getting out of his hammock, much less changing his clothing.

 Just another thing he failed to do. He was good at that, it seemed.

He gasped, curling in on himself as a golden light gleamed across his calavera markings, a sharp pain shooting through his stomach. Almost ninety years later, and he could never forget that pain. ‘¡Dios!’

 His legs kicked futily against the scratchy fabric of his hammock, trying to stop the pain, until finally it faded with the golden light, leaving him to slump down, gasping, hands limp on his hat. ‘She’s… forgetting me…’ If he could have, he would have been crying, but all he could do was wheeze a dry sob, a sound that rattled in his rib-cage, and let his head loll forward. Oh, his poor, poor Coco. He had never been able to see her after his death, never been able to see her grow from a tiny little toddler into child, into a grown woman, into an old lady. Had never been able to see her get married, never been able to teach her to play guitar as he had always dreamed of doing (“No, Héctor, not until she’s five!”), had never been able to visit every Dia de Muertos and watch his grand children and, later, great- and great-great- grandchildren grow up.

 And now, apparently, had never been there to see her mind slip away.

 It was the only way she could forget him, he knew. Or, at least, hoped, which he knew was horribly selfish—he’d seen Imelda’s great-abuelita s mind go, and it had been painful to watch. Something he would never wish on his daughter. But she had clung onto his memory for so long… why would she forget him now? And so gradually?

  ‘My poor, poor Coco.’

Another pain shot through his stomach, his markings flashing a gold that, under any other circumstances, would have been beautiful. He curled in on himself, barely, shoulders twitching and gasping, ‘¡Basta, basta!’

 He was never going to be able to apologize to Imelda, was he? To be able to get her to not chase him away with her shoe, to listen to him, if only for a moment. To tell her that he had tried to come home, he had tried, that he was on his way to the train station when he’d died. To tell her that he’d never forgiven himself for leaving her to raise their daughter alone, with only her brothers to help her, teenaged at the time, leaving her to have to work herself to death to make ends meet. To tell her that he should never have listened to Ernesto, that he never should have left, that he was so, so sorry, that he should never have taken the time to drink that shot, so he would have made it to the train station before he died, so they could have had the money that he’d stashed in his jacket, all of his earnings that he hadn’t yet sent her.

 Never going to be able to meet his son-in-law whose name he didn’t even know, to thank him for taking care of his Coco where he failed, never going to be able to thank Philipe and Oscar for stepping in, as young as they’d been, and helping Imelda start and work the business until their own deaths, even though they had to put aside their own dreams, for raising Coco when he couldn’t.

 Never going to do any of the things he wanted to do.

 Part of him wished that he would fade into oblivion, that he would dissolve into the Final Death and know no more. No longer have to regret, to hurt, to miss them. And he knew that, if there was something after the Final Death, he would hate himself forever for thinking so.

Agony burned through him, more painful than before, more painful even than when he had died. He curled in on himself, weakly grasping at the stomach that wasn’t there, distals scratching against his spine in a desperate attempt to stop the pain, ‘¡Por favor, Dios, haz que pare, haz que pare! ¡Duele!’

 Héctor toppled onto his side, his bones slipping apart, struggling to keep together. He panted for breath he didn’t need, calavera carvings flashing with each wave of pain. 

 When the pain stopped, he couldn’t move.

 His hat had fallen to the floor in his fit, and his hands were clenched loosely on the hammock below his rib-cage. His ribs heaved, and his gasps rattled horribly, bones clattering against each other. ‘Ayúdame... por favor... que alguien me ayude...’

 But he knew there was nothing that could be done. The Final Death was just part of the circle of life. You were born, you lived, you died. You ‘lived’ in the Land of the Dead for however long you were Remembered, and then you went through the Final Death and whatever came after.

 And Héctor was being forgotten. He had been born, he had lived for twenty one years, he had died. He had been remembered for almost seventy years. Now it was his turn for the Final Death.

 He just… wished it was faster.

 It really hurt.

 A lot.

  ‘Por favor, no otra vez.’

 He didn’t want to feel the pain again, but he’d seen more people than he cared to go through the Final Death, and they always suffered as they faded away. Suffered in how they had died, clutching at their death-pains as they faded, only those who had died peacefully, or in their sleep, of old age or of natural causes fading away with little pain.

Pain.

 Pain that took his breath away.

 Pain that left him wordless, thoughtless, that had bile that wasn’t there rising into a throat he didn’t have, he didn’t have the energy even to gag, to gasp, to sob, all he could do was twitch his fingers, wanting to curl in on himself, to convulse, to clutch at his stomach in some feeble attempt to stop the torture. His carvings were glowing, brighter and brighter with each worsening spike of agony.

  ‘Lo siento, lo siento mucho, por favor cariño, perdóname, Imelda, Coco, lo siento mucho, no quería dejarte, no quiero dejarte, no antes, no otra vez, nunca más-’

 Pain.

Pain. 

Pain.