#passages that mention and explore this book

[t4tstarvingdog]

AND THEN

[eldrith]

i literally just thought abt this ajehbsha but like what if the reader was jace's bethrothed that was "killed" by the greens during the dance, but was actually captured and brainwashed her to be an assasin ksjwbsna

think of it somewhat like bucky barnes

safe flight on ur trip!:)

BABE YOUR MIND…. also i haven't seen the marvel movies in ages so im kinda going off what i can recall . and i took this in a bit of a diff direction i hope thats ok but i love this i could write a whole fucking book about this omfg. your mind is beautiful id love to keep it in a jar warnings: mentions of torture, death, assassinations, angst, allusions to smut if you squint, targcest bc its implied you are aegon's sister/of valyrian blood, brief allusion to suicidal thoughts, fluff mostly at the end and is a bit canon divergent. and yes i know this is 3.1k words but it's still a headcanon ok. its just a great concept

you and jacaerys are betrothed when you are young.

despite this, you remain close; shy smiles, kind whispers and youthful awkwardness that blossoms into a strong, devoted friendship. you're to be queen - and he, king. indeed you study for your future duties side by side, with prideful grins - and along the way, you find time for yourselves.

in youth, it is in teaching jacaerys to sew and read tarot, painting, or maybe even showing him the game you used to play with your brothers; it is in him teaching you to wield a sword, studying high valyrian together, him showing you how to climb the castle's ramparts, and inviting you along with he and luke to throw stones at the sea.

as you grow old, it is in jacaerys giving you rides on vermax, dancing with him any chance you can, exploring nature - mountains with caves and tall waterfalls that he pulls you under with feverish kisses, finding ways to sneak to each other's chambers; it is in you kissing his cheek and teasing him when his face grows pink, bringing lucerys along with the two of you when you begin to sneak out of the castle, in sharing too many cups of wine and stumbling to your quarters, in hands weaving through each other's hair.

it is nice.

but then, the war.

things are as okay as they can be for a while- duty is a blessing and a curse for you both. tensions mount. jacaerys feels like everything is falling apart, but he has you; his best friend, his lover, his favorite person in the entirety of the seven kingdoms. you cry with each other, train with each other, sneak off when things become too intense in court. you begin to whisper about a secret wedding, a traditional valyrian one; intimate, quiet.

he just wants to call you his wife, and you just want to call him your husband. but duty has a way of interfering with even the sweetest plans.

the evening jace leaves to treat at winterfell, you clasp a chain round his neck, one you strung your favorite ring through; a keepsake, perhaps. or as he likes to think, a reminder of you during the cold nights in the north.

despite it all, things are okay.

until he loses you.

you are killed with your dragon, defending a crucial line of passage for their men; vhagar and aemond are the last ones to see you as your dragon spirals beyond a hill, wings singed and aflame. you vanish.

jace is overwhelmed with grief.

the news comes just as he's beginning to find himself in a new world - a world without his younger brother - and he, an empty pit of grief and despair, isolates himself from others. consumed by sorrow and rage, his emotions spiral out of control - snapping, yelling, unable to contain his emotions even at council.

his days are marked by a deep mourning that he's unsure will ever be mended. life continues in its droll capacity - the war rages on, and jace becomes more bitter, and more like his great uncle daemon. bloodthirsty, demanding revenge.

and then, you return from the dead.

the day you come back to him is rainy and drowsy. he had foolishly, or in a bout of grief, not noticed the sounds of dragon overhead the caste; a dragon whose screech he had not heard in many moons.

his mother is the one to find him - alone, staring at the hearth in his quarters, eyes filmed with the glossy haze of sorrow.

rhaenyra's face is ghostly, sickly - and he grows immediately concerned as he sees her expression, rising to grasp her arms. "mother, are you well?"

he is shocked when he hears her whisper out: "she's alive."

his worry for his mother vanishes, blinded by her words. you. you're...

and despite being ordered to remain, his legs carry him out - to you. his mother's own footfalls follow behind him, her voice begging. he does not listen, even when she warns him - there is something that isn't right.

when he finally finds you he's elated, heart nearly stopping when your eyes meet.

but there's something missing.

when he takes you into his arms, you're cold; barely blinking, you are not who you used to be.

his own tears distort his vision as he cups your face, pressing a kiss to your full lips - and perhaps that is why he does not notice the sullen, empty look on your face. but he feels it in the way your lips do not kiss back.

jace tries to ignore it, at first.

as you are nursed back to physical health, you avoid telling the court of the truth. all that is revealed is the harrowing tale of your mangled body, put back together by the maester in the red keep; your mutilated dragon, whose health was dangled over your head by your own brother, the one whose head bears a crown that is not his.

you do not speak of your time, but the nightmares you wake from, screaming your throat raw, speak for themselves.

you heal.

you begin to show some signs of humanity after the initial shock subsides; and when you begin to seek his touch, he is glad for that semblance of what you used to have.

but it isn't the same.

you flinch at the slightest movements; your face, once expressive and joyful, is rarely lax of the straight, icy stare you send mostly towards walls. he knows he must be patient; you've endured something he could not imagine - but he cannot help his unease.

you do not speak as you used to - lapse in memory, seemingly unfamiliar with jacaerys; as if you did not grow up together, running down halls, whispering secrets, notching each other’s heights in the frame of your chamber’s threshold.

he can't help when he begins to turn away from your lips, avoiding the mechanical feeling of your mouth upon his, the coldness of your eyes when you attempt to unlace his tunic.

he feels as though it is a different person that tries to kiss him each time. he grows incredibly lonely.

in time, he is suspicious of you. you're... different. during conversations, you forget important details, you cannot recall milestones or memories you used to cherish.

the way your palm fits oddly into his, the way you no longer brush his hair back when it falls into his eyes. you call him jacaerys, or your grace - that, indeed, is the first seed planted in the suspicion of his mind. always jacaerys, never jace - and when he asks you what you do with all the time you spend alone in your chambers, you lock up as if mute.

when performing certain duties around the queen, your eyes would slide to odd objects, or pay close attention to cupbearers and how the queen enjoys her wine.

and he begins tracking your walks when you think you're alone: he discovers you sending ravens with a cloak pulled low over your head, visiting odd alleys in town and disappearing into the lower bowels of peculiar shoppes.

jace goes to daemon, of all people - daemon, first. he knows his stepfather's reputation—ruthless, cunning, and fiercely protective; if anyone can help him discern the truth, it's him. "something is not right," he tells him, worried daemon would somehow turn it into something it's not.

even worse, though, is that daemon is quick to agree. and when jace tells his mother, she confesses her own concern.

"that isn't her," his voice warbled when he tells his mother - lip, trembling, tears tracking down his cheeks as she pulls him into her embrace, her own fear poorly concealed.

when it finally happens, it is a shock to his entire body.

a mere word; murmured, off-hand at a council you happened to be attending - of which you often no longer attended, your trauma and recovery from the kidnapping having sequestered you to your quarters most days.

"Usurper," he'd said.

and then your head had snapped up.

a change in your face - as if no longer human, you’d leapt, ripping out a dagger that had been concealed in your bodice.

and then you'd lunged at him; slicing like a hound rabid for a piece of meat.

he does not remember much besides his reaction: striking you across the cheek and disarming you- kicking hard, your body being thrown to the stone. four swords at your throat. daemon holding you down with a look of disbelief at your heaving frame.

you were relentless, ready to kill - but you are too small, and the rest too many.

a stinging pain, throbbing at his neck as he watches you in shock.

but that was not you - a statue, some sleeping beast that'd been awoken in your tortured brain at the trigger of such a word. it had nearly been worse than when you'd died.

brainwashed, maester gerardys tells them.

it is not until after you have been thrown into the cells below and a bandage sealed around jace's neck.

the blade was one of green and black hilt; intended, likely, for the queen herself - in hopes that she'd have been the first one to utter the word.

likely, maester gerardys says, you were led to believe you'd been abandoned by them, and subsequently tortured for all the time you'd been held at the red keep.

and of course, there was the threat of further maiming your dragon, perhaps, or other similar threats - and physical torture, if the scars on your body are anything to go by; this twists a raw agony in jace's gut and he has to shut his eyes to ward off the thought of you, in pain.

it is a miracle you did not lose your head for nearly slitting the throat of the crown prince; he contests while still lying abed with the open slice of red across his throat, relieved when his mother informs him you are still among the living. she is a merciful queen.

he does not weep until he is alone that night.

breaking the brainwashing is the hardest part.

nights, falling asleep in his brothers or his mother's quarters where your screams of anguish or anger could not be heard - days walking past your heavily guarded chamber to reach his own, swallowing thick as he imagines you on the other side.

isolation is key, he's been told, but it makes it so much worse.

it takes so long that jacaerys nearly forgets what your voice sounds like, how your eyes shine in the sun. he forgets how your smile, beautiful and uneven, makes his heart flip; the taste of your lips, the cadence of your voice.

he even finds himself praying to the seven for the first time since he was just a babe.

slowly, as you begin to heal, you are permitted to see others. he is not allowed, nor is his mother - daemon first, then baela and rhaena with their grandmother. servants and maids.

he begins to hear you again. walking past the chambers which lie near his own, he'd hear your voice, conversing quietly with maester gerardys. when he dozes off over a strategy tome at his desk, he is jolted awake by your gentle, haunting humming; a tune he used to love.

his mother tells him it is not healthy to keep it in.

but he cannot bring himself to speak of it.

shame, pain, anguish, embarrassment - heartbreak. he has grieved you twice over, seen you become a ghost. he has lost you and lost you again.

herbs, potions, guided discussions and meditations. solitary confinement, exposure to the word - all of this, and you begin to shed the skin of whatever person they had made you into.

he pretends that he does not endure nightmares of that day every time his eyes close - of the glint of your knife, the soulless stare of your eyes. the swelling bruise on your cheek - in the shape of his own fist.

there is a thin scar, a puckered pink line of fresh skin across the apple of his throat the next time he sees you.

it's an accident; he walks past just as a maid leaves your chambers, and he naturally glances over. your eyes meet him, hair wet and fresh from bathing; wide as a sweet doe, pain and regret laced through your gaze. "jace."

his throat is tight when he hears your voice - gentle, laced with remorse. jace, you'd called him. he hides the tears in his eyes when he continues briskly past your chambers. he thinks about you ceaselessly the rest of the day.

he's told you do not sleep. you eat only when it becomes impossible not to, you cannot make meaningful eye contact nor hold steady conversations without breaking down in guilt. it eats away at him.

but as you begin to show signs of improvement, jacaerys is finally allowed to visit.

they're brief, supervised; he brings paintings, books, and anything they believe could help stimulate your memory of life before your change. he tries to ignore the sting of pain when you barely meet his gaze, voice stuttering, hands shaking.

you’re still not you; flickering eyes, quiet voice. but soon, after moons of quiet conversation, stunted by the armored guards standing between you and observing your every move, it changes.

little by little, he sees glimpses of you again. you laugh like you used to. you recount stories of your shared youth - with a grin, you remember the day he'd fallen from an apple tree trying to pick you a fruit, and you'd had to snap his arm into correct place.

you brush flecks of dust and lint from his shoulder with shy looks, you share the books you’ve been reading; one day, you ask him to braid your hair - a task you'd taught him in youth. you fall asleep when he's halfway through.

and yes, there are bad days - days where your grief and guilt eat your stomach and you refuse to even look him in the eye; when you sob into your hands and curl yourself on the chaise longue and jace is stuck, heartbroken, watching you push him away.

you do not forgive yourself, you will not let him forgive you - but you soon let him hold you, and you soon begin to hold him back with a desperate grip.

it takes a while for jace to accept help.

but soon, he undergoes his own healing process; he knows he must reconcile the grief of losing you with the joy of having you back, albeit changed.

eventually, he speaks openly with you about the death of lucerys and about your own assumed death as well. you stroke his hair when he cries into your chest, you kiss his nose and cheeks to rid the tracks of tears.

during quieter moments, you find solace in each other's presence. you walk together in the gardens, hand in hand, your steps in sync as you talk about the future; you sit by the hearth in the evenings, your heads close as you share whispered conversations and stolen glances.

you broach the subject one stormy day, your beautiful hair loose and whipping around your head.

he watches your mind churn behind those eyes, the ones that have regained their expressive nature - the eyes he's loved since before he knew such a word.

"i would have killed you." it's a whisper into the wind. "and yet, you saved my life."

your voice is not grateful - to his horror, it is pained - as if you believe such repentance could only be achieved through greeting the stranger.

he shakes his head, "it was not you who did it." but you've heard it countless times, and you still find it hard to accept - guilt swims in your beautiful eyes.

"i love you." he whispers it.

tears drop from your eyes as you look at him. "why?"

eventually, the fog clears fully.

you remember the details of your manipulation, the torture, the indoctrinating, the conditioning. you confess it all to queen rhaenyra and the dragonstone court - voice shaking and body bent with shame, you apologize for your weakness. jace has to look away when you begin to cry, when you beg for forgiveness, for another chance.

it is given without hesitance.

one evening, you sit by the fire with him.

something upon him catches your eye; with a tentative reach, your fingers brush his chest. jace looks down, breath catching as he realizes what you've found; gently, you pull the necklace from his tunic - a ring upon it, untarnished. your smile is sad, sorrowful - "you kept it," you whisper.

he can only nod, eyes never leaving yours. "i never took it off."

it is that night you tell him about a dream you had; you were both young again, carefree and in love. his eyes glisten with unshed tears just as yours do, and he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "we'll get there," he promises, his voice unwavering. you both believe it.

you come back to him in ways he doesn't expect.

longing glances, eyes holding on his lips when he speaks to you - short teases that release your sharp tongue and quick wit. you are given some old duties back. kept to the castle, you mostly held draw efforts from within, but he can see the fire in your eyes return as the guilt subsides.

when the word usurper is accidentally used in conversation, eyes still flicker to you. there will remain wariness - conscious or not - for the rest of your days. but you prove yourself loyal and trustworthy, and you soon begin to forgive yourself.

nights you spend in jace's arms, fingers brushing against the scar you'd given him. tears are replaced with soft kisses upon lips, and eventually upon flushed, sweat-laced skin.

he is terrified each time you ride into battle - even when he and vermax are alongside you.

perhaps it is a weakness - to worry so, during a war; he cannot help it. but to his relief, you always come out unscathed, as does he - and you always slide off the wing of your dragon and pull him to you, murmuring into his neck, soothing over his back with your palm once you return.

you love him, and you tell him as much any chance you get. you begin to stop wincing when he tells you he loves you, too.

you still wake sometimes with a hoarse throat, but now you are soothed back to sleep when jace, bleary eyed and heart pounding, crawls into your bed alongside you. your cries turn into soft puffs of breath as he braids your hair until you fall asleep.

you still sometimes flinch when someone raises a hand, jace sometimes watches with wariness when he sees you wielding a knife.

but eventually the war ends.

you and jace marry.

a traditional, valyrian one; dragonglass sliced into lips, palms. a kiss that tastes of metal, of loyalty, of love. you whisper the words to each other, no echo of ghosts nor fear in your minds.

one flesh, one heart, one soul. now and forever.

you become prince and princess of dragonstone, first in line for the succession to the iron throne.

you show to be just rulers; fair and kind, strong willed and bright. ceaselessly, fiercely in love.

your firstborn son is named lucerys.

he has jace's eyes and your hair. you sing him the song jace remembers you humming those days after you came back to them - and when the queen visits to give her congratulations and to meet her grandbabe, the heir to the heir, she calls you daughter.

the scar upon his neck fades away, until you can scarcely trace it with your finger as he pulls you to him in the late hours of eve, wrapped in furs and the soft flicker of candlelight.

you do not hear the word usurper again.

requests open, or talk to me <3 taglist/mutuals; @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @softspiderling @dipperscavern

[readychilledwine]

Hi Liz! I have been following you for a while now and I absolutely adore everything you write. You are incredibly talented and deserve all praise for it ❤️

I have never actually requested a story from any author simply because I will devour almost any content by fanfic authors and truthfully it makes me feel a little greedy and I never want anyone to feel forced to write anything. However, I have had this idea since I read one of your stories and I feel like no one else would be able to do it justice like you would.

Essentially, the reader is the youngest Archeron sister and is mated to Azriel (mating bond has been accepted and they have been together for a couple of months now) but she is inexperienced (her first time was with Azriel) and Nesta has been giving her some of her hard core smutty books and now the reader wants to explore some kinks with Azriel (somnophilia, cock warming, wing play, bondage) but she’s embarrassed to bring up the conversation with him. Anyway, she eventually has that conversation with Azriel (he’s all too happy about it because no one can tell me this male doesn’t have a corruption kink) and smut ensues.

First of all, thank you for the endless compliments 💜💜 I'm so excited you're here and have welcomed me into your world for entertainment purposes.

Second of all, I could NEVER deny an Azriel corruption kink fic.

Breathe

Summary - A year of sexual exploration hasn't even began to touch the things Azriel would like to do to you.

Warnings - throat fucking, breath play, references to knife play, auralism, jealous Rhys and cassian at the end, mentions of other explored kinks and sexual senerios

Azriel pushed his fingers further unto your throat, his shadows forcing your hair back as he held your book in his free hand.

“I've been wondering why you've been sending me wave after wave of arousal all day,” he rose a brow a passage involving the male character using a knife to pleasure the female main. “Is this what my pretty little mate reads when I'm away? Her big sister's smut novels?”

He watched as you gagged, drool and spit coming to the corner of your mouth as you struggled to breathe and looked up at him doe eyed. “Want me to fuck you with Truth Teller, mate? Does the thought of coming on a deadly weapon soak your little lace panties?” He chuckled darkly. Mocking your inability to answer. 

“You're trained better than this, slut. You know to answer me when I ask you a question.” You whined around his fingers. You  could feel the tension in his body, feel his need for stress relief. 

The two of you had just began exploring physically together. The bond finally snapped after your 20th birthday. After the Mortal queen and the deathless God had been dealt with. After Elain finally let her claws out of him long enough for him to notice you. To feel you.

He had not pushed sex, knowing from Nesta you were the only one of the 4 of you to hold onto that seemingly special thing so tightly. It had taken a year for you to spread those pretty thighs and let him take you, but after that, you fucked like rabbits. Trying every dirty thing and kink your mind wanted to explore.

Azriel had allowed you to dominate him, whining as you rode his cock and denied him orgasm after orgasm, fingers dancing his scarred wings.

He had tied you from the ceiling his dungeon, harnessed up like a swing and fucked you to sweet oblivion.

He had taken every tight hole, came anywhere he could. Marked you in his scent and musk more times than you two could count.

But you were still his sweet innocent girl. 

His little untouched angel exploring your sexuality and urges like an animal in heat sometimes. Your recent needs were punishment. You liked him hurting you, dominating you, watching as you cried. You liked breath play lately, hence his fingers sinking deeper as you struggled, black beginning to form in your eyes until he took those fingers out and slapped you.

“Need you to suck my cock, princess,” he began unlacing his leathers, mind lost in the pleasure your mouth would bring him. “Open. Now.”

You obeyed, throat relaxing and mouth opening as his cock sprung free. Hard leaking and angry from weeks away from you. He pushed in without hesitation, setting a gentle pace as he tightened his grip in your hair.

“She couldn't breathe,” his deep voice began reading from the book, making you whine around his cock as he pushed it down your throat ensuring you couldn't either. “The feeling of the cold hilt in her warm walls causing her to feel wave after wave of shock and pleasure.”

He looked down at you, smirking at the sight of your flushed cheeks, at you swallowing around him as spit pooled the corners of your mouth. His eyes went back to the book. “There was something about the danger, the thrill of this deadly weapon being used to push her to the edge that had her crying out, begging and pleading for more and more as she met every thrust with her hips. Fucking herself harder and harder on her mate's weapon.”

You were aching, dripping for him, and tapped his thigh for a quick breath, watching as he pulled out and looked down at you unimpressed. You panted a few gulps of air before taking him back in your mouth and bobbing your head, hallowing your cheeks and licking each vein on his shift. 

Azriel groaned loudly above you, setting the book down before his now free hand joined the other one tangled in your now messy hair. He began fucking your throat harshly. Barely allowing you moments of air as he chased his much needed high. 

You could do nothing but hold on for life when he did this. When he lost control for you. He pushed all the way in, gagging you again and held you there, nose pressed against his skin. “Breathe,” he commanded in a moan. “Being such a good girl, y/n.” 

Throat fucking as new to you. An unexplored territory you hadn't even considered until he had asked gently. You knew it was more for him than for you, but right now you felt this sense of power as he moaned above you, wings shuttering as his body shivered. 

That power reached a deep set need in your bones, allowing you to relax and enjoy this more with a small moan. “There we go, angel,” he whispered. “Just like that for me. I'm so proud of you.” He began thrusting again, allowing you to hear his pleasure, allowing you to feel that power you had over him. “Keep breathing, baby,” his voice was almost a whimper. “Just keep breathing, I'm right there, y/n. Please honey.”

Him begging had you moaning against him, relaxing your throat further as your watched his breathing pick up, his plump lips part, his eyes scrunch. 

Without warning he pushed all the way in, spilling down your throat, as a roar tore through his own. He pulled back slightly, releasing the last of his cum onto your stuck out tongue with a satisfied smile. 

He kneeled down to you, shadows bringing him a notebook and pen and he wiped the small bits that hit your face off with his thumb before forcing you to suck that digit. 

He flipped through the notebook, a page dedicated to each sexual act and kink you two had explored with a rating and comments from both of you before landing on the page he needed and the adjoining blank one. 

“1 through 5?” He asked you gently, removing his thumb and kissing your forehead. 

“3.5,” you admitted with guilt. “I only enjoyed it because you do, and it made me feel slightly in control.”

He nodded, writing your response as you two both moved to sit cross-legged from each other on the floor. “Do not feel guilty. I am just happy it ranked high enough to be in the rotation. How about the reading to you thing?”

“4 out of 5. I enjoyed it a lot when you were doing that.” Azriel jotted it down.

“And what the fuck is going on in this novel? Do you want to try knife play?”

“Only with you,” you answered. 

Azriel leaned forward, kissing you gently. “It's one of my favorites. I've done it with a couple play partners. I can answer any questions you have.”

The two of you sat there, filling in a few more pages of the book you had started to keep during the beginning of your exploration a year ago, smiling at the things you've already done, going on your list of retries. 

Love was free flowing down the bond, soaking the room and fabric in it's scent, filling the Riverhouse with its presence with every passing moment. 

Rhys and Cassian sighed from downstairs, tapping their feet on the wooden floors as they waited for Azriel to come give them his mission report. 

“This happens every fucking time,” Cassian sat down on the couch. “Is it us? Is fatherhood killing our sex drive?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don't know what's killing your sex drive, brother. Mine is fine. Hince 3 little ones. If you could figure out what's keeping theirs so... passionate, though, I'd appreciate it.” 

[greeeenhand]

Okay wait I'm still not done talking about House of Leaves yet.

So, as I mentioned before this book has layers upon layers. Effectively, you are reading about Will Navidson recording his exploration of the house. Those recordings are analyzed and discussed by Zampano, who writes them down and then dies. Then Johnny, our "protagonist", adds his own annotations and anecdotes, which is all codified together and clarified by "the editors".

This book is basically the summary of three different people, Navidson, Zampano, and Johnny in various stages of a descent into madness and obsession.

But because the Whalestoe Letters and a collection of poetry are also included along with the Navidson record, you're left to piece together the bigger picture yourself. The book silently tells you to take notes, highlight important passages, jot down specific pages. To pour over every nook and cranny to unlock the meaning behind it all.

The book invites you to become the next step in this chain of insanity. You become another layer of this book as you try to decipher it. Maybe you write your notes directly on the pages, and by doing so, you invite the next sorry soul to pick it up to join the chain.

And I find that fascinating. THIS is how you do a cursed book. This is how you make the words on the page a character in their own right.

This isn't a story about a haunted house. The story is the haunted house.

[prythianpages]

The House of Veilwood | Eris

eris x chaos witch reader | summary: Veilwood was once a small village but when tragedy struck, only one house was left standing. A creepy, old wooden cabin that became the center of many stories and rumored to house an evil being. A story meant to scare children and keep them from wandering in the forest alone. A story both you and Eris grew up hearing that may hold more truth than both of you expected.

word count: 5.5K

warnings: mentions of scary creature

a/n: I've created some lore for chaos witch, more than I thought I would honestly. So consider this like an optional prologue. I originally wrote this only in your pov but decided it'd be fun to also include Eris and young Lucien in this! It also kind of fits Day 4 of @erisweekofficial with tradition as Eris passes the tale of the house of Veilwood to Lucien like his mother did to him and one of his hounds also makes an appearance.

Eris's POV

A scowl tugged at Eris’s lips, one that his younger brother often teased would become permanent.  One that was because of said brother—the small but mighty thorn in his side, always dragging him into some new, unwanted mischief. Today’s trouble was no different, forcing Eris to leave the warmth of his study. 

He should be reclining with a book in hand, his loyal hounds at his feet, but instead, he’s spending his afternoon, venturing into the depths of the Autumn forest.

Laika, one of his hounds, trots a few paces ahead, nose to the ground and tail wagging. She didn’t seem to mind the disruption in their routine. Her nose twitches at a scent and she glances back at Eris, eyes bright with excitement. It softens his hard expression for a brief moment.

As she leads him off the main path and toward a hidden trail, a sinking feeling settles into Eris’s stomach.

“Oh, sweet Lucien,” Eris mutters, realizing exactly where his brother was headed. 

Of course, he’d be off to Veilwood—the village that once was. All but one house was destroyed after some sort of disaster, leaving many rumors to rise such as the one that claims that something dark and wicked dwells there. Eris had grown up hearing the tales of a creature–a monster–who had a great appetite for fae who wandered into that part of the forest, particularly the young fae. 

The story had been passed down for generations, told by parents to keep their children from straying too far into the forest alone. Eris could still remember the way his mother would tell it, her voice dropping to a whisper as she described the creature’s shadow slinking through the trees. Always watching, always waiting. It was one of those stories that curled up in the back of his mind, the kind that made you think twice before venturing too far from the familiar paths.

And so, when Lucien had reached the right age, it only felt natural for Eris to pass the story on. It was practically a rite of passage, a tradition meant to instill caution. The tale had worked on Eris when he was young, keeping him close to home until he was old enough and brave enough to explore the deeper parts of the forest with a trusty hound by his side.

But Lucien was not like him. The story, rather than scaring him into staying safe, had sparked something else entirely—curiosity. 

As he trails after his younger brother, Eris can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the simpler times. When Lucien was just a babe, more interested in drooling on Eris's shoulders than running off on reckless adventures. He remembered the days when Lucien would follow him everywhere with wide-eyed innocence, asking endless questions and clinging to him like a shadow. 

Eris had been his protector from the start, always watching over him. Something his father neglected to do and though Eris had his suspicions, he couldn’t help but feel both a sense of pity and envy toward Lucien.

There was that summer by the great Pyr River—Lucien had just turned ten, and Eris had taken Lucien fishing for the first time. It was a small tradition in Autumn, one that Beron had passed down to Eris when he was that age, and seeing as Beron gave little to no attention to Lucien, Eris took it upon himself to teach his younger brother. He showed Lucien how to wait, how to be patient, how to read the river’s current to help him catch a fish with his bare hands. It took many tries, countless mistakes, and no small amount of patience on Eris’s part, but he didn’t mind. It was all worth it to see Lucien’s eyes light up with wonder when he finally caught a fish on his own.

Those were the days when Lucien’s world was smaller, his adventures limited to the safe boundaries of their home and the woods just beyond.

But now, at thirteen, Lucien had grown bolder, his thirst for adventure outpacing Eris’s ability to keep up. Eris missed the days when his little brother’s greatest thrill was sneaking a lizard into their brother’s pudding or sneaking an extra pastry at dinner.

And yet, despite the exasperation, Eris felt that same old protectiveness stirring in his chest. Lucien might have outgrown drooling on his books and following him like a shadow, but to Eris, he would always be the little brother he had sworn to watch over.

With a resigned sigh, Eris quickened his pace.

**

The house of Veilwood looms ahead, its weathered cabin barely standing against the creeping decay of time. Lucien’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight. A cold breeze stirs the air, brushing against his skin and sending a shiver down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck rise, the chill threatening to seep into his bones.

Suddenly, a branch snaps behind him, the sharp crack echoing through the forest. Lucien freezes, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes dart around. Another rustle—a faint, creeping noise—sends his body into a rigid stance.

Before he can react, something barrels into him from behind, knocking him off his feet. Lucien lets out a panicked scream as he hits the leaf-covered ground, his mind racing with thoughts of sharp talons and gnashing teeth. He instinctively threw his arms over his head, bracing for the worst.

But instead of claws, something warm and wet drags across his face.

“Laika?” he gasps, his voice a mixture of relief and disgust. 

Lucien pushes himself into a sitting position, wiping the slobber from his cheek as Laika, Eris’s hound, sat proudly in front of him, tail wagging excitedly. She lets out a bark, as if pleased with herself.

He groans, annoyance flickering across his face as he spots his older brother standing a few feet away. “You followed me??” 

Eris stood with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, amber eyes glinting with amusement. “You made it far too easy. I thought I taught you better than that,” he replies with a smirk, referring to the time he had spent hours teaching Lucien how to hide his tracks and scent. He had hoped Lucien would use those skills for situations beyond hunting but now realizes Lucien still has much to learn.

Lucien’s frown deepens into a glare, but before he can utter a retort, Eris nudges him with the toe of his boot. “Up.”

Laika is the one to spring to her feet, her tail wagging even harder. “Good girl,” Eris murmurs, patting her affectionately before turning back to his brother, who was still sulking on the ground.

With a reluctant sigh, Lucien got up, brushing leaves from his pants. “I’m not a kid anymore,” he grumbles. “I don’t need to be followed like one.”

Eris arches a brow, his gaze softening slightly as he studies his younger brother. “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, Lu. Childhood is fleeting, and once it’s gone, there’s no getting it back. Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to be an adult in the future—and then you can earn the privilege of scaring the next generation with myths of the House of Veilwood.”

Lucien’s shoulders slump, his red hair falling into his face and covering the disappointment that has no doubt settled into his face.  “So it was a myth… all of it?”

“Of course it is,” Eris chuckles. The breeze around them picks up, growing colder, but Eris was too focused on Lucien to notice. “Do you really think Father would let a creature like that roam freely in his court? It’s just an old, abandoned cabin—”

A sudden gust of wind howled through the trees, sending a shiver through both brothers. Lucien, startled, instinctively steps closer to Eris, his hand clutching his brother’s arm. Laika’s growl rumbles low in her throat, her ears perking up.

Eris’s attention snapped to the hound, his amusement evaporating as he follows her gaze. His eyes narrow as he catches sight of something swooping through the trees, its wings spread wide and casting long shadows across the ground.

“It’s the monster!” Lucien cries, pressing himself into Eris’s side, his voice high with fear.

Eris reacts quickly, one hand wrapping protectively around Lucien’s head, while the other summons a bright flame. He tracks the creature as it flies closer, his body tense, ready for a fight—until it lands on a tree branch with a soft hoot.

“It’s just an owl, Lu,” Eris says, tugging gently at Lucien’s hair. The fire in his hand fades away.

Lucien slowly pulls away from his brother, peeking out from behind his arm. His face was still pale, fear lingering in his eyes as he looks up at the creature perched above them.

“Why is it so ugly?” he mutters, his voice small.

Eris huffs out a laugh. “I’m sure it thinks the same of you.”

The owl lets out another low hoot, its round, dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on Lucien. It has him shifting uneasily, feeling the weight of its gaze pressing down on him. He turns away, squeezing Eris's arm tighter. But when his eyes flicker back to the cabin, they widen in shock.

“Someone’s inside!”

Eris follows his brother’s gaze but sees only shadows clinging to the weathered wood and windows. “You’re imagining things, Lu. No one’s lived here for centuries. The whole village is abandoned.”

But Lucien shakes his head vehemently, his hands tightening into fists. “No! I saw it—a pair of red eyes! They were looking right at me from inside the cabin!”

“I think you hit your head when Laika knocked you over,” Eris brushes off, glancing down at the hound, who waited patiently for an order. “Come on, let’s head back home.”

But Lucien stands his ground, his brows furrowed in frustration. “I know what I saw.” 

Eris sighs. 

“Alright, let’s say there is someone inside,” he pauses to cast a glance back at the cabin, amber eyes narrowing. “What do you expect me to do about it? I’m not exactly eager to knock on the door and have to interact with whatever strange being has chosen to live in the middle of nowhere like this.”

Lucien’s hands went to his hips in a posture that so perfectly mimicked their mother that Eris almost groaned aloud. He hated when Lucien did that. It was as if their mother’s spirit inhabited his little brother at that moment.

 “Are you scared?” Lucien asks, one eyebrow arching in challenge.

“No.”

“Then go knock on the door.”

“I’m not knocking on that door.”

Lucien’s eyes gleam with a hint of mischief.  “So you are scared.”

Eris glares down at him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not scared,” he insists, voice edged with irritation. “You know, if you were so brave to come here on your own, why don’t you go knock on the door?”

Lucien crosses his arms over his chest, his red hair fluttering slightly in the wind. He gives Eris a smug look. “You’re the adult here,” the younger Vanserra says and with a casual shrug that was far too cocky for someone his age, he adds: “I’m just a kid.”

Eris let out a slow breath through his nose, trying to keep his composure. He was not going to win this one and he found the grin spreading across Lucien’s face grating. It’s not that he was scared to go knocking on that door. He much rather preferred for them to head home instead of entertaining a silly myth. 

Though he hated to admit it, there was a part of him—the older brother part—that didn’t want to lose face. Lucien’s grin widens, sending his hesitation. “Go on,” he says, waving in an exaggerated manner toward the house.

“Fine.” Eris hisses out. His pride was on the line now and he wasn’t about to let his little brother win this ridiculous game. “I’ll knock on the door.” 

Both Lucien and Laika blink at him in surprise. He motions for his hound to stay put, gaze flickering between her and Lucien. A silent understanding comes between them–protect Lucien. The hound steps closer to Lucien, her nose nudging against him affectionately.

“I’ll see if whoever lives there has any appetite for a particular young fae male with russet colored eyes and messy red hair.” 

“Hey!”

Eris turns to face the cabin. The windows were dark and hollow, staring back at him like empty eyes. He squares his shoulders, every sense on high alert. If Beron were to find out he entertained this idea…he much rather the creature from the tales of the house of Veilwood to be true than for the former to happen...

As he steps forward, the wind howls again and the eerie creak of the wood makes the cabin seem even more sinister. There’s a small moat that surrounds the house, the only way to get to the door being a path of moss covered stones. It’s all like a warning–for him to stay away. 

His heart pounds in his chest, but he takes a deep breath and wills the streaming river beside the house to soothe his nerves. The owl, still perched on a nearby tree, lets out another hoot. “I’m going to knock once,” Eris says over his shoulder. “And then we’re leaving, got it?”

Though Eris can't see him, Lucien nods quickly, the younger's earlier confidence dissolving into nervous energy. Eris reaches the final moss-covered stone, his hand hovering mid-air, poised to knock. 

“Any second thoughts?”

Before Eris can respond, a sharp gust tears through the clearing, rustling the branches above and sweeping through his hair. The old, weathered door gave a sharp creak and slowly began to swing open on its own.

“Too late for that.”

Eris squints into the darkness that seems to defy the daylight. The sun should have illuminated at least part of the interior, but the shadows clung unnaturally to every surface, swallowing any hint of light. He blinks, willing his eyes to adjust.

But there’s nothing to see.

 A flicker of relief settles in his chest. “There’s no one here!” Eris calls over his shoulder to Lucien.

He steps forward, one boot crossing the threshold. The wooden floor groans beneath him. He reaches for the door, hand wrapping around the cold, rusted knob. As he tries to pull it close, the door resists, as though something on the other side is holding it back.

Eris frowns and pulls harder, but the door doesn’t budge. The stubborn resistance unsettles him, and he feels a deeper cold radiating from within the house. He lets go, deciding it wasn't worth the effort, and makes his way back to Lucien and Laika.

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything?”

“There was nothing.” Eris says and then he’s playfully grasping onto Lucien’s head. ‘Now, let’s go home and get this big head of yours checked.”

Lucien pries Eris’s hands off his head and gives his older brother a shove in retaliation. “There’s nothing wrong with my head and it’s not big!”

Laika walks ahead of them, guiding them on the way back home. Lucien continues grumbling, spouting off complaints about how his head is perfectly fine and how their other brother, Reed, was the one whose head needs to get checked.

As they continue to walk away from the infamous house of Veilwood, an odd feeling urges Eris to look back. It was like a pull, a lingering unease, and against his better judgment, he turned his head.

Two glowing red eyes stare back at him from the darkened doorway.

And then he heard it. A voice–low, ancient and laden with darkness.

“Son of Autumn. It is not time to play yet. Our paths will cross in due time.”

Eris tenses and a sudden, sharp shiver runs up his spine. The door to the house slams shut with a heavy finality, locking those glowing eyes within the cursed cabin.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Lucien looks up at him, oblivious to the ominous presence. “Oh, the door slammed shut. Must be the wind, right? It’s been annoying us all day. Can we just winnow home now? My legs hurt...”

Eris doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze still locked on the house. He tears his eyes away after a moment, forcing a chuckle. “Yeah, must be the wind.” 

But the words felt hollow in his mouth and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something far darker than a simple myth lay waiting within that cabin...

Centuries later, your pov

Every night before bed, in lieu of a lullaby, your father would tell you a story. His voice was like a soothing hum, his words drawing you into a world of wonder. And when your eyes fluttered shut, those tales would blossom in your dreams, vivid and alive. There were countless stories you held dear, ones you'd ask to hear over and over again. Yet one, in particular, clung to you most tightly. 

It was not just a story—it lingered in your thoughts, haunting you like a memory half-forgotten.

The tale of the House of Veilwood.

Veilwood was the name of a forest in Autumn, just north of the town where you lived and near the great Pyr river. Long ago, before it became a dark and forsaken place, Veilwood was a small village—a humble stop for travelers passing through the court. No one could say for certain what had befallen it. Some whispered of a great fire, while others spoke of a storm so violent it swept the village clean. Whatever the disaster, it left only ruin in its wake.

Well, everything except one house.

The house remained standing, untouched by whatever tragedy had claimed the rest of the village. It had since gained a reputation as a cursed place, where something wicked lingered within its walls. Few dared to enter Veilwood, and as per your father, even fewer returned unchanged. Fear of the forest ran deep with travelers taking longer, safer paths to avoid the looming shadows that stirred within its depths.

According to your father, the heart of Veilwood harbored a creature—a massive and owl-like being with claws sharp enough to slice through flesh, and eyes like polished obsidian. In the story your father would tell you, the creature would glide effortlessly through the night sky and along the riverbank, searching for its next victim to snatch in its talons. It would lure its prey with its terrifying cry, tricking their victims by the volume of its screams. If its cries sounded distant, it meant danger was very near, contrary to what one would believe.

The creature wasn’t what haunted your mind. Rather, it was the house. You dreamt of it often. It appeared as a lonely cabin, tucked away in the tangled embrace of Autumn’s ancient woods. Though shrouded in mystery and menace, the house never frightened you. Instead, it pulled at your curiosity, inviting you to open its door. But in your dreams, there was no sign of the owl-like creature your father had described in such chilling detail. 

Only two glowing, fae-like red eyes would greet you from the shadows—and then you would wake.

As you grew older, the realization dawned that your father had mingled truth with lies to keep you from wandering into the forest. The woods of Autumn were no place for a child, after all, and though your curiosity had often led you astray, this was one warning from your father you had always heeded.

Until now.

Your breath hitches as you come to a halt, eyes widening in quiet disbelief. The house of Veilwood stands before you, exactly as it had in your dreams. 

The towering trees loom overhead, their gnarled branches twisted and tangled. Moss drapes from them like tattered curtains, swaying eerily in the breeze. The cabin is small and crooked, its steep, warped roof blending with the thick canopy of twisted trees. The weathered wood of its walls, nearly swallowed by creeping vines and patches of moss, makes it seem as if the forest itself is trying to reclaim it.

Dim, flickering lights glow from within, casting faint golden reflections on the surface of the murky swamp that surrounds the cabin like a moat. The water feeds into the streaming river nearby and laps softly against the moss-covered stones that form a crude path to the entrance. With a deep breath, you step onto the first stone, your pulse quickening. 

A shadow swoops overhead, dark and sudden, and your heart jumps into your throat. Your father's tales flood back—stories of the creature, the monster that stalks these woods. But then, as your eyes dart upwards, you catch sight of a small barn owl gliding above you, its wings silent as it perches on a nearby tree branch. 

It hoots softly, and you wonder if this simple, cute looking bird had inspired the terrifying monster of your father’s story. The owl watches you with its unblinking, beady eyes as you continue, the wind picking up just enough to stir your hair and coax you forward.

When you reach the last stone, the door swings open before you have a chance to knock.

"Y/n!"

You smooth your dress and offer a small, tentative smile. “Deirdre,” you greet the older fae woman, her features far from the sinister creature your father once described. 

But you wouldn’t dare tell him that. Your visit here was a secret, and if you wanted to avoid becoming the talk of the village—or worse, facing your stepmother’s wrath—you would have to keep it that way. 

There were many rumors about Deirdre, some so outlandish they were easy to dismiss, but others... others seemed to hold a grain of truth. Deirdre was a mysterious figure, always draped in dark, shadowy clothing that made her seem almost a part of the night itself. When she ventured into town, it was only briefly, and she kept to herself, rarely speaking to anyone. Her most frequented spot was the town apothecary, a place she visited so regularly that it drew whispers and wary glances from the other patrons.

That’s where you first met her.

You had been sifting through the shelves of dried herbs, your fingers lingering in an uncertain manner over a selection meant to ease your father’s persistent pains. The owner of the apothecary was frustratingly no help, claiming the same as the town’s healer did–that there would be nothing to ease your father’s pain. 

You must’ve looked so lost, so desperate for Deirdre’s soft, low voice interrupted your thoughts. Without hesitation, she pointed to the right herbs and then pulled a small vial full of dark liquid from her bag. "Mix these with care and intent, and he’ll find relief," is all she had said.

After she left, the apothecary owner pulled you aside, her eyes darting toward the door. “I’d stay away from her if I were you,” she warned, her voice a low hiss. “That woman is nothing but trouble.”

But you didn’t listen.

To this day, you still don’t know what had been in the vial Deirdre had given you but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Deirdre’s advice worked, and for the first time in months, your father’s pain eased. So, you found yourself returning to the apothecary more often, despite your step-mother’s growing disapproval. Each time you saw Deirdre, you couldn’t resist finding an excuse to talk to her. 

There was something about her presence that intrigued you, a quiet power in the way she carried herself. It resonated with you.

The last time you crossed paths, she had slipped you a handwritten recipe for a tonic. You don’t know how she knew of your predicament but once again, you didn’t care. The tonic you brewed cured the fever that had a firm grip on your younger brother for days in an hour.  You had hoped to see her at the apothecary soon to thank her and also ask for more of the vial she had given you for your father. When days turned into weeks of not seeing her, you bribed the apothecary shop’s owner for more information about Deirdre.

And now, here you were, standing outside her secluded home. The lonely house of Veilwood, the very one from the story your father told you about.

“How did you know I was coming?” you ask.

Deirdre’s dark eyes glitter with quiet amusement. She nods toward the owl, which remains perched on a tree outside, still watching you. “Alden,” she explains, her tone light. “He’s an old friend of mine and always the first to alert me of visitors. Now come inside before the chill of the forest gets to you.”

A strange sensation washes over you as you step into the house, the thrill of the unknown mixing with the rush of adrenaline. Inside, the cabin is small but cozy. So much more alive than you ever imagined and so much more bright than it had been in your dreams.

Garlands of vines and branches criss-cross overhead, woven together with fae lights that twinkle like stars. Your gaze drifts upward to the wooden beams, where runes—ancient symbols—have been carved. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and smoke, and the warmth from the blazing hearth immediately soothes your nerves.

“My father told me stories about this place,” you comment, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes scan the room, taking in every small detail.

“Did he now?” Deirdre’s tone carries that same hint of amusement you’d seen in her eyes. “And is it all you dreamed it to be?”

You pause, her question hanging in the air. Your eyes shift to her, but Deirdre’s back is to you as she continues her way to the kitchen. A question sits on the tip of your tongue, but instead, you say, “Well, there’s certainly no monster waiting to prey upon me here. A bit disappointing, really.”

Deirdre turns her head just enough to throw a smirk over her shoulder, her dark, raven hair swaying slightly with her movement. “My apologies. I’ll be sure to summon Caraxes next time, just for you.”

You chuckle softly, the tension in your chest easing as you take in more of the space. 

The fire crackles in the hearth, its warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. A cauldron hangs over it, the smell of something brewing, red smoke curling from its top. Above the hearth, an altar is meticulously arranged—candles, knick-knacks, crystals, and a chalice. To the right of the fireplace, is a simple wooden framed bed, the sheets and blanket a soft cream color with red embroidered swirls along the edges. 

Against the far wall stands a towering bookshelf, crammed with thick, ancient tomes that seem to pulse with forgotten knowledge. At its center, on the middle shelf, a black leather-bound book catches your eye. There’s no title on its spine, only the symbol of an eye engraved in rich gold, watching you. It feels alive, its gaze almost hypnotic, and for a brief moment, you could swear it winks.

Startled, you turn your head sharply, focusing on the left of the hearth. A long, shadowy hallway stretches farther than the cabin should allow, leading to a single, distant door. Along the walls, portraits of fae women, each bearing an uncanny resemblance to Deirdre, gaze out with knowing eyes. Every one of them wears a red pendant identical to hers. They must be her ancestors.

You feel drawn to the hall, eager to study the names beneath the portraits, but a sharp whistle from the kettle breaks your trance and pulls you back to the main room.

Deirdre gestures for you to sit at a small table by one of the windows while she prepares tea. When Deirdre returns, she sets two steaming cups in front of you, along with a plate of bread and cheese. "Tell me," she says, sitting across from you. "What troubles you, my dearie?"

You hesitate, glancing down at the tea swirling in your cup. “What makes you think something’s troubling me?”

“Not many come here without reason…” Her voice trails off, her eyes drifting toward the window. Her hand reaches up, cradling the pendant that hangs from her neck. The stone in the center glows faintly, a crimson hue that pulses with her touch. For a moment, you think you see shadows swirling around it, but then her gaze snaps back to you, sharp and knowing. 

“Do you know what I am?”

There’s a sudden lump in your throat. “Yes.”

“Do you fear me?”

“No.”

A slow smile spreads across Deirdre’s face, her eyes softening. “Good,” she says quietly, her voice like a gentle breeze. “There is nothing for you to fear.”

Your fingers curl and uncurl from your cup of tea, still left untouched. The steam still lingers, the scent of chamomile and lavender soothing your nerves. “I…,” your voice trails off, unsure and uncertain. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Deirdre takes a slow, deliberate sip from her tea, her gaze never leaving yours. She sets the cup down with an air of patience, as though she’s been waiting for this moment. “What makes you think that?”

Hesitation makes you falter for a moment. A part of you—the part shaped by your stepmother’s strict religious teachings and narrow beliefs—screams that this is wrong. That you should flee, run as far as you can from this world of strange happenings, from the unknown that threatens everything you thought you understood.

But then there’s the other part of you, the one that has always felt different, the part that resonates with your heart and finds comfort in Deirdre’s presence. Something about her calls to you, like a whisper of recognition deep in your bones, even though the words you’ve exchanged have been few.  

Her dark gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering, filled with a silent promise that there’s nothing to fear. That whatever is happening to you is not something to run from, but to understand. There’s no pity in her eyes, only understanding. You want to sink into that feeling, to let it wrap around you like the warmth of a the fireplace does…

“Things have been happening—strange things. Things I can’t explain.” The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s like there’s something restless in me..."

"Sometimes when I’m overwhelmed, things around me shift, like the air gets thick and…trouble seems to follow.”

You lift your gaze to meet Deirdre’s. “But then you came along and for once in my life, I did something good. My father’s pains at night have subsided enough for him to get some sleep. My brother’s fever lifted quickly. The healer said that if the fever had lasted a day longer, he would not have made it…”

“How long have you been hearing the whispers in the wind?”

“For so long, I don’t even remember when it started…,” your voice trails off, surprise flickering in you. “How do you know?”

“Because I hear them too,” Deirdre replies and as an afterthought adds: “When they allow me to.”

You find yourself leaning in, muscles relaxing in relief. “How do you know what they’re saying?”

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Deirdre rises from her seat, extending her hand, and your breath catches as red magic swirls from her palm, flickering like flames along her fingertips. When you meet her gaze, she smiles at you and there’s warmth in her smile that spreads like sunlight after a storm. 

A quiet reassurance. You could say no—she wouldn’t press. But in that same smile is the promise that if you say yes, she’ll be there, like a beacon guiding you through the shadowy unknown. 

Your gaze lingers on her glowing, red hand. “Am I a witch?”

The question leaves your lips in a rush, your voice trembling slightly as you finally say it out loud.

“Only if you wish to be.” Deirdre responds gently.

Her answer sends a flutter through your chest. Only if you wish to be. Once again, you’re given a choice. It lingers in the air between you, thick with possibility, as if the very world is holding its breath, waiting for your decision.

You want to ask more, to press her for answers but you realize that this is a matter entirely up to you. The wind stirs outside, its sudden howl rattling the windows, causing branches to scrape against the glass. A shiver runs down your spine—not from the cold, but from the weight of the choice now resting in your hands.

You glance down at your own palms, your fingers tingling with the faintest hum of power, like something inside you is waking up. The flutter in your heart steadies, and suddenly, the decision feels clearer, easier than you’d expected.

“Okay,” you say, your voice stronger than before, certain.

And just like that, you take her hand, allowing her to guide you into a world you’re itching to understand.

[eris x chaos witch masterlist]

a/n: kudos to you if you got the House of the Dragon reference. I just couldn't think of another name lol. Same with the name I gave Eris's hound in this and sorry for the not so creative name I gave the house.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human, @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

[paganimagevault]

Four images of Thor 'The Wind Raiser' 8th-11th C. CE.

"Perkins provides numerous written examples of Norse sailors attempting to conjure up wind magic, often through the invocation of the God Thor, who is charged with special responsibility for the weather. Perkins relies on a detailed explication of a passage from the little known Icelandic þáttr (tale) to argue that, as with his better-known hammer-wielding influence over thunder, the God's control of the wind is instrumental. Perkins interprets the terms skeggrödd and skeggraust (each meaning 'beard-voice') as the act of Thor blowing out the wind. The central argument of this work is that the Eyrarland image is a plastic representation of Thor carrying out this process, using his beard in the manner of a wind instrument. Perkins is an accomplished philologist and his reading of the passage is convincing. However it is a limitation that the text is provided only in Old Norse, though passages in Latin and Russian are translated. Old Norse texts will continue to be marginalized in medieval studies if they are not made accessible to those outside the rather narrow discipline of Norse studies. An engaging and technical discussion of Scandinavian artefacts and texts will always find an audience there but other scholars are prevented from fully appreciating this argument if they cannot understand the critical texts. The argument that Thor was visualized as blowing out the wind, and that he was invoked to influence the wind leads to the conclusion that the Eyrarland image and other similar artefacts can be identified as amulets carried by those, presumably sailors, who most wanted to control the wind. Perkins briefly mentions a strikingly similar image to the Eyrarland image, the bronze Rällinge image. As this small figure is in rather an excited condition, he is usually identified with the fertility God Freyr, an identification with which Perkins concurs. However the Rällinge image too is stroking his beard, in the gesture which Perkins repeatedly characterizes as Thor's wind-raising ritual. Frustratingly, this parallel is not explored. The remaining sections of the book follow this conclusion into archaeological territory. Perkins focuses specifically on four small figures, including the Eyrarland image. The figurines were found as far apart as Iceland and the Ukraine, and made from media ranging from carved amber to cast bronze but Perkins identifies in them distinctive characteristics which, he argues, type them all as representative of Thor in his wind-raising capacity. These symbolic qualities range from the general observation that they tend to have the glaring eyes and muscular physique appropriate for textual accounts of the 'bruiser' God (p. 70), to the very specific feature that each of them appears to be holding his beard like a wind instrument and blowing into it."

-Thor the Wind-Raiser and the Eyrarland Image (review) by Katrina Burge, University of Melbourne 2005. The 3 bottom images are from the GermanicMythology website.

[elysiaheaven]

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧-𝟑

Created by@𝓶𝓸𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓮

AN IM CRAYZ AHAHHAHAHAJANNANANANSNSNSN

WORDS:12341

TW:obssesive behaviour, unhealthy relationships/feelings,Clingy,Manipulation,Emotional manipulation,forcing of marriage...,mention of death,killing/Most TWS FOR YANDERE,suggestive!

The door closes behind Sunday, you exhale a sigh of relief, though the tension in your muscles persists. Every moment feels like a delicate balance between maintaining appearances and planning your next move toward freedom.

You sit down at the table where Sunday left the tray of food, but your appetite is gone. Instead, your mind races with thoughts of Robin, the birdcage, and the path to escape that lies hidden within the temple. You replay her instructions in your mind, reminding yourself of the need for caution and secrecy.

With a sense of urgency, you pull out your phone and review the photos you took in the temple and the ancient texts you managed to gather. They are your lifeline, your guide to understanding the symbols and rituals that might hold the key to your liberation.

As you immerse yourself in deciphering the ancient writings, a plan begins to take shape. You need more information, more clues that could aid your escape. The library in the palace holds many secrets, and perhaps there are more texts or maps that could reveal additional passages or hidden exits.

You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching, before slipping out of your quarters once more. The palace is quiet, its grand halls echoing with the weight of centuries-old secrets. You make your way to the library, heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and fear of being caught.

Inside, you quickly scan the shelves, pulling out books and scrolls that catch your eye. Each one could hold a piece of the puzzle, a clue that might lead you closer to unlocking the secrets of the temple and your path to freedom.

Hours pass as you pour over the texts, deciphering ancient languages and piecing together fragments of history. You uncover references to hidden passages, symbols of protection, and rituals that speak of liberation from confinement.

Just as you're about to delve deeper into a particularly promising tome, you hear footsteps approaching. Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly hide the book beneath your cloak, pretending to browse casually as Sunday enters the library.

He smiles warmly at you, his presence both reassuring and unsettling. "I thought I might find you here," he says, his tone gentle. "Did you find something interesting?"

You nod, trying to appear composed despite the racing of your heart. "Just exploring the history of this place," you reply, your voice steady. "There's so much to learn."

Sunday steps closer, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that makes you uncomfortable. "You have a thirst for knowledge," he observes softly. "I admire that about you."

You force a smile, hiding the turmoil beneath the surface. "Thank you," you say, careful not to reveal too much.

He reaches out and gently touches your arm, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "I want to show you something," he says quietly, his eyes searching yours.

Your mind races with possibilities, unsure of what Sunday has in mind. But you know you must tread carefully, maintaining your facade while continuing to search for any opportunity to further your escape.

Sunday leads you through the library, your heart races with both apprehension and determination. You maintain a facade of calm curiosity, nodding politely as he speaks of the palace's history and its hidden treasures. However, when Sunday suddenly stops and turns to you with a piercing gaze, you feel a surge of unease.

"Do you know someone named Robin?" he asks, his voice gentle yet probing.

You pause, taken aback by the directness of his question. Fear grips your heart momentarily, but you quickly gather your composure. You know that admitting any knowledge of Robin could jeopardize your escape plans.

"No," you reply firmly, meeting Sunday's gaze with feigned innocence. "I don't know anyone named Robin."

Sunday studies you intently for a moment, his expression unreadable. You hold your breath, praying that he believes your lie.

After what feels like an eternity, Sunday nods slowly. "I see," he says quietly, his voice tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I must have been mistaken."

Relief washes over you, but you remain cautious. "Is everything alright?" you ask, trying to divert his attention.

Sunday sighs softly, his gaze softening as he looks at you. "I worry about you," he admits, his voice filled with genuine concern. "I want to protect you."

You nod, offering a reassuring smile. "I appreciate that," you reply, keeping your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

He reaches out and gently touches your shoulder, his touch lingering briefly. "I care about you," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours.

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to pull away. "I know," you say softly, masking your discomfort with practiced ease.

Sunday's eyes darken with a mix of frustration and determination. Before you can react, he pushes you against the wall, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly but not painfully. The suddenness of his action leaves you breathless, and the intensity in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine.

"Are you sure you don't know anyone named Robin?" he asks again, his voice low and insistent.

Your heart pounds in your chest, but you force yourself to stay calm. You meet his gaze with as much steadiness as you can muster. "I already told you, I don't know anyone named Robin," you reply, your voice unwavering.

Sunday's eyes narrow, and he leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "You're lying," he whispers, his tone a mixture of accusation and curiosity. "I can see it in your eyes."

You swallow hard, trying to keep your fear from showing. "I'm not lying," you insist, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know her."

He studies you for what feels like an eternity, his gaze boring into yours as if searching for any crack in your facade. You can feel the tension in the air, the unspoken challenge between the two of you.

Finally, Sunday releases his grip on your shoulders and steps back, a resigned look on his face. "Fine," he says quietly. "If you say you don't know her, I'll let it go. But know this—if you are lying, and I find out, there will be consequences."

You nod, relief flooding through you as he steps away. "I understand," you say softly, hoping to appease him.

Sunday's expression softens slightly, and he reaches out to gently touch your cheek. "I don't want to hurt you," he murmurs. "But I need to know I can trust you."

You nod again, feeling a mixture of guilt and determination. "You can trust me," you say, hoping your words sound sincere.

He smiles faintly, though the tension between you remains. "Good," he says softly. "Then let's move on. There's still so much I want to show you."

You didn't know why you to joke.

"....How are you gonna show that you can trust me?"

Sunday's intense gaze holds you captive as he steps closer, his hands once again gripping your shoulders. This time, however, his movements are slower, more deliberate. He pushes you gently against the wall again, and you feel the solid surface cool against your back. His eyes never leave yours, a strange mix of desire and determination burning within them.

Before you can react, Sunday leans in and starts to kiss you. His lips brush against your neck, your collarbone, trailing down your shoulder with a feather-light touch. He avoids your face, focusing instead on the sensitive areas that make your heart race and your breath hitch. The sensation is overwhelming, and despite your best efforts to resist, you feel a small part of you responding to his touch, craving more.

Your mind battles against your body's reactions, the fear and anger you feel toward Sunday warring with the unexpected desire his touch elicits. Just as you begin to grapple with these conflicting emotions, your vision starts to blur. A wave of dizziness washes over you, and the room begins to spin.

"S-Sunday," you murmur weakly, trying to push him away, but your strength fails you. Your knees buckle, and you feel yourself slipping into unconsciousness.

The last thing you see before everything goes dark is Sunday's face, his expression a mixture of concern and satisfaction. You faint, your body going limp in his arms.

When you regain consciousness, you're no longer against the wall. Instead, you find yourself lying on a plush bed in a dimly lit room. Your head feels heavy, and you struggle to remember what happened. As you slowly sit up, you notice Sunday sitting in a chair nearby, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"You're awake," he says softly, his voice gentle but carrying an undercurrent of something more.

You nod, still feeling disoriented. "What... what happened?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You fainted," Sunday replies, standing up and walking over to you. "I was worried about you."

You look at him, trying to read his intentions. "Why did you do that?" you ask, your voice shaking slightly.

Sunday sits on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to gently stroke your hair. "I didn't mean to scare you," he says softly. "I just... I wanted to show you how much I care about you. How much I need you to trust me."

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you pull back slightly, your mind racing with thoughts of escape. You know you need to be careful, to play along until you can find a way out of this twisted situation.

"I... I understand," you say slowly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "But you need to give me time. This is all so overwhelming."

Sunday nods, his eyes softening. "Of course," he says gently. "Take all the time you need. Just know that I'm here for you, and I will always protect you."

You force a smile, trying to appear grateful even as your mind works furiously to formulate a plan. You can't let Sunday know about Robin or your intentions to escape. You need to find a way to gather more information, to uncover the secrets of the temple, and to finally break free from his control.

As Sunday leaves the room to give you some space, you take a deep breath and just..sleep?

The next morning, you awaken to find a beautifully wrapped box at the foot of your bed. Its ornate ribbon and delicate paper signal that it's something special. As you sit up, the door creaks open, and Sunday enters, his face alight with a mix of anticipation and joy.

"I have a surprise for you," he says, walking over to the box and gently lifting the lid. Inside is a stunning wedding gown, intricately designed with delicate lace and shimmering embroidery. He holds it up for you to see, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "You'll be marrying me. Isn't this what you wanted?"

Your heart skips a beat, and a cold chill runs down your spine. The weight of his words crashes over you, and you feel a surge of fear and panic. But you know you must maintain your facade, to keep him from suspecting anything.

You force a smile, though your hands tremble slightly as you reach out to touch the gown. "It's beautiful," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Sunday. I'm... happy."

Sunday's smile widens, and he steps closer, his gaze softening as he looks at you. "I'm glad you like it," he says, his voice filled with warmth. "I want our wedding to be perfect. You deserve nothing less."

You nod, your mind racing with thoughts of escape and the urgency of finding a way out before it's too late. "Of course," you reply, trying to sound genuine. "I appreciate everything you're doing for me."

He leans in and kisses your forehead, his touch both tender and possessive. "Tomorrow, we'll be together forever," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "I'll make sure you're happy."

You manage a small nod, your heart pounding in your chest. As Sunday leaves the room to prepare for the day, you clutch the gown to your chest, feeling the weight of your predicament pressing down on you. The fear and uncertainty are almost overwhelming, but you know you can't give up now.

With trembling hands, you place the gown back in its box and take a deep breath. You need to find a way to escape, and you need to do it soon. The temple of Ena might hold the answers you seek, and you must find a way to visit it without arousing Sunday's suspicions.

As you get dressed, your mind races with plans and possibilities. You know that time is running out, and you must act quickly if you want to reclaim your freedom.

Determined, you leave your room and make your way through the palace, careful to avoid drawing attention to yourself. You head toward the library, hoping to find more information that might aid your escape. The library is vast and filled with ancient texts, and you know that somewhere within its shelves lies the knowledge you need.

As you search through the books, you come across an old map of the palace and its surrounding grounds. Your eyes widen as you spot a hidden passage leading from the palace to the temple of Ena. This could be your way out.

You carefully copy the map onto a piece of parchment, your hands shaking with a mix of fear and hope. You know that the risk is great, but you have no other choice. You must escape before the wedding, before it's too late.

As you slip the map into your pocket, you hear footsteps approaching. You quickly hide the book and turn to see Sunday entering the library, a concerned look on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.

You force a smile, nodding. "Yes, I'm fine," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just doing some reading."

Sunday steps closer, his expression softening. "I just wanted to make sure," he says gently. "Remember, you can always talk to me."

You nod, feeling a pang of guilt for the lies you're telling. But you know it's necessary. "Thank you," you say softly. "I appreciate it."

He leans in and kisses your cheek, his touch lingering. "I'll see you soon," he murmurs, before turning to leave.

Sunday leaves the library, you exhale a sigh of relief, clutching the copied map tightly. The plan is forming in your mind, but the weight of the upcoming wedding still looms over you. You know you must act quickly, but you need a way to incapacitate Sunday without raising suspicion.

Just then, a familiar presence fills your thoughts. Robin's voice echoes in your mind, calm and guiding. "Make him a tea with the moonflower," she instructs. "It will make him sleep. Use this time wisely."

You nod to yourself, determination solidifying your resolve. The moonflower is rare, but you remember seeing it in the palace's garden, blooming under the cover of night. You just need to get it and prepare the tea without Sunday noticing.

With a renewed sense of purpose, you make your way to the garden, keeping to the shadows to avoid drawing attention. The moonflowers glow softly in the moonlight, their petals delicate and fragrant. You carefully pick a few, tucking them into your cloak before heading back inside.

In your room, you quickly prepare the tea, the scent of the moonflowers filling the air. As you work, you glance at the wedding gown, feeling a mix of fear and determination. This gown represents the cage Sunday wants to trap you in, but you won't let it hold you.

Dressed in the gown, you step out of your room, the fabric rustling softly with each step. You make your way to Sunday's chambers, the tray with the moonflower tea balanced carefully in your hands. You knock softly on the door, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Come in," Sunday calls from inside.

You enter, finding him adjusting his clothes in front of a mirror. He looks undeniably handsome, his attire immaculate and his demeanor confident. He turns to you, his eyes lighting up as he sees you in the gown.

"You look stunning," he says, stepping closer and taking your hand. "Tomorrow will be perfect."

You force a smile, feeling the weight of your deception. "I thought you might like some tea," you say, offering the tray.

Sunday's smile widens, and he takes the cup, inhaling the fragrant steam. "How thoughtful of you," he murmurs, raising the cup to his lips. "To us."

You watch as he takes a sip, your heart racing with anticipation. He drinks deeply, the warmth of the tea spreading through him. Within moments, his eyes begin to droop, and he sways slightly.

"Are you alright?" you ask, feigning concern as you step closer.

Sunday blinks, trying to stay awake, but the moonflower's effects are too strong. "I... I feel..." he mutters, before his eyes close and he collapses onto the bed.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, quickly moving to ensure he's deeply asleep. His breathing steadies, and you know you have precious little time.

With Sunday incapacitated, you rush to gather your things, grabbing the map and any other essentials. You slip out of the room, your heart pounding as you navigate the palace halls, heading toward the hidden passage leading to the temple of Ena.

As you move through the corridors, Robin's voice echoes in your mind once more. "Stay strong," she encourages. "Freedom is within your grasp."

You reach the hidden entrance, pushing open the concealed door and slipping inside. The passage is dark and musty, but you push forward, guided by the dim light of your torch and the hope of escape.

Finally, you emerge into the temple, the air heavy with the weight of ancient secrets. You move quickly, searching for any clues or tools that could aid your escape. The temple is vast and filled with relics, each one a piece of the puzzle that could lead to your freedom.

you delve deeper into the temple, you feel a surge of determination. The path to freedom is fraught with danger, but you won't let fear hold you back. You are stronger than the cage Sunday tried to trap you in, and you will find your way out, no matter the cost.

You began to navigate the temple, your mind races with thoughts of escape and the dangers that lie ahead. You pause briefly to steady yourself, your hand gripping the ancient map you had copied earlier. You know you must return to the palace before Sunday awakens, but the urgency of the situation weighs heavily on you.

Returning to the palace, you carefully retrace your steps to avoid suspicion. You slip back into your room, the gown still pristine, and quickly hide the map in a safe place. Your heart pounds as you consider your next move.

Sunday stirs as you enter his chambers again, his eyes fluttering open. He smiles groggily, clearly still affected by the moonflower tea but beginning to regain his senses.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, reaching out to touch the delicate lace of your gown. "Is everything ready for tomorrow?"

You nod, trying to maintain your composure. "Almost. Can you help me tighten the lace at the back? It doesn't feel quite right."

Sunday stands, still a bit unsteady, but he moves behind you and begins to adjust the lace. His fingers work methodically, and you can feel the fabric tightening around your waist. The intimacy of the moment sends a shiver down your spine, and you fight to keep your emotions in check.

As he finishes, his hands linger on your shoulders, and he leans in close. "Perfect," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear.

You turn slightly, looking at your reflection in the mirror. The gown fits perfectly now, the intricate lace accentuating your figure. But the sight only serves to remind you of the cage you're trapped in.

Suddenly, Sunday pushes you gently against the mirror, his eyes darkening with desire. "You look so beautiful," he murmurs, his lips trailing along your neck and collarbone. "I can't wait for tomorrow."

His hands roam over your body, and you feel a mix of fear and unexpected desire. He kisses you deeply, his lips exploring every inch of your skin except for your face. The mirror's cold surface against your back contrasts sharply with the heat of his touch.

You gasp, trying to maintain control, but the intensity of the moment overwhelms you. Sunday pulls back slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. "Tell me you want this," he whispers, his voice filled with longing.

You hesitate, knowing that you need to play along to buy yourself more time. "I... I do," you say softly, your voice trembling.

Sunday's smile widens, and he kisses you again, more fervently this time. Your mind races, trying to find a way out even as your body betrays you. You know you need to escape before he fully regains his strength.

With a sudden burst of resolve, you push against him gently. "We should wait until tomorrow," you say, trying to sound convincing. "It will be more special then."

Sunday hesitates, his eyes searching yours. Finally, he nods, a satisfied smile on his face. "You're right," he agrees, stepping back. "Tomorrow will be perfect."

Relief washes over you, but you know the clock is ticking. You need to finalize your escape plan before the wedding. As Sunday settles back into bed, you quietly slip out of the room, your heart pounding with determination.

You head back to your room, the weight of the gown reminding you of the urgency of your situation. Robin's voice echoes in your mind, urging you to stay strong. You know that freedom is within your grasp, and you won't let anything stand in your way.

As you sit down, you take a deep breath and begin to strategize. The temple holds the key to your escape, and you must return there when the opportunity arises. With each passing moment, you grow more determined to break free from Sunday's grasp and reclaim your life.

As the plan continues to take shape in your mind, you know you need to act fast. The next step is to ensure Sunday remains unconscious long enough for you to finalize your escape. You head back to the kitchen, gathering the necessary ingredients to prepare another batch of the moonflower tea.

Once the tea is ready, you carefully carry it back to Sunday's chambers. The door creaks softly as you enter, and Sunday looks up, a smile spreading across his face as he sees you.

"More tea?" he asks, his voice still groggy from the earlier dose.

You nod, offering the cup. "I thought it might help you relax," you say, forcing a smile. "You need your rest for tomorrow."

Sunday takes the cup from your hands, his eyes softening as he looks at you. "You're so thoughtful," he murmurs, taking a sip. "I don't deserve you."

You watch as he drinks, the effects of the moonflower beginning to take hold. He finishes the tea and sets the cup aside, his eyelids growing heavy. He reaches out, taking your hand in his, and kisses it gently.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he whispers, his voice fading as he drifts into sleep.

You wait until you're sure he's deeply asleep, then carefully extricate your hand from his grasp. Your heart pounds as you stand up, making sure he remains undisturbed. You have no time to lose.

You quickly made sure if your wedding gown wasn't a problem..You gather your essentials, including the map, and take a deep breath. The palace is quiet, the only sound being your own footsteps as you make your way toward the hidden passage.

You navigate the dark corridors, the weight of your situation pressing down on you. Robin's voice echoes in your mind, urging you to stay strong and focused. You reach the hidden door, pushing it open and slipping inside.

The passage is as dark and musty as before, but you push forward, your resolve unwavering. The temple looms ahead, its ancient walls holding the secrets you need to uncover. You move quickly, determined to find the information that will lead to your freedom.

As you enter the temple, you feel a strange sense of calm. The air is heavy with the weight of history, and you know that this place holds the key to your escape. You move through the corridors, searching for anything that might help you.

Finally, you come across a small, hidden chamber. Inside, you find an old book, its pages filled with detailed instructions and ancient spells. You carefully read through it, your heart racing as you realize the power it holds.

You take the book and slip it into your bag, knowing that it could be your ticket to freedom. You head back toward the passage, your mind racing with thoughts of the future.

As you make your way back to the palace, you feel a renewed sense of determination. You know that the path ahead is fraught with danger, but you are ready to face it. You will escape from Sunday's grasp, no matter what it takes.

Because somewhere beyond these walls lies the life you deserve, and you won't stop until you've claimed it for yourself. The journey ahead may be perilous, but you are ready to face it head-on, no matter the cost.

Returning to the hidden passage, you move with a sense of urgency, your determination growing with each step. The weight of the ancient book in your bag reassures you that you have the means to escape. As you navigate the dark corridors, you feel a strange pull guiding you deeper into the temple.

You soon find yourself back at the small birdcage you had seen earlier, the one that held Robin. The small bird chirps softly as you approach, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and curiosity.

You carefully unlatch the cage, gently lifting Robin out. She flutters her wings, stretching them for the first time in what seems like ages. "Thank you," she chirps, her voice filled with gratitude. "But what were you doing here?"

You take a deep breath, explaining quickly. "I'm trying to escape. I found an old book with spells and instructions. I need to get away from Sunday before the wedding."

Robin tilts her head, understanding dawning in her eyes. "The moonflower tea worked, then? He's asleep?"

You nod. "For now. But I don't have much time. Do you know any safe routes out of here?"

Robin flutters closer, her small form hovering in front of you. "There's a hidden exit in the temple that leads to the forest. Follow me."

You follow Robin through the winding passages of the temple, her small form darting ahead and guiding you through the dark corridors. You move quickly, the urgency of your situation driving you forward. The air grows cooler as you descend, the walls closing in around you.

Finally, Robin stops at a seemingly solid wall. "Here," she chirps, pressing a small, hidden stone. The wall shifts, revealing a narrow passage leading to the outside. The fresh scent of the forest filters in, a stark contrast to the musty air of the temple.

You step through the passage, the forest opening up before you. The moonlight filters through the trees, casting a silvery glow over everything. Robin lands on your shoulder, her presence a comforting weight.

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude. "I wouldn't have made it without you."

Robin chirps softly. "We're not out of danger yet. We need to move quickly. Sunday will realize you're gone soon."

You nod, determination hardening your resolve. "Let's go."

You move through the forest, the ancient book clutched tightly in your hands. The journey is far from over, but for the first time, you feel a glimmer of hope. You will find a way to break free from Sunday's grasp and reclaim your life.

As you navigate the forest, Robin's guidance leads you through hidden paths and away from any potential dangers. The night is filled with the sounds of the forest, but you move with a purpose, each step bringing you closer to freedom.

Hours pass, and the first light of dawn begins to filter through the trees. You find a small clearing and decide to rest for a moment, catching your breath and gathering your thoughts. Robin perches nearby, her eyes watchful and alert.

"There's one more thing you should know," Robin says, her voice tinged with regret. "If you get caught, take a wine bottle and the white roses. It's important."

You furrow your brow, confused. "Why? What do the wine bottle and white roses do?"

"...If we get caught..I.."

"We won't! Robin!"

You clutch the bag tightly, knowing that within it lies your chance at freedom.

Hours pass, and the sun rises higher in the sky. You find another clearing and decide to rest for a moment, catching your breath and checking your surroundings.

"We're getting closer," Robin says softly. "We can find shelter and plan our next move."

You nod, exhaustion beginning to set in. "Thank you, Robin. I don't know what I would've done without you."

Robin perches on your shoulder, her small form radiating warmth and comfort. "We're in this together," she says. "We'll find a way to keep you safe."

"!!!!!" Robin was suddenly uneasy.

"We need to find a safe place to hide," Robin whispers urgently, her wings fluttering with agitation.

You nod in agreement, scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. Just as you're about to move towards a promising alleyway, a sudden dizziness overwhelms you. The ground tilts beneath your feet, and you stumble forward, clutching your head in pain.

"Robin," you manage to gasp, before darkness consumes your vision.

When you awaken, the world around you is dim and unfamiliar. You find yourself lying on a cold stone floor, the air heavy with the scent of ancient dust and incense. As your senses gradually sharpen, you realize you're inside a dimly lit chamber adorned with intricate runes and flickering torches.

"Robin?" you call out weakly, your voice echoing in the eerie silence.

There's no response. Panic grips you as you struggle to your feet, the memories of your journey and the urgency of your mission flooding back. You stagger towards a nearby ornate mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of your surroundings and perhaps find a clue to your whereabouts.

Before you can reach the mirror, a voice cuts through the silence from the shadows.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" The voice is smooth yet chilling, sending a shiver down your spine. Emerging from the darkness steps a figure cloaked in midnight black, his eyes glinting with malevolent amusement.

"S-Sunday," you stammer, recognizing him despite the years that have passed since you last saw his face. His presence fills the chamber with an oppressive aura, his every movement calculated and unnerving.

"You've come far, my dear," Sunday murmurs, his voice dripping with honeyed menace. "But not far enough."

Robin's absence weighs heavily on your mind as you struggle to maintain composure in the face of Sunday's eerie confidence. His smile is as cold as the stone around you, a stark reminder of the danger that has followed you relentlessly.

"What have you done with Robin?" you demand, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and defiance.

Sunday's laughter rings out, echoing off the ancient walls. "Oh, Robin is quite safe," he replies cryptically. "But you, my dear, are exactly where I want you."

As Sunday closes the distance between you with unsettling grace, you realize with sinking dread that escaping his grasp will require more than just cunning and bravery. With Robin's fate hanging in the balance and the ancient book's protection spell seemingly undone, you steel yourself for the confrontation ahead.

The game of cat and mouse has reached its climax.

Sunday approached, his presence looms over you like a specter of doom. You stand your ground, despite the tremors of fear threatening to overtake you. His eyes gleam with a mixture of amusement and malice, his every step echoing in the quiet chamber.

You glance around, taking in the unsettling scene. The chamber, dimly lit by flickering torches, is indeed filled with white roses arranged meticulously as though for a solemn ceremony. Their fragrance mingles with the heavy incense, creating an atmosphere both intoxicating and suffocating.

In your hand, you clutch the bouquet of white roses tightly, their delicate petals a stark contrast to the dire situation unfolding before you. Beside you, almost forgotten in the rush of events, is the wine bottle Robin mentioned—a potent sleeping potion that could provide a desperate escape if the need arose.

Sunday's gaze flickers briefly to the bouquet in your hand, a glimmer of recognition crossing his features. "Ah, the white roses," he muses, his voice smooth yet tinged with a hint of curiosity. "A symbol of purity and peace, but in this place, they serve a different purpose."

You swallow hard, uncertainty clawing at your resolve. "What do you want from me, Sunday?" you manage to ask, trying to buy time to formulate a plan.

He smiles knowingly, his demeanor shifting from amusement to something more insidious. "You've always had a knack for escaping, my dear," he murmurs, circling you like a predator to its prey. "But this time, you won't slip through my fingers."

With a sudden, swift movement, Sunday reaches out, his hand brushing against your arm. Fear surges through you as you instinctively step back, clutching the bouquet tighter. His touch sends a chill down your spine, a reminder of his power and your vulnerability in this strange and treacherous place.

"Where is Robin?" you demand again, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain composed.

Sunday's smile widens, his eyes alight with a cruel glint. "Patience, my dear," he replies silkily. "All in good time."

As he continues to circle you, his movements fluid and unsettlingly calm, you weigh your options. The protective spell from the ancient book lies dormant, its potency diminished or perhaps manipulated by Sunday's dark magic. The white roses in your hand could potentially buy you time or sway Sunday's intentions, if only you could discern his motives.

Before you can decide on a course of action, a distant sound breaks the oppressive silence—a faint rustling, like the fluttering of wings. You glance towards the source, a sliver of hope igniting within you.

Robin appears, her small form darting through the shadows towards you. Relief floods your senses as she lands gracefully on your shoulder, her presence a beacon of solidarity in the face of Sunday's malevolence.

"Robin," you whisper gratefully, feeling a surge of courage bolstered by her unwavering loyalty.

Robin's declaration hangs heavy in the air, her voice resonating with both defiance and a hint of sorrow. "Brother," she says, her wings quivering with emotion, "please, don't do this."

Sunday's expression softens momentarily, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. "Robin," he replies, his voice betraying a trace of hesitation, "you know the rules."

Before Robin can protest further, Sunday gestures with a swift motion of his hand. Dark tendrils of magic coil around Robin, ensnaring her in an invisible cage. She struggles against the magical bonds, her cries echoing in the chamber, but the more she fights, the tighter the grip becomes.

"No!" you cry out, a surge of desperation propelling you forward. You reach out towards Robin, but a barrier of dark energy repels your touch, leaving you helpless to intervene.

Sunday watches impassively as Robin's struggles subside, her wings drooping with defeat. "I'm sorry, sister," he murmurs, his voice laced with regret, though his eyes betray no hint of remorse.

Robin meets his gaze, tears glistening in her eyes. "Why?" she whispers, her voice filled with anguish. "Who even are you?"

Sunday's expression hardens once more, the mask of indifference settling back into place. "It's our destiny," he replies cryptically. "You know the price of defiance"

With a final glance towards you, a mix of warning and challenge in his eyes, Sunday turns away, leaving you alone with Robin trapped in her magical prison. The chamber grows colder, the torches flickering ominously as though mourning the loss of hope that once burned brightly within its walls.

You grasp the bouquet of white roses tightly, the soft petals a stark contrast to the harsh reality closing in around you. The wine bottle remains in your other hand, its weight a reminder of the potential escape it offers—a fleeting hope in the face of overwhelming darkness.

Without breaking eye contact, you carefully uncork the wine bottle, pouring its contents over the delicate petals of the white roses. The rich scent of the potion mingles with the sweet fragrance of the flowers, creating a potent aroma that hangs heavy in the chamber.

Sunday's lips curl into a cruel smile as he watches you complete the ritual. "You are resourceful," he comments, his voice carrying a tone of begrudging admiration. With a flick of his finger, the dark magic surrounding Robin's cage dissipates, releasing her from her magical prison.

Robin emerges cautiously, her wings trembling with exhaustion and relief. She lands softly beside you, her gaze flickering between you and Sunday with wary apprehension. "Thank you," she whispers to you, her voice filled with gratitude despite the dire circumstances.

Sunday's smile widens as he approaches, his gaze fixed upon you with unnerving intensity. "Now that we have settled that," he says smoothly, his voice laced with dark amusement, "let's discuss the terms of our arrangement."

You feel a knot tighten in your stomach as Sunday's words hang in the air, heavy with implication. His proposal hangs in the balance, a dangerous game of negotiation and survival unfolding before you. Robin's presence beside you is a silent reminder of the stakes—her safety and your own freedom precariously balanced on the edge of Sunday's whims.

"You want to save Robin," Sunday continues, his eyes boring into yours with a chilling clarity. "And I can ensure her safety, but only if you agree to one condition."

Helplessness washes over you like a wave crashing upon the shore. You glance at Robin, her expression a mixture of concern and silent encouragement. Despite Sunday's dark nature, Robin's kindness and unwavering support throughout your journey resonate within you, a stark contrast to the cruelty and manipulation personified by her brother.

Nodding slowly, you swallow your pride and resign yourself to the bitter truth of your situation. "What do you want?" you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sunday's smile twists into a smirk of triumph. "Marry me," he declares, his voice echoing through the chamber with finality. "If you want to ensure Robin's safety, you will become my wife."

The weight of his words settles upon you like a heavy cloak. You meet Sunday's gaze with a mix of defiance and resignation, knowing that this twisted bargain is the only path forward—a sacrifice to protect the one beacon of light in this dark and treacherous world.

"Fine," you concede, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging within you. "I'll marry you."

With a flick of his hand, he gestures for Robin to be escorted away by shadowy figures that materialize from the dim recesses of the chamber. Robin casts a pleading glance over her shoulder, her wings fluttering nervously, but she obeys silently, knowing her defiance could only lead to further harm.

As Robin disappears into the shadows, your heart sinks with the weight of her departure. You're left alone with Sunday, his gaze fixed upon you like a predator closing in on its prey. Instinctively, you back away, your mind racing with fear and uncertainty.

But Sunday moves swiftly, closing the distance between you with unnerving grace. He reaches out, his touch firm yet strangely gentle as he pulls you closer to him. His presence overwhelms you—his scent, a mix of darkness and intrigue, envelops you as he leans in, his lips dangerously close to your ear.

"All white, with a slight touch of red," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. His words send a shiver down your spine, a mixture of revulsion and resignation washing over you.

You hold the bouquet of white roses tightly, its delicate petals a stark contrast to the dark intentions swirling around you. Sunday's grip tightens around your arm, his other hand caressing the flowers in your hand with an unsettling familiarity.

"You will learn to appreciate the elegance of contrasts," he continues, his voice low and possessive. "Just as you will learn to appreciate the intricacies of our arrangement."

His words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You feel trapped, ensnared in a web of obligation and coercion. Despite the facade of civility, you sense the underlying threat beneath Sunday's smooth demeanor—a reminder of the power he wields over your fate and the fragility of your newfound alliance.

With a final, chilling smile, Sunday releases you, stepping back to survey you with a calculated gaze. "Prepare yourself.."

The air in the chamber grows colder as dawn approaches, casting long shadows that dance eerily across the stone walls. Sunday stands before you, his presence commanding and unsettling in the pale moonlight filtering through the chamber's high windows. His eyes gleam with a mixture of triumph and anticipation as he prepares to bind you to him in a marriage of his own making.

"We will not waste time with unnecessary formalities," Sunday declares, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. He steps closer, holding out a ring—a simple band of dark metal adorned with intricate runes that shimmer faintly in the moonlight. "This ring," he continues, his tone authoritative, "will signify your allegiance to me."

You hesitate, torn between defiance and resignation. The weight of Robin's safety presses upon you, urging you to comply despite the dread coiling in the pit of your stomach. Slowly, reluctantly, you extend your hand, allowing Sunday to slide the ring onto your finger. As the metal touches your skin, a chill seeps into your bones, a physical reminder of the bond you've just accepted.

"And these," Sunday adds, producing a pair of ornate handcuffs from the folds of his cloak, "will ensure your compliance."

The handcuffs gleam dully in the moonlight, their intricate designs hinting at their arcane purpose. Without another word, Sunday secures them around your wrists, the cold metal biting into your flesh. They tighten with a faint click, locking you in place, both physically and metaphorically, as his prisoner.

"You will accompany me willingly," Sunday states firmly, his eyes boring into yours with a

The journey through Sunday's realm is fraught with tension and uncertainty, each step echoing with the weight of the vows you've reluctantly accepted. As you follow him through winding corridors and shadowed passageways, Sunday's presence looms over you like a specter, a constant reminder of the bargain that binds you to him.

Finally, you arrive at a grand temple bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight filtering through stained glass windows. The air is heavy with the scent of ancient incense, and the stillness of the sacred space adds to the solemnity of the moment.

Sunday gestures towards an altar adorned with symbols of his arcane power—a place where rituals of both light and dark have been performed for centuries. "Place the ring here," he commands, his voice echoing through the chamber with a chilling finality.

With trembling hands, you comply, placing the ring upon the stone altar. Its dark metal gleams faintly in the moonlight, a stark contrast against the ancient stones worn smooth by the passage of time. As you step back, a sense of resignation settles over you, knowing that this act solidifies your entanglement in Sunday's web of influence.

"The husband may now kiss the bride," Sunday declares, his tone carrying a mocking edge as he approaches you.

You feel a knot tighten in your chest, a mixture of dread and helplessness welling up within you. Sunday's lips meet yours with a cold intensity, his kiss a stark reminder of the power he wields over you. Tears well up in your eyes, silent witnesses to the turmoil raging within your soul—the betrayal of your freedom, the sacrifice for Robin's safety, and the bitter taste of submission to a fate not of your choosing.

As Sunday pulls away, a faint smile plays upon his lips, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Welcome to your new life," he murmurs, his voice laced with a cruel tenderness that sends a shiver down your spine.

You stand there, trembling in the aftermath of his touch, the weight of your decisions settling heavily upon your shoulders. The temple around you remains silent, its ancient walls bearing witness to the unholy union forged in moonlight—a marriage bound by obligation rather than love, and a journey into darkness where every breath taken is a reminder of the choices made and the sacrifices endured.

Sunday stands before you in the moonlit temple, his eyes flicker with a mixture of amusement and something darker. His grip on your wrist remains firm, a silent reminder of your newfound captivity under his command. The air is thick with tension as he leans closer, his lips dangerously close to yours.

"You're a cute liar," he murmurs, his voice a low whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. "Pretending not to enjoy this."

Before you can protest, Sunday's lips capture yours in a kiss that ignites a conflicted storm within you. His touch is possessive, demanding, and despite your inner turmoil, a strange sensation stirs—a desire that feels alien yet undeniable, as if someone else within you is compelling you to respond.

You find yourself responding to his kiss, your body betraying your mind's resistance. It's as though a force beyond your control is pushing you forward, urging you to surrender to the allure of Sunday's power and the twisted dance of dominance and submission that now defines your existence.

The kiss deepens, the moonlight casting shadows upon the temple floor as you lose yourself in the sensation. For a brief moment, you forget the fear and regret that gnaw at your conscience. Instead, a dangerous thrill courses through you—an intoxicating blend of fear and forbidden desire that clouds your judgment and muddles your thoughts.

As Sunday pulls away, a self-satisfied smirk plays upon his lips. "You see?" he says softly, his voice dripping with triumph. "You belong to me now, body and soul."

A chill runs down your spine, a realization settling in that you are no longer merely a captive of circumstance but a willing participant in a game where every move brings you deeper into Sunday's web of control. The tears you shed earlier seem distant now, lost in the haze of conflicting emotions that swirl around you like the shadows in the temple.

You stand before him, breathless and uncertain, caught between the repulsion you feel towards him and the inexplicable pull he exerts over you. The moonlight continues to bathe the temple in its silvery glow.

Sunday's demeanor shifts once more. His gaze hardens, the cruel smile fading from his lips as he assesses you with a calculating stare. Without a word, he gestures towards a corner of the chamber where a small, ornate cage sits nestled amidst shadows.

"You've proven to be quite the challenge," he remarks coolly, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "But challenges only make victory sweeter."

A sense of dread washes over you as realization dawns—the fleeting moment of compliance and the kiss shared under the moonlight were merely tools in Sunday's arsenal, designed to reaffirm his dominance and your submission. You step back instinctively, but Sunday's grip on your wrist tightens once more, preventing any escape.

Before you can protest or resist, dark tendrils of magic coil around you, wrapping you in an invisible vice that pulls you towards the waiting cage. The cold metal bites into your skin as you're forced inside, the door swinging shut with a resounding clang that reverberates through the chamber.

Inside the cage, the air is stale and suffocating, a stark contrast to the moonlit expanse beyond its confines. You grasp the bars, your heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anger. How could you have been so foolish to let your guard down, to momentarily forget the darkness that lurks within Sunday's heart?

Sunday watches impassively as you struggle against the magical bonds that hold you prisoner. "This is where you belong," he declares coldly, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Until you learn your place."

You glare at him through the bars, defiance burning brightly despite the helplessness of your situation. "You can't keep me here forever," you retort, your voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Robin won't rest until she finds a way to free me."

Sunday's smile returns, a mocking twist of his lips. "Oh, I have plans for dear Robin," he muses, his tone laced with malice. "But for now, you will remain here, a reminder of the consequences of defiance."

As you plead with Sunday from within the confines of the cage, desperation colors your voice. The darkness around you seems to press closer, amplifying the hopelessness of your situation. You know the dreams he speaks of—twisted illusions meant to erode your will, to bend your mind to his desires. Fear clenches your heart as you contemplate the horror of reliving those nightmares.

"Please," you implore, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "Don't do this. There must be another way."

Sunday regards you with a cold detachment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considers your plea. The flickering torchlight casts shadows across his face, accentuating the hardness of his features. His silence stretches, the weight of his judgment hanging heavily in the air.

Finally, he speaks, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Prove to me that you are ready to submit," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. "Prove to me that you are willing to forget yourself, to embrace what I offer."

You feel a surge of indignation and dread rise within you. How could you prove such a thing, when every fiber of your being rebels against the thought of surrendering to Sunday's dark influence? Yet, the alternative—facing the nightmares that haunt your sleep—is a terror you cannot bear to contemplate.

Desperation drives you to search for a response, for some shred of hope or strategy that might sway him. "I... I can show you," you stammer, grasping for words. "I can... I can act as though... as though I accept your terms. I can... comply."

Sunday's gaze sharpens, a calculating gleam entering his eyes. "Actions speak louder than words," he observes, his voice a whisper of challenge. "If you can convince me, perhaps I will reconsider."

Sunday left.

...SOME TIME LATER.....

As Sunday returns to the cage, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, a chill settles in the air around you. The torchlight casts shifting shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features and the darkness that lurks behind his eyes. You shrink back instinctively, the cold bars of the cage pressing against your trembling form.

He stops just outside the cage, his gaze fixed upon you with an unsettling intensity. "You misunderstand me," he says calmly, his voice smooth yet laced with an undercurrent of menace. "I have been nothing but kind to you, given you every opportunity to accept your fate gracefully."

You shake your head, defiance warring with fear as you stare back at him. "Your kindness is a lie," you retort, your voice wavering but defiant. "You manipulate and control, using whatever means necessary to bend others to your will."

Sunday's laughter fills the chamber, a hollow sound that reverberates off the stone walls. "Ah, my dear," he says, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Kindness, manipulation—what does it matter in the grand scheme of things? In the end, power is all that matters."

With a sudden movement, Sunday reaches through the bars of the cage, his hand brushing against your cheek with a deceptive gentleness. You flinch at his touch, unable to suppress a shiver of revulsion despite the warmth of his hand against your skin.

"You cannot escape me," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. "Not now, not ever."

You pull away from his touch, the bars of the cage a barrier between you and the darkness that threatens to consume you. Fear and anger churn within you, a potent mix that fuels your resolve to resist, to find a way out of this nightmarish captivity.

"You underestimate me," you whisper defiantly, your voice barely audible above the crackling torches. "I will find a way to break free from you, to undo the web of deceit and cruelty you've spun around me."

Sunday's smile fades, replaced by a glimmer of something darker in his eyes. "We shall see," he replies cryptically, withdrawing his hand from the cage. "For now, enjoy your solitude. It may be the last peace you experience for a long time."

As the echoes of Sunday's departure fade into the stillness of the chamber, a heavy weariness settles upon you. The torchlight flickers dimly, casting a soft, wavering glow that dances across the stone walls of your cage. Despite your best efforts to stay alert and defiant, the events of the day weigh heavily upon your mind and body.

A creeping drowsiness begins to cloud your thoughts, your eyelids growing heavy with each passing moment. The cage, once a symbol of confinement and defiance, now feels like a sanctuary—a small haven where you can surrender momentarily to the relentless exhaustion that grips you.

Before long, Sunday returns, his footsteps echoing softly against the cold stone floor. He stands before the cage, watching you with a calculating gaze that betrays no hint of the darkness that resides within him. Without a word, he unlocks the cage door and enters cautiously, his movements careful yet purposeful.

Gently, almost tenderly, he gathers you into his arms and carries you to the makeshift bed within the cage—a small cot draped with blankets woven from shadows and moonlight. The torchlight flickers overhead, casting a warm glow that softens the harsh edges of Sunday's features as he lays you down with surprising gentleness.

Suddenly you felt..weird

The creeping drowsiness overwhelms you, and as the weight of exhaustion pulls you under, you faint, your body going limp within the confines of the cage. The darkness engulfs you, a soft, quiet void where time seems to stretch and compress all at once.

Suddenly, you feel yourself being lifted, the sensation of strong arms cradling you as Sunday carefully opens the cage door. His touch is unexpectedly gentle as he carries you, his voice a soft murmur against the silence of the temple.

"My angel," he whispers, his words a haunting lullaby. "Won't you be mine again?"

Through the haze of near-unconsciousness, you struggle to respond, the words slipping from your lips in a barely audible whisper. "Yes," you breathe, your voice fragile and faint. The acceptance, borne of weariness and a desperate desire to end the torment, slips out before you can grasp its full meaning.

Sunday's gaze softens, a strange blend of triumph and tenderness in his eyes as he gazes down at you. "Good," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Rest now, my angel. We have much to do."

With that, the darkness claims you fully, your mind descending into the depths of unconsciousness. The world around you fades, replaced by a void where only the echoes of Sunday's voice and the weight of your reluctant consent linger.

As you sleep, the temple remains silent, the moonlight casting long shadows across the ancient stone floor. The night stretches on, filled with dreams and nightmares that blur the line between reality and illusion. Somewhere in the depths of your slumber, a part of you clings to hope, to the faint glimmer of light that persists even in the darkest corners of Sunday's domain.

You awaken sometime later, the memories of your fainting spell and Sunday's words swirling in your mind. The soft, dim light of dawn filters into the temple, casting a pale glow over your surroundings. The cage door stands open, a reminder of the choice you made in a moment of vulnerability.

You wake up with a jolt, your body aching and your mind foggy. The memory of fainting and Sunday's words linger at the edge of your consciousness. As you shift to sit up, a sharp pain shoots through you, radiating from behind your ears. Groaning, you reach up to touch the source of the discomfort.

Your fingers brush against something soft and feathery. Panic surges through you as you explore further, discovering that wings—delicate and painful—are now attached behind your ears. Your heart races, and a scream tears from your throat, echoing through the temple.

The sound of your own voice startles you, and you scramble to your feet, rushing to a reflective surface. The sight that greets you is both horrifying and surreal: wings stitched onto your skin, the wounds fresh and raw. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you try to comprehend the impossible.

As you stand there, trembling, a familiar glow catches your eye. A halo, faint at first, gradually brightens above your head. The sight of it fills you with dread and confusion. How can this be? You gave up your halo long ago, choosing to become mortal for the sake of your daughter.

The realization hits you like a thunderclap: somehow, Sunday has not only manipulated your body but also tampered with the very essence of your being.

"No," you whisper, tears streaming down your face. "This can't be happening."

The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you turn to see Sunday standing at the entrance of the chamber, a look of satisfaction on his face.

"Welcome back, my angel," he says softly, his voice filled with a chilling warmth. "I told you, you belong to me now."

"How could you do this?" you demand, your voice breaking with a mix of pain and anger. "I gave up my wings, my halo—everything! For a new purpose! How can you bring them back?"

Sunday's smile widens, a dark glint in his eyes. "Power, my dear," he replies. "The kind of power that transcends mortal limitations. I have given you back what you forsook, and now, you are bound to me more intimately than ever before."

You clutch at the halo, feeling its weight and warmth, a physical manifestation of the chains that now bind you to Sunday's will. Desperation claws at your mind as you struggle to find a way out, to reclaim the freedom that feels more distant than ever.

"Why?" you whisper, the question slipping out in a moment of raw vulnerability. "Why do this to me?"

Sunday steps closer, his expression softening as he reaches out to gently touch your face. "Because, my angel," he says, his voice almost tender, "I want you by my side. Forever."

As his words sink in, the reality of your situation presses down upon you with crushing force. The temple, once a place of ancient secrets and eerie beauty, now feels like a prison—a cage where your own power and identity have been twisted to serve Sunday's dark desires.

With a deep breath, you steel yourself, determination flickering to life within your heart. You may be trapped, your wings and halo restored against your will, but you are not defeated. Somewhere within the labyrinth of Sunday's realm lies the key to your freedom, and you will find it, no matter the cost.

Sunday's grip tightens around your arm as he pulls you close, his eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and dark determination. With a swift motion, he pushes you down onto the bed, his weight pinning you beneath him. The feathers of your new wings rustle against the sheets, the pain of the stitches a constant reminder of your altered state.

"You are the delusional one," Sunday snarls, his voice low and menacing. "You gave up everything that made you special, everything that made you mine. I simply restored what you foolishly cast aside."

His words cut deep, the weight of his accusation pressing heavily upon you. But as you lie there, staring up at him, a sudden clarity pierces through the haze of fear and confusion. Memories, long buried and painful, surge to the surface, and you remember why you hate him—why you could never truly be his.

He was the one who killed your father.

The realization hits you with the force of a tidal wave, the raw emotion nearly overwhelming. The image of your father's lifeless body, the cruelty of Sunday's betrayal, floods your mind, igniting a fierce and unyielding rage within you.

"You!" you scream, the accusation tearing from your throat. "You killed my father! How could you do that? How could you take him from me?"

Sunday's expression shifts, a flicker of something almost like regret passing over his features before it is replaced by cold indifference. "Your father was a threat to my plans," he says dismissively. "He had to be eliminated for the greater good. For our future."

His words only fuel the fire of your anger, your hands balling into fists as you struggle beneath him. "There is no 'our future,' Sunday! You stole everything from me, and I will never forgive you for that."

A dark smile curls at the corners of his lips as he leans closer, his breath hot against your skin. "You can hate me all you want, but it won't change anything. You are mine now, my angel. Forever."

Sunday's grip remains firm as he leans in, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that is both possessive and demanding. You try to resist, but the power that emanates from him, the dark enchantment he wields, begins to cloud your mind. The rage and clarity you felt moments ago start to blur, memories of your father slipping away like grains of sand through your fingers.

Tears well up in your eyes as you fight to hold on, to remember why you must resist. But Sunday's kiss deepens, and the enchantment intensifies, erasing the edges of your thoughts. Your anger turns to confusion, the reasons behind your hatred dissolving into a foggy haze.

You cry out, the sound a raw expression of pain and helplessness, but the reason for your tears becomes increasingly elusive. Why are you crying? What is it that you are mourning? The answers elude you, hidden behind the fog that clouds your mind.

Sunday pulls back, his eyes searching yours with a twisted satisfaction. "Shh," he whispers, brushing away your tears with a gentle touch that contrasts sharply with the darkness of his intentions. "There is no need for tears, my angel. Everything will be alright."

You look up at him, the confusion in your gaze clear as you struggle to grasp the fragments of your lost memories. "Why... why am I crying?" you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

Sunday smiles, a cruel yet comforting expression. "You are simply overwhelmed," he says softly. "The past is behind us now. What matters is our future together."

His words seep into your mind, and the more you try to remember the reasons for your sorrow, the further they slip away. The image of your father, once so vivid, becomes a distant shadow, and the burning rage that fueled your defiance dissipates into a hollow ache.

You feel a deep sense of loss, but you cannot pinpoint its source. The tears continue to fall, and you clutch at the remnants of your memories, desperate to hold onto something, anything, that can anchor you to your former self.

Sunday's hands are gentle as he cradles your face, his touch paradoxically comforting and oppressive. "You are mine," he murmurs, his voice weaving a spell of compliance and acceptance around you. "And I will take care of you, always."

Sunday's fingers trace gently along your tear-streaked cheek, his touch deceptively tender. His eyes, however, gleam with a predatory hunger that sends a shiver down your spine. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin as he speaks.

"Will you let me take you, my angel?" he whispers, his voice a silken promise of possession. "Will you become one with me, body and soul?"

The question hangs in the air, thick with the weight of his dark intentions. Your mind is still foggy, the memories of your father and the reasons for your defiance slipping away like a distant dream. Yet, somewhere deep within you, a small, stubborn spark of resistance flickers, refusing to be extinguished.

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper as you respond. "What do you mean, Sunday? What do you want from me?"

Sunday's smile widens, a chillingly serene expression that belies the sinister nature of his desires. "I want your complete submission," he replies, his tone both commanding and coaxing. "I want you to surrender yourself to me entirely, to let me envelop you in my embrace and become part of my very being."

Your heart races, fear and confusion warring within you. The enchantment that clouds your mind makes it difficult to think clearly, to remember why you must resist. But the small spark of defiance refuses to be snuffed out, and you cling to it desperately.

"Why?" you manage to ask, your voice trembling. "Why do you want this?"

Sunday's expression softens, his gaze almost tender as he strokes your hair. "Because you are mine, and I am yours," he murmurs. "Together, we can be powerful, unstoppable. But you must trust me, my angel. You must let go of the past and embrace our future."

As he speaks, a strange warmth begins to spread through your body, dulling the edges of your fear and uncertainty. The enchantment wraps around you like a comforting blanket, urging you to surrender, to accept his touch and his words as truth.

But deep down, the spark of defiance burns brighter, reminding you of the person you once were and the promises you made. With every ounce of willpower you can muster, you cling to that spark, refusing to let it go.

"I... I need time," you whisper, hoping to buy yourself a moment of clarity. "I need to understand."

Sunday's smile tightens, but he nods, his eyes still locked onto yours. "Very well," he says softly. "But remember, my angel, time is a luxury you do not have in abundance."

You gather your strength, your voice wavering as you speak. "My mom never came to save me," you say, the words heavy with sorrow and confusion. "Why didn't she come for me?"

Sunday's expression shifts, a dark satisfaction flickering in his eyes. He takes a step closer, his presence looming over you as he reveals the bitter truth. "Your stepmother never intended to save you, my angel. She gave you away to me in exchange for Penacony's land."

The revelation strikes you like a physical blow, your breath catching in your throat. The woman who was supposed to care for you, to protect you, had sold you off for her own gain. The fear that had been a constant companion now deepens into a gnawing dread, the realization of your betrayal settling heavily upon you.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head in disbelief. "She wouldn't... she couldn't..."

The weight of the revelation crushes you, leaving you feeling shattered and hollow. Your legs feel weak, but you force yourself to stand, each step a struggle against the pain and despair that threaten to overwhelm you. You walk slowly, almost mechanically, towards the window, seeking some semblance of solace in the world outside.

As you reach the window, the cold moonlight spills through the bars, casting long, ethereal shadows across the floor. You gaze out, the beauty of the night contrasting sharply with the turmoil inside you. The moon, full and luminous, bathes the landscape in a silver glow, a silent witness to your suffering.

You press your hand against the cool glass, the stark reality of your situation pressing in on you from all sides. The betrayal by your stepmother, the dark enchantment that binds you, and Sunday's possessive control—all these things conspire to break you. The moonlight, once a symbol of hope and guidance, now feels like a cruel reminder of your captivity and isolation.

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over as you stand there, bathed in the cold light. The wings stitched to your skin ache with each breath, and the halo feels like a mockery of your lost freedom. The moonlight reflects off the tears on your cheeks, making them glisten like fragile shards of broken dreams.

You feel utterly alone, the vast expanse of the night sky beyond the window a stark contrast to the confines of your cage. The sense of being trapped, both physically and emotionally, presses down on you with unbearable weight. The moonlight illuminates your sorrow, highlighting the depth of your despair.

you stand by the window, lost in your despair, you feel a pair of arms encircle you from behind. Sunday's embrace is both tender and suffocating, his presence overwhelming. His touch, though deceptively gentle, feels like a cage tightening around you.

Tears stream down your face, and a sob escapes your lips. "Just kill me, Sunday," you plead, your voice breaking. "I can't take this anymore. I can't be broken any more than I already am."

Sunday tightens his hold, resting his chin on your shoulder. His breath is warm against your neck as he speaks, his voice soft but firm. "I won't kill you, my angel. I care about you too much for that. Why should you waste your tears on people who never cared for you? Your mother, Your friends—they left you. But I am here. I care about you."

You shake your head, the pain and confusion swirling within you like a storm. "They were my family," you whisper, the words a raw confession of your grief and loss. "I loved them."

Sunday's grip remains steady, his tone soothing yet insistent. "They betrayed you, abandoned you. I am the one who has always been here for you, who will always be here. Don't cry for those who never truly cared. Be with someone who does."

His words are a twisted comfort, a dark promise of belonging that tugs at the edges of your broken heart. The enchantment he wields seeps into your mind, urging you to accept his version of reality, to find solace in his embrace.

You close your eyes, the tears continuing to fall. "I don't know what to do," you admit, your voice barely a whisper. The weight of your sorrow and the relentless pressure of Sunday's influence make it hard to think, to hold onto the small spark of defiance within you.

Sunday turns you around gently, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that is both captivating and terrifying. "Let me take care of you," he murmurs, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "Let me show you that you are not alone. You don't have to fight this battle by yourself."

The darkness in his gaze is tempered by a genuine longing, a desire to possess and protect you in equal measure. You feel your resolve weakening, the fight draining out of you as his words weave their insidious magic.

But even as you stand there, teetering on the edge of surrender, a tiny voice within you cries out for freedom, for the life you once knew. It is faint, almost drowned out by the storm of emotions and enchantments, but it is there, refusing to be silenced.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I need time," you repeat, your voice firmer this time. "Time to think, to understand."

Sunday's expression softens, a rare moment of patience and understanding crossing his features. "Of course, my angel," he says, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "Take all the time you need. I will be here, waiting for you, whenever you're ready."

He releases you slowly, his hands lingering on your arms as if reluctant to let go. You step back, feeling a mixture of relief and trepidation. The path ahead is uncertain, but you cling to the hope that somewhere within you lies the strength to break free.

As you look up at Sunday, you see a softness in his eyes that makes you pause. His expression is so loving, so tender, that it stirs something deep within you. For a moment, the pain and confusion recede, replaced by a fragile sense of safety. His affection feels genuine, and despite everything, you find yourself longing for that warmth, that assurance of care.

You realize that you are tired of fighting, tired of the constant struggle and heartbreak. Sunday has always asked for your consent, has always framed his actions as being for your own good. In this moment of vulnerability, you begin to question your resistance. Perhaps he truly does care for you. Perhaps it is okay to let yourself be loved, even if that love comes with dark strings attached.

Slowly, you allow yourself to be manipulated by these comforting thoughts. You lean into the idea that being with someone who loves you is what you need, what you deserve. After all, isn't that what everyone wants? To be loved, to be cherished?

You look back at Sunday, your resolve softening. "Maybe... maybe you're right," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "Maybe I should just... let go."

Sunday's eyes light up with a mix of triumph and genuine affection. He steps closer, his hands gently cupping your face. "That's it, my angel," he murmurs, his voice soothing and persuasive. "Just let go. Let me take care of you. You deserve to be loved, to be cherished."

You nod slowly, the last remnants of your resistance crumbling. "Yes," you say, your voice steadying. "I want to be with someone who loves me."

Sunday's smile is radiant, his joy almost palpable. He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if you were the most precious thing in the world. "You've made the right choice," he whispers, his lips brushing against your hair. "I will take care of you, always."

In his embrace, you feel a strange mixture of peace and surrender. The battles you fought, the resistance you held onto, all seem distant and unnecessary now. You let yourself relax, let yourself be enveloped by the warmth of his affection.

For now, you are content to be held, to be loved. It is a relief to let go of the constant struggle, to give in to the comfort of his arms. And as Sunday holds you close, you tell yourself that it is okay. It is okay to be loved, to be cherished, even if it comes at a cost.

The moonlight continues to shine through the window, casting a serene glow over the two of you. In this moment, you allow yourself to believe that you have found what you were searching for: a place where you are wanted, a place where you are loved.

And for now, that is enough.

"Y/n..I'll wait for you to accept me..So don't worry..We won't have to do anything..uncomfortable to you..Tho, Kissing is quite normal to us nowdays.."

"....Thank you.."

[ineffable-endearments]

The Crow Road by Iain Banks

I finished The Crow Road and had a little time to think about it. I'll put my thoughts under a Keep Reading in case anyone is trying to avoid spoilers.

As I speculated before, I think it's likely that The Crow Road is more related to Good Omens in philosophy than in plot. I mean, it's not that the plots necessarily have nothing in common, and we could be very surprised in the end of course, but now that I've read the whole book, its philosophical commonalities with GO are both apparent and kind of inspiring. Also, if I were a writer, I'd be more interested in dropping hints about what themes are important than telegraphing my whole plot ahead of time.

So here, I will describe the book and point out themes that I believe may reappear in Good Omens 3.

This is a long post. If you read it, make a cup of [beverage of choice].

Update on 4/20/2024: I made a second post: The Crow Road and Good Omens: Further-Out Thoughts

Below are mentions of suicide, death/murder, and sexual acts.

The Crow Road centers around a character named Prentice McHoan, a university student in Scotland who starts to sort out his complicated relationship with his complicated family as he explores the mystery of his uncle Rory's disappearance. Although the book is mostly from Prentice's perspective, the narration jumps around in time with the McHoan family. There are quite a lot of important characters to keep track of; the bare-bones summary I put below doesn't even include some of the important ones. I wanted to make the summary even shorter and simpler than this, but the truth is that this book is not short or simple, and if I made the summary any simpler, it might be downright misleading.

There are at least three major cultural aspects of The Crow Road that I am inexperienced with: the overall culture in the 1950s-1980s (I was born in 1988, so of course wasn't here for the relevant decades), the international experience of the Gulf War (again, born in 1988), and the history and culture of Scotland itself (I'm USAmerican with only reading as a source). As a result, I'm sure there are important dimensions to the book that I've missed. If someone has a different perspective taking some of these things into account, I'd love to know about it.

Also, keep in mind, there is a great deal of descriptive writing in this book. There are a lot of pages about the geography of Scotland, and about Prentice as a kid, and about Prentice's father and uncles hanging out together in their youth, and about various family incidents, and about Prentice spending time with his brothers and friends. At first, these passages seem to just make things more confusing, and in my head, I accused them of being "filler." But they definitely serve a purpose. They're a way of showing and not telling the characters' attitudes and relationships to each other. More importantly, because we get to actually live these experiences with the characters, they are what give all the plot points below their deeper emotional impacts. In other words, the everyday experiences give the plot its deeper meaning. They resonate with one of the core themes in the novel: that our experiences in life, rather than any supposed existence after death, are what matters.

The Crow Road's story is like this:

Prentice is rather directionless in life, and he seems to have trouble investing any energy in his own future as he moons over his unrequited feelings for an idealized young woman named Verity. Soon, Verity ends up in a romance with Prentice's brother, Lewis, and Prentice feels that Lewis "stole" her from him. Prentice has also become estranged from his father, Kenneth, over spirituality. Prentice believes there has to be something more after death because he feels it would be incredibly unfair if people didn't get anything other than this one life; Kenneth is not only a passionate atheist, but is offended by the notion of an afterlife.

Prentice's uncle Hamish, Kenneth's brother, has always been religious, although his religion involves a number of bizarre and offbeat ideas of his own, with inspiration from more traditional Christian notions. Prentice is not really sure about this ideology, but he's willing to talk to Hamish about it and even participates during Hamish's prayers, whereas Kenneth is openly scornful of Hamish's beliefs. Hamish interprets this as Prentice being on "his side."

Prentice has a few opportunities to go back and talk to his father, and is begged to do so by his mom, Mary, with whom his relationship is still good. Mary doesn't want either of the men to give up their inner ideas about the universe; she just wants them to agree to disagree and move on as a family. Prentice says he will visit, but he just keeps putting it off and off and off.

Prentice acquires a folder containing some of his missing uncle Rory's notes in the process of hooking up with Rory's former girlfriend, Janice Rae, who seems to have taken a shine to Prentice because he reminds her of Rory. Using the contents of the folder, Prentice wants to piece together the great literary work that Rory left unfinished, which Rory titled Crow Road; however, it becomes apparent that Rory didn't turn his concepts into anything substantial and only had a bunch of disconnected notes and ideas. He hadn't even decided whether Crow Road would be a novel, a play, or something else. The few bits of Rory's poetry for Crow Road read are bleak and depressing.

Prentice also spends a lot of time with a young woman named Ash. They've been good friends since childhood and seem to have a somewhat flirtatious dynamic now, but they aren't in a romantic relationship; mostly, they drink and hang out together. Ash tells Prentice bluntly to get his life back on track when she finds out he's failing at school, avoiding his family, and engaging in shoplifting. She is a voice of reason, and when Prentice insists to her that he's just a failure, she reminds him that actually, he's just a kid.

Prentice's efforts to figure out Rory's story or location stagnate, and he continues to fail at school and avoid his father. He then receives word that Kenneth was killed while debating faith with Hamish. In fact, Kenneth dies after a fall from a church lightning rod, which he was climbing in an act of defiance against Hamish's philosophy when it was struck by lightning; Hamish is convinced that Kenneth had incurred God's wrath. Ash is there for support when Prentice finds out about the death.

With Ash's help, Prentice returns to his hometown again to help manage Kenneth's affairs. Prentice speaks with a very shaken Hamish, who is handling Kenneth's death with extreme drama and making it all about his own feelings. Hamish tells Prentice that Kenneth was jealous that Prentice shared more in common with Hamish's faith than with Kenneth's lack of faith. However, this isn't really true, and as he contemplates his father's death, Prentice begins to internalize one of the last things Hamish reported that Kenneth had argued: "All the gods are false. Faith itself is idolatry."

As the chapters go on, Prentice is compelled by some of the meaningful items related to Rory that he discovers in his father's belongings. He gains a renewed sense of purpose trying to solve the mystery of where Rory went and what happened to him. Among the interesting items are an ancient computer disk of Rory's that Prentice can't access with any equipment he can find; Ash uses her connections in the US and Canada to find a computer expert who can finally open the files on it. This takes quite a while, since the disk has to be mailed and Ash's connection is investigating the disk only in his free time.

Prentice also discovers that his feelings for Verity have changed. He no longer feels angry with Lewis for "stealing her." At first, Prentice's narration describes this as his feelings "cooling" as a result of the trauma of losing his father, but interestingly, this soon means Prentice gets to know Verity as a sister-in-law without getting caught up in jealous romantic feelings. Verity gets along well with the family, and Prentice is actually happy to discover that she and Lewis have a baby on the way. Prentice's relationship with Lewis improves greatly as well, partly because he is no longer jealous and partly because he realizes he does not want to lose Lewis, too.

Ash's connection who was looking at Rory's computer disk comes through and sends the printed contents of the files to Prentice. The files reveal to him that Rory likely knew Prentice's uncle, Fergus, murdered his wife by unbuckling her seat belt and crashing their car. Rory had written out a fictional version of events and considered using it in Crow Road. I'm not clear on exactly how certain Rory was about Fergus's crime, or whether Rory would have intentionally reported Ferg, or whether Rory even had enough proof to publicly accuse Ferg of murder, but people would likely have connected the dots in Rory's work and become suspicious of Ferg. For this reason, Prentice believes Ferg murdered Rory as well.

Prentice confronts Ferg. He doesn't get a confession and leaves Ferg's home with no concrete proof of anything; Ferg denies it all. But Prentice is soon physically assaulted in the night, and it seems Ferg was almost certainly the culprit, because he hadn't been home that same night, and he had injuries (probably from being fought off) the next day. A day or two later, Ferg's body is found unconscious in the cockpit of a plane, which crashes into the ocean. It's uncertain whether this was a suicide, but Prentice suspects it was. Rory's body is then soon recovered from the bottom of a waterway near Prentice's home, where Ferg had sunk it years ago.

As the mysteries are solved, Prentice realizes his feelings for Ash are romantic love. However, it's too late, he thinks, because Ash is about to take a job in Canada, where she may or may not stay. Prentice also hesitates to approach her because he's embarrassed about his previous behavior, venting all his angst about Verity and his father. He isn't sure she would even want to be in a relationship with him after that. But the very night before Ash leaves, she kisses Prentice on the cheek, which leads to a deeper kiss. They finally connect, have sex, and confess their mutual feelings. Ash still goes to her job in Canada, but says she'll come back when Prentice is done with his studies that summer.

The relationship's future is somewhat uncertain because something could come up while Ash is in Canada, but Prentice is hopeful. The book ends with Prentice getting ready to graduate with his grades on track as a history scholar, fully renouncing his belief in an afterlife while he acknowledges the inherent importance of our experiences in our lives now, and enjoying his time with Lewis and Verity and his other family members.

What's the point of all these hundreds of pages?

Well, look at all of the above; there's definitely more than one point. But the main point I took away is that we get this one life, with our loved ones in this world here and now, and this is where we make our meanings. There is no other meaning, but that doesn't mean there's no meaning at all. It means the meaning is here.

It's not death that gives life its meaning. It's the things we do while alive that give life its deeper meaning.

The Crow Road is described (on Wikipedia) as a Bildungsroman, a story focusing on the moral and philosophical growth and change of its main character as they transition from childhood to adulthood ("coming-of-age novel" is a similar term that is interchangeable, but more vague and not necessarily focused on morality/philosophy). And, indeed, all of the plots ultimately tie into Prentice's changed philosophy.

After his argument with Kenneth, Prentice feels childish and humiliated, and as a result, he refuses to go back home, which leads to a spiral of shame and depression. Kenneth dies and Prentice realizes it's too late to repair the relationship, which also leads him to realize it's what we do in life that matters, and that therefore, his father's argument was correct after all.

At the end of the novel, Prentice outright describes his new philosophy. However, I can't recall one specific passage where Prentice describes the process of how he changed his mind (if anyone else can remember something I missed, do let me know). There is, however, a moment when his narration indicates that Hamish seems less disturbed by his own part in the incident that led to Kenneth's death and more disturbed by the notion that his beliefs might actually be true: there might actually be an angry, vengeful God. In other words, Hamish's philosophy is selfish at its core.

My interpretation is that when his father died, Prentice realized three things: how utterly self-serving Hamish's devout faith is, how Kenneth's untimely death proves the importance of working things out now rather than in an imaginary afterlife, and how much profound meaning Kenneth had left behind despite having no faith at all. After these realizations, a determined belief in an afterlife no longer makes our lives here more profound like Prentice once thought it did.

Also, it's worth noting that this incident changes Prentice's idea of partnership, too. He loses interest in this distant, idealized woman he's been after. In love as in the rest of life, Prentice lets go of his ideals, and in doing so, he makes room for true meaning, both in a sincere familial, platonic connection with Verity and a sincere intimate, romantic connection with Ash.

But what about the sex scene?!

Yes, indeed, at the tail end of the story, Prentice and Ash have sex and admit they want to be in a relationship together. Prentice's narration describes them sleeping together and having intercourse not just once, but many times, including some slow and relaxed couplings during which they flex the muscles in their private parts to spell out "I.L.Y." and "I.L.Y.T." to each other in Morse code. This is relevant because earlier, they had been surprised and delighted to discover that they both knew Morse code; it isn't a detail that came from nowhere.

I didn't get the impression that this scene was trying to be especially titillating to the reader. It was mostly just a list of stuff the characters did together. I felt the point was that they were still anxious about being emotionally honest, a little desperate to convey their feelings without having to speak them out loud, and awkward in a way that made it obvious that their primary concern was the feelings, not the sexual performance. They cared about each other, but they weren't trying to be impressive or put on a show; contrast this with previous scenes where Prentice would act like a clown in front of Ash to diffuse his own anxiety. I've always thought that being able to have awkward sex and still enjoy it is a good sign.

Okay, so what does this all have to do with Good Omens?

Here's where I have to get especially interpretive. I'm doing my best, but of course, not everyone reading this will have the same perspective on Good Omens, the Final Fifteen especially. I believe similar themes are going to resonate between The Crow Road and Good Omens regardless of our particular interpretations of the characters' behavior and motivations, but I suppose it could hit differently for some people.

The TL;DR: I see similar themes between The Crow Road and Good Omens in:

The importance of mortal life on Earth

Meaning (or purpose) as something that we create as we live, not something that is handed to us by a supreme being

Sincere connection and love/passion (for people, causes, arts, life's work, etc) as a type of meaning/purpose

Relationships as reflections of philosophy

The dual nature of humanity

Life on Earth as the important part of existence is a core theme in Good Omens, and has been since the very beginning. We all already know Adam chose to preserve the world as it already is because he figured this out, and we all already know Aziraphale and Crowley have been shaped for the better by their experiences on Earth. But Good Omens isn't done with this theme by a long shot. I think this is the most important thematic commonality Good Omens will have with The Crow Road. Closely related is the notion that we create our meanings as we live, rather than having them handed to us. Isn't this, in a way, what Aziraphale struggles with in A Companion to Owls? He's been given this meaning, this identity, that doesn't fit him. But does he have anything else to be? Not yet.

Partnerships as a parallel to the characters' philosophical development also resonates as a commonality that The Crow Road may have with Good Omens. Prentice's obsession with Verity goes away when he starts to embrace the importance of life on Earth and makes room for his sincere relationship with Ash. Note their names: "Verity" is truth, an ideal Prentice's father instills in him; "Ashley" means "dweller in the ash tree meadow" in Anglo-Saxon, according to Wikipedia, and "ash" is one of the things people return to after death. Prentice literally trades his high ideals for life on Earth. We see in Aziraphale a similar tug-o'-war between Heaven's distant ideals and Crowley's Earthly pleasures, so I can see a similar process potentially playing out for him.

I don't particularly recall a ton of thematic exploration of free will in The Crow Road. However, there is a glimmer of something there: Prentice feels excessively controlled by Kenneth's desire to pass down his beliefs, and part of the reason Prentice is so resistant to change is simply his frustration with feeling censored and not being taken seriously. As the reader, I do get the feeling that while Prentice is immature, Kenneth made major mistakes in handling their conflict, too. And Kenneth's mistakes come from trying to dictate Prentice's thoughts. There is likely some crossover with Good Omens in the sense that I'm pretty sure both stories are going to take the position that people need to be allowed to make mistakes, and to do things that one perceives as mistakes, without getting written off as "stupid" or "bad" or otherwise "unworthy."

Suffice it to say that the human characters in Good Omens will also certainly play into these themes, but it's hard to write about them when we don't know much about them except that one of them is almost certainly the reincarnation of Jesus. This also makes me suspect perhaps the human cast will be 100% entirely all-new, or mostly new, symbolic of how Aziraphale and Crowley have immersed themselves in the ever-evolving, ever-changing world of life on Earth. Alternatively, if we encounter human characters again from Season 1 or 2, perhaps the ways they've grown and changed will be highlighted. For example, even in real-world time, Adam and Warlock have already, as of the time I'm writing this, gone through at least one entire life stage (from 11 in 2019 to 16 in 2024). They'll be legal adults in a couple of years, and if there's a significant time skip, they could be much older. If characters from Season 1 do reappear and themes from The Crow Road are prominent, I would expect either some key scenes highlighting contrasts and changes from their younger selves or for stagnation and growth to be a central part of their plot.

The more I write, the more I just interpret everything in circles. Hopefully this post has at least given you a decent idea of what The Crow Road is like and how it may relate to Good Omens.

I'll end this post with a quotation that feels relevant:

Telling us straight or through his stories, my father taught us that there was, generally, a fire at the core of things, and that change was the only constant, and that we – like everybody else – were both the most important people in the universe, and utterly without significance, depending, and that individuals mattered before their institutions, and that people were people, much the same everywhere, and when they appeared to do things that were stupid or evil, often you hadn’t been told the whole story, but that sometimes people did behave badly, usually because some idea had taken hold of them and given them an excuse to regard other people as expendable (or bad), and that was part of who we were too, as a species, and it wasn’t always possible to know that you were right and they were wrong, but the important thing was to keep trying to find out, and always to face the truth. Because truth mattered. Iain Banks, The Crow Road

[yilinwriter]

Kindred Spirits 知音: "The One Who Truly Understands Your Songs"

Update: Thank you for all the shares on this post! I want to mention that my debut book of Chinese poetry translations and essays on translation, The Lantern and the Night Moths, is out from Invisible Publishing and available through all bookstores. The longing for kindred spirits is one of the main themes running through the book. https://yilinwang.com/the-lantern-and-the-night-moths/

For #AroWeek, I want to talk about the Chinese term 知音 (pronounced zhīyīn in Mandarin), which has influenced my thinking about queerplatonic relationships. zhī 知: to know, knowing yīn 音: music, sound literally, a zhīyīn is someone who "truly understands your songs"

the term zhīyīn comes from a story about finding a kindred spirit through music.

There are many versions of the story. Here's one version:

One day, the musician Yu Boya was playing a qin (see image) in the wilderness, when he met Zhong Ziqi.

When Boya played one song, Ziqi immediately understood it and described it as reflecting the mood of soaring mountains (高山). When Boya played another song, Ziqi also comprehended immediately and described it as creating the mood of flowing waters (流水). Ziqi could understand all of Boya's songs. When Ziqi passed away, Boya felt so distressed that he destroyed his qin and never played it again. Boya thought of Ziqi as a "zhīyīn," and that term continues to be widely used to this day.

In a modern context, the term of "zhīyīn" is often translated into English as a soulmate, a kindred spirit, or a very close friend, but at its core, it's a term that refers to a type of intensely emotional, spiritual, and platonic connection with someone.

The original songs played by Boya have been long lost to the passage of time, but musicians and composers have tried to imagine what the songs might have sounded like.

There's even a recording of "Flowing Waters" (流水) included on the Voyager Golden Record, symbolically helping humankind search for a zhīyīn as it drifts around in outer space.

For me, as an aspec (demiromantic, biromantic, and asexual) Sino diaspora femme, the idea of zhīyīn offers me a way to think about the concept of queerplatonic relationships, given that it's very similar to the idea of a soulmate but without the necessary romantic connotations of the word in English. The concept of zhīyīn is explored again and again in various Sinophone literature and popular media, from wuxia and xianxia c-dramas to poetry that alludes explicitly or indirectly to zhīyīn.

Folks who follow my work as a translator might know that I have been translating poems by Qiu Jin (1875-1907), one of China's most renowned feminist poets. She frequently wrote about her longing for a zhīyīn. Some of my translations: https://chinachannel.lareviewofbooks.org/2021/02/12/qiu-jin/

The concept of zhiyin also features prominently in my upcoming book of poetry translations, The Lantern and the Night Moths. I originally wrote this thread for Twitter but wanted to bring it here for #AroWeek. Alloromantic folks, please take a moment to learn more about #AroWeek and support arospec creators. If you are arospec and found me via this tweet, please feel free to say hi!

[missy4176]

Love Languages Headcanon

Kim Dokja x Reader

1. Words of Affirmation

Kim Dokja is a man of words—both in his actions and in his history as a reader. However, when it comes to expressing affection through words, he’s often at a loss. His experience with life and relationships, marred by isolation and hardship, leaves him uncertain about how to articulate his feelings. Yet, this doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.

- Subtle Affirmations: Dokja's way of expressing love through words is subtle and often indirect. He’s not one for grand declarations. Instead, he shows his affection through small, thoughtful remarks. He'll tell you, in his quiet, almost absentminded way, that you did well, or that he trusts you to make the right decisions. It's in these moments of understated acknowledgment that you feel the depth of his emotions.

- Literary References: Sometimes, he will gift you a book with a note tucked inside—something brief but profound. The words he writes are carefully chosen, often drawing from the literature he holds dear. These notes are his way of sharing his world with you, a private language that only you both understand.

- Unspoken Understanding: More than words, it’s the understanding in his eyes, the way he looks at you after a long day, that conveys everything he cannot say. With a single glance, you know he’s telling you that he’s proud of you, that he’s glad you’re there by his side. His affirmations are quiet, but they’re laden with meaning.

2. Acts of Service

Kim Dokja is a pragmatist at heart. He’s always been more about action than empty words. This extends into his relationships, where his love language strongly manifests through acts of service.

- Protection in Subtle Ways: Dokja is fiercely protective, but he’s not the type to hover or make a big show of it. Instead, he ensures your safety in ways that you might not even notice. Whether it’s adjusting the difficulty of a scenario or positioning himself between you and danger without making it obvious, he’s always thinking several steps ahead to keep you safe.

- Taking on Burdens: He’s also someone who quietly takes on your burdens. If there’s something that you struggle with, you might find that Dokja has already handled it without mentioning it to you. He believes actions speak louder than words, and so he shows his love by making your life just a little bit easier in ways that you might not even realize at first.

- Sharing His Skills: Dokja might not be the best cook, but he’ll learn your favorite dish and prepare it for you, even if it means staying up late to figure it out. If there’s something you need help with, be it strategizing or simply needing someone to vent to, he’s always there, offering his time and skills without hesitation.

3. Quality Time

Time is perhaps the most precious commodity in the world Dokja inhabits. Despite the chaos that surrounds him, he always finds a way to carve out moments just for you.

- Reading Together: One of the most intimate ways he spends time with you is through reading. It’s a quiet activity, but one that means the world to him. Whether it’s sharing a passage from *Ways of Survival* or a book that reminds him of your journey together, these moments are sacred. It’s not just about the content of the books, but about the silent understanding that passes between you as you turn the pages together.

- Exploring the World: Dokja has seen many versions of the world, and he takes pleasure in showing you the parts that fascinate him. Whether it’s a hidden part of Seoul or a corner of a scenario that holds some personal significance, he loves sharing these experiences with you. It’s in these shared adventures that you see the world through his eyes, gaining insight into the complex mind that is Kim Dokja.

- Just Being There: Sometimes, quality time with Dokja means simply being in the same space. He might be engrossed in a scenario or lost in thought, but your presence is a comfort to him. The quiet companionship you share is something he deeply values, and even in silence, you feel connected.

4. Physical Touch

Physical affection is something that comes slowly to Dokja. It’s not that he doesn’t crave it—he does—but his past has left him wary of touch, associating it with vulnerability. However, with you, he learns to embrace it in his own way.

- Small, Reassuring Touches: Dokja starts with small gestures—brushing his fingers against yours as you walk side by side, a hand on your shoulder when words fail him, or a light squeeze of your hand when you’re facing something difficult. These touches are brief, but they carry a world of meaning for him.

- A Protective Embrace: When the situation calls for it, Dokja’s touch becomes more assertive. If you’re in danger or feeling scared, he’ll pull you close, holding you tight as if to shield you from the world. In these moments, you can feel his determination to protect you, his body a barrier between you and harm.

- Quiet Intimacy: Over time, Dokja becomes more comfortable with physical closeness. He might not always initiate it, but when you cuddle up to him during a quiet moment, he relaxes into your embrace, a small smile playing on his lips. These are the moments he treasures most—when the world is quiet and it’s just the two of you, close and content.

5. Gift-Giving

Dokja’s approach to gift-giving is as thoughtful and deliberate as the man himself. He’s not one for lavish displays, but the gifts he does give are always deeply meaningful.

- Sentimental Tokens: He’ll give you something small, but with great personal significance—perhaps a bookmark from a book that means a lot to him or a trinket he found in one of the scenarios that reminded him of you. These gifts are his way of showing you that he’s always thinking of you, even when you’re apart.

- Practical Gifts: Dokja is also pragmatic in his gift-giving. He’ll give you something that you need, something that will make your life easier or help you in a scenario. These gifts might not seem romantic on the surface, but they’re Dokja’s way of ensuring you’re prepared and cared for, a reflection of his deep concern for your well-being.

- The Gift of Knowledge: Occasionally, Dokja’s gift to you is his knowledge. He might share information about a scenario or give you advice on how to handle a difficult situation. These “gifts” are perhaps the most precious of all, as they reflect the trust he places in you and his desire to see you succeed.

Kim Dokja’s Personality in Love

Kim Dokja is a man who has spent most of his life on the sidelines, observing rather than participating. His experiences have shaped him into someone who is reserved, introspective, and often hard to read. Yet, beneath this exterior is a person who loves deeply and fiercely, even if he struggles to show it in traditional ways.

- Reserved Affection: Dokja is not someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. His love is quiet, often hidden behind layers of self-doubt and the weight of his responsibilities. But for those who take the time to understand him, it’s clear that his feelings run deep. He’s someone who shows his love through actions rather than words, and even then, his gestures are subtle.

- Protective and Self-Sacrificing: Dokja’s love is protective, almost to a fault. He’s willing to put himself in harm’s way to keep you safe, even if it means shouldering burdens you’re unaware of. His love for you is something he often keeps to himself, fearing that it might be a weakness or a distraction. But when push comes to shove, his actions speak volumes.

- A Love Rooted in Understanding: For Dokja, love is about understanding—both being understood and understanding the one he loves. He values a partner who can see past his reserved nature, who can appreciate the quiet ways he shows his affection. In return, he seeks to understand you, to know your thoughts, your fears, and your dreams. It’s through this mutual understanding that his love truly flourishes.

[sexcromancy]

in this post, I will use complit to explore the bodyswap theme in Nona the ninth. in january i read isle mcelroy's people collide, a pretty good litfic novel with a great premise: a husband and wife experience an unexplained body swap and have to adjust to possibly permanent life in a body that is both wrong and right for them in unexpected ways. mcelroy's very thinky treatment of this idea really crystallized and brought forward some ideas I had about palamedes, camilla, and paul on my most recent ntn reread. mcelroy's novel focuses mainly on the husband now living in the wife's body, who discovers shortly after waking up that way that his wife, in his body, has disappeared. when he finds her again she is preternaturally confident and self-satisfied, while he has struggled with his self-image and self-conception, but also found things to love about being in her body. in their scenes together upon reunion, especially the sex scenes, there is some really delicious focus on whose body is whose. this is partly done through clever wordplay and partly through narrator commentary. this is what really made me start thinking about palamedes and camilla.

nona, expert of the body, is constantly Noticing who is in camilla's body at any one time. if she doesn't know, it is assumed to be camilla until proven otherwise. even in scenes like palamedes' conversation with the angel (in the classroom, day 4), where we can tell its palamedes before nona explicitly says so, nona's narration is very specific about when the switch happens.

Camilla took her dark glasses off and folded them up neatly, to put in her breast pocket. Then she said quietly -- "May I ask a question?" Nona glanced up at Camilla's face, just to confirm it. "Go ahead," said the Angel, smiling without her eyes having anything to say about it. "Back on Lemuria, or anywhere else," said Palamedes...

this switch is notable to me for two reasons. first, as mentioned above, Nona is careful to refer to the person as Camilla, even though it is clear to us in hindsight that the switch must've happened at the very least before the coordinated trip intended to read the Angel's body with necromancy. second, camilla's body is still camilla's body, even with palamedes inside. this is even clearer later in the scene, with the line "Palamedes stepped Camilla's body forward." in the passage above, nona is looking at camilla's face, but not at camilla. to me, this kind of word trick is one of muir's most impressive and subtle talents.

practically every time nona witnesses a palamedes/camilla switch, she notices little details like the above. it underlines the theme of body ownership again and again. it is camilla's body, palamedes can only pilot it temporarily. to nona, it is never his, even for a moment. i think that this is part of what it so absolutely world-shakingly terrifying for nona about paul, and why paul's emergence foretells nona's understanding of the "middle thought." nona doesn't know basically anything about necrocav dynamics, and as an outside observer, she doesn't understand the way palamedes had rights to camilla's body (even if he rarely exercised them) even before inhabiting it. so when she witnesses paul, she is watching what we can understand as a logical endstate of their lifelong relationship, but what she can only understand as a complete and final subsuming of a body that was always only camilla's. nona has been told for the entire book up to this point that the body she's in does not belong to her, and paul forces her to finally face the reality that she might genuinely lose rights to it.

to bring these thoughts together, both muir and mcelroy are building on the idea of bodily autonomy and ownership. they both futz with who lives in a body in order to create strange, heightened, circumstances. and they both highlight those moments with clever wordplay around who is acting in who's body at a given moment. with mcelroy, we are inside the bodyswap, and it is a very intimate experience centered almost entirely on the two characters. with muir, nona's view of camilla and palamedes is our primary focus for this theme. it might be easy to forget that pyrrha, judith, ianthe, kiriona, and nona herself are all also in similar body-ownership plots, because they receive even less focus. its certainly one of the main themes of this book, as well as the series as a whole. it feels obvious, but the complexity and depth of the execution is underdiscussed.

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

Okay imagine Solomon being upset and jealous that MC doesn’t have a mark of his own on their body, MC notices this fact and gets the mark of Solomon tattooed onto their body. I’ve been so obsessed with this idea ever sense Solomon became my no.1 favorite character ever.

Ooh, yes, I've seen this floating around as well!

Solomon would be pleased on the outside, absolutely thrilled on the inside. I think having his own mark would satiate that jealousy, because now having his own mark on your body shows the world that you have a strong bond of trust and care. Just as you do with the brothers, if not more so.

I know many people have different headcanons about where each of the brothers' marks are on their MC's body, which usually have some sort of meaning. I suppose it's up to preference where you'd want to be permanently tattooed, but what if you got it in an area that was special to both of you?

Trying to be as inclusive as I can to everybody's headcanons of the brothers' marks, so take these with a grain of salt or come up with your own! :)

Perhaps Solomon has disclosed with you a certain part of your body that he just adores, an area he often touches in moments when it's just the two of you. Rubbing your knuckles or kissing the back of your hand when watching movies together, caressing the small of your back while you read over a passage from one of his spell books, right behind your ear where he rubs soft circles as you drift off to sleep in his bed, or brushing his lips against your shoulder as he holds you from behind while you make dinner.

Getting his mark in an area he dotes over, one that he never fails to touch or lavish with kisses in those near ritualistic moments, would be the ultimate gesture. Because for him, it would be an indication that the small things he does in the time he is granted with you mean something to you. They're special to you too.

That's the fluffy, sentimental version. Now I kinda want to explore the logistical or rational placing of his mark.

I was looking at the seal of Solomon, and noticed two things: the symbol for Saturn (the one that looks like an awkwardly drawn n) and the symbol for Mars (which interestingly enough, the Mars symbol seems to have the Sun's symbol in it as well. Mars is the "male" symbol, while the Sun is a circle with a dot in the center).

For quick reference, Saturn rules both Capricorn and Aquarius in traditional astrology - representing structure and discipline. Mars rules both Aries and Scorpio in traditional - representing drive and passion. And I'll go ahead and do the Sun's as well, it rules Leo - representing the ego.

Now, I mention this for one reason: medical astrology. Each part of the body (and its systems within) are ruled by a sign (quick fire examples: Capricorn - knees, Aquarius - calves, Aries - head, Scorpio - lower regions, Leo - spine). So, how impressed would he be if he realized you'd tattooed his mark in one of those areas? Just what he'd expect of his clever apprentice! (Even better if you got it on the left side of your body, as the left represents wisdom! Right is power, in case you wanted to know :)).

Perhaps by doing so, you invoke one of the qualities of those aforementioned planet rulings, like you find yourself being more responsible with the mark on your ankle or the back of your knee, maybe you're more authentic with it at the top of your spine, or more aggressive in your pursuits with it on your naval or behind your ear.

I think he'd be fascinated, and oddly flattered, that his mark influences you in a such way. Like he's indirectly influencing you. It'd be similar to how the brothers' sins on your body might make you act certain ways, like more greedy or more gluttonous.

Yeah, he'd be smitten with you and that mark wherever you end up putting it. Whatever makes you happy, as long as he has a little claim of you as well. Perhaps he'd create a mark that represents you to tattoo on his body... If there's room, ha!

[fliflaflux]

Sharess Caress with Astarion - a little analysis

CW: The following text deals with coping with the trauma of sexual and physical violence.

» When you met his eye for a moment, there's a look about him that reveals he's a milion realm away «

The scene with the Drow twins is often discussed - But what was astarion thinking in agreeing to the whole thing in the first place? I try to analyze a little what might be going on in the head of our favorite vampire. Might is important here, because of course I cannot know exactly.

First of all, what will I be referring to when I write about Astarion's trauma?

» "In the immediate aftermath of trauma, the victim's personality organization is disintegrated, and experiences of self and world are fragmented and chaotic. With the passage of time, the survivor's symptoms consolidate into recognizable patterns, such as intrusive memories, emotional numbness, and exaggerated startle responses." « (From: Herman, J. L. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence--from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. Basic Books.)

Or in short: it's a mess.

Trial-and-Error

Treating trauma is a complicated matter and in many cases requires the help of a therapist. However, I have not yet heard of any therapists in Faerûn - so Astarion is on his own (Or he and Tav.) So I theorize that he's trying the trial-and-error method to find his own boundaries after Cazador is defeated.

Trial-and-error methods in trauma therapy refer to the process by which therapists and patients try and adapt different treatment approaches and techniques to identify those that are most effective in addressing trauma sequelae and promoting healing. In this approach, therapy is viewed as an iterative process in which both therapists and patients experiment together to find the best treatment approaches that best meet the patient's individual needs, resources and responses.

It is important to note that trial-and-error methods in trauma therapy are typically not used in isolation but as part of a more wide-ranging therapeutic approach. Here's from the book "The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma" by Bessel van der Kolk: » "The healing process often involves trial and error as therapists and clients explore different techniques and approaches to determine what works best for the individual." «

But the thing is that Astarion doesn't have a therapist. His approach of agreeing so quickly may be one to find his hard boundaries in order to be able to work with them. However, in this case he had no one to support him. No one to catch him when he started to disassociate (when he is miles away). Not to mention that jumping into bed with two strangers and his love might have been a bit too much of a jump from 0 to 100.

He certainly wants to have a 'normal' relationship with Tav, which includes sleeping together. Just because he is traumatized in this way doesn't mean that he doesn't want any more physical closeness. On the contrary: I even think that he really wants this unforced closeness out of his own desire. But he's not completely ready for it yet. But it's in character for him over the course of the game that he doesn't think long about the offer with the Drow twins, but agrees straight away. And completely overreaches himself.

Good or bad decision?

So is it a bad decision to suggest Astarion visit the brothel at all? No. I have and will always make it dependent on my player character and how it fits into the roleplay. Because Astarion agrees of his own free will. Part of his character arc is that he learns to make his own decisions and have his own experiences. This also means that he has the right to make wrong decisions. These can also be learned from in the process of healing. Every experience is important.

Cheers! -Flux

[dionysus-complex]

you mentioned you specialize in roman violence. can you rec any good works on the subject, especially during the late antique period? how much (or little) time/writing did latin authors spend on the question of the necessity/morality/glory of violence, especially when bound up with empire and borders? did rhetoric around domestic violence evolve?

It's obviously a massive topic, so it's difficult to know where to begin! For looking at violence in Late Antiquity, I highly recommend the work of Maijastina Kahlos as a starting point - most of her scholarship deals with tensions between religious communities in the Roman Empire in Late Antiquity, and I've found it extremely clear and illuminating. For Late Antique slavery, I'd look at Jennifer Trimble's work, especially "The Zoninus Collar and the Archaeology of Roman Slavery" (2016, JSTOR link here). On the intersections of violence and the legal system, I'd recommend Sarah Bond's 2014 article "Altering Infamy: Status, Violence, and Civic Exclusion in Late Antiquity" (JSTOR link here) as well as Julia Hillner's 2015 book Prison, Punishment and Penance in Late Antiquity. Amy Richlin is essential reading on Roman violence in general, and I'd highly highly recommend her piece "Cicero's Head" in Constructions of the Classical Body (ed. James Porter, 1999) if you have access to an academic library and can get a hold of it; it's explicitly framed as a Jewish, post-Holocaust reflection on the violence of the Roman proscriptions and civil wars and has been profoundly influential on my own thinking.

In general, Imperial-era Latin authors spend a lot of time thinking about the necessity/morality/glory of violence, to the point that I'd say violence is the key theme in Imperial Latin literature. It's often bound up with Stoic philosophy (in the 1st-2nd c. CE; Seneca's De Ira is a key text - you might take a look at sections 3.18-19 on torture under Caligula), and given the bias of our sources which skew toward the elite/senatorial-class perspective, it can be harder to track down texts that explicitly make the link between violence and Roman imperium. One famous example is the speech of Calgacus in Tacitus' Agricola 29-32 (link to a translation here), which purports to be the speech of a Celtic general in Britain rousing his troops to battle against the Romans in the 80s CE. Given that speeches in Roman historiography are generally regarded as being compositions by the historian, it's important to ask why exactly Tacitus of all people gives a prominent place to a scathing critique of Roman imperium - there are lots of ideas on this and few definitive answers, but it's a startling passage to say the least.

Imperial Latin epic poetry (e.g. Lucan's Bellum Civile; Statius' Thebaid) is well known for being graphically violent in the extreme (as in brutal torture, dismemberment, and one infamous instance of brain-eating in Thebaid 8), and there's a lot of work on how and why violence becomes highly aestheticized for Imperial Latin poets. There's also the genre of Roman declamation (difficult to explain, but essentially something like mock trial cases that were used for rhetorical education and showmanship), which frequently explores extremely violent scenarios involving torture, kin-killing, etc. Most scholars these days tend to read declamation as a space where (elite, male) Romans worked out and interrogated various cultural anxieties and taboos. Because of this, you get some of the strongest condemnations of violence found anywhere in Latin literature in the declamatory corpus, but it's difficult to extrapolate from that because again it's something like mock trial and rhetorical showmanship that does not necessarily map on to real-life Roman attitudes.

I've barely scratched the surface and there's a lot more I could say but I'll cut myself off here - I might be able to offer more specific recs if you're interested in e.g. violence as spectacle, aesthetics and artistic representations of violence, etc.

[polygnosticu]

I kind of feel like shows such as TOH have been a big contributor to the infantilization of adults. Luz doesn’t have to change and everyone who calls her out is made to be in the wrong. This series kind of enabled my worst tendencies with the “I just want to be understood” from a character who did not deserve that. Evangelion actually helped me grow out of that with its harsh but necessary lesson. What do you think?

Evangelion is a discussion I would love to have someday. That show had so many layers to it to dig into and explore. I don't think you can hold The Owl House up to it as Evangelion was a show intended for adults from the outset. Not to mention what Anno Hideaki was going through when he created it. Then that can be said about most anime even when children are the intended demographic.

The fandom of The Owl House seems to have little to no interest in the show Dana Terrace actually created. The show is dark as are the characters but that seems to have escaped the fandom when Lumity became canon and all the fandom cared about was shipping. That's why MoringMark is so popular and almost treated as canon by much of the remaining fandom. They don't want to know just how messed up these people are when you look at the things they've actually done in canon. Luz wanted to blow up a school for her book report. Amity is guilty of at least two attempted homicides. Eda ate a defeated enemy alive. The Demon Realm is well named as it is not a nice place. The show could have been fantastic if Dana had stayed with her original vision of Luz going through a coming-of-age tale in the Disney equivalent of Hell. Instead the fandom wanted Luz to find a happy place where she could be who she was without being judged no matter how inappropriate and dangerous her behavior was.

Amphibia got the concept of the isekai right. The Calamity Trio arrived in Amphibia as irresponsible children and through their journey matured into the young adults we saw at the series' end. TOH fans hated that ending because Anne, Sasha and Marcy grew up beyond their need for a fantasy world to escape into. They preferred Luz retreating to the Demon Realm where she and her friends could remain children forever. Adulthood is scary. Ask me how I know. The Calamity Trio are prepared for the adult world of getting a job, earning and saving money, paying taxes, making new friends and finding new relationships, etc. All the things that mark passage into the adult world. Luz never made that trip. Instead she got a fantasy world where she can stay the child she was in the first episode forever while trapping her friends in their childhoods as well. Amphibia will age well as a series because its creator and fans took the show seriously. The Owl House is largely being forgotten as we speak as its fans move on looking for the next big ship.

[queens-of-spirits]

Why the svsss papapa scenes are literary genius actually, Part 1:

So, fun fact, I originally wanted to do a funny little post where I ranked the four papapa scenes in svsss (with special mention to the start of the return to childhood extra and LMY’s writing) but my deranged ass decided to go full quirky English prof and turn this shit into a proper analysis.

So, believe it or not, the svsss papapa scenes are actually really important for understanding a lot of the characters and themes of the story. So yes. I am going to go through them all and explain why. Starting with…

Maigu Ridge (spoilers, obviously):

If this were actually my silly rankings post (which I still may make), Maigu ridge would rank dead last in any category related to actually being an enjoyable smut scene to read. That’s fine, because, to put it bluntly, that wasn’t the point.

It’s a subversion of the pressure and idea of the perfect first time or instinctive sexual skill seen in both power fantasy and romance/bl novels. That subversion and the shock of what happens is meant to take us out of the scene and make us think about the characters, the situation, and the tropes we take for granted. Remember, svsss is genre savvy twice over, both in Danmei/bl and power fantasy fiction. It explores both those worlds and the complicated aspects of both (I.e the obsession with revenge). It’s not trying to be a good smut scene, it’s setting up the characterization of the couple and the character arc seen throughout the rest of the papapa moments in the extras (more on that in future posts, but it’s about SQQ learning to be more open with his desire and pleasure) and exemplifying the main themes of the book (forgiveness and intention)

So without further ado, here is my analysis on this scene.

The notes about SQQ’s character in the Maigu Ridge scene should be obvious and understood by looking at the broad context of the scene. Like the Without a Cure moment, it shows how much he cares for LBH and his willingness to put his own life and body on the line to save him. It is devotion, pure and simple. However, more depth is revealed when examining specific passages (note all quotes are from the English publications because I don’t speak Chinese, so I’m sorry if the translation muddled the meaning).

The most vital part to me for Binghe’s character is this line:

“he’d done this out of consideration for Luo Binghe’s convenience, but unexpectedly he was flipped back around. Luo Binghe jammed himself between Shen Qingqiu’s legs, his entire attention rapt on Shen Qingqiu’s face.”

This refers to how SQQ tries to turn around so that LBH would not see his face during what is about to happen and LBH flipping him over again.

This, I believe is symbolic. SQQ turns around because he thinks that anyone will do and he is the only one willing, but that’s not true LBH wants SQH specifically. He needs to relieve the energy from the sword’s influence, yes, but despite that pain, he is focused solely on SQQ’s face.

The transformation from the stallion protagonist Bingge to our Bingmei is exemplified here better than any scene before it (I would argue it is later topped by the Bingge vs Bingmei extra). Unlike Binghe, Bingmei is not looking for mindless pleasure to escape his lonely life (represented here by the corrupting energy of the sword) he is seeking the one he adores above all, the one who he cares for more than anything. He has found true connection and THAT is what drives him to madness (remember, he’s trying to destroy everything to be the only one in SQQ’s world so he can’t be abandoned). That’s why, even when supposedly in a mad state, he seeks to look at SQQ’s face, because it isn’t about the sex, it’s about them, the two of them together.

The other vital part is the aftermath, before even the jade pendant. Specifically, this exchange:

“Shizun don’t hate me…I didn’t know…I never wanted to hurt you…why didn’t you push me away? Why didn’t you kill me?”

“This master knows. This master was willing”

Again, this was an act not born out of lust, like with Bingge and his wives, but something different. Bingge takes what he wants and feels no guilt because nothing was ever given to him, but Bingmei was given the world by one person and struggles with not feeling like, with not BEING the animal or monster that the rest of the world sees him as’

LBH had no intention to hurt SQQ

Just like how SQQ had no intention to hurt him by avoiding him

It’s symbolic of their relationship as a whole. Unintentional hurt and the forgiveness that follows. THATS why the remaining papapa scenes are so important. It’s about them learning to not hurt each other. Every single papapa scene that follows builds on this idea of them learning the right way to love each other (remember, their story together is just beginning after the last page of the book) and learning how to not hurt each other unintentionally, LBH physically, SQQ emotionally.

Again, clear themes of forgiveness and intention. The reasons behind why people do bad things (hence the focus on SJ and TLJ as complex characters) and the act of forgiveness and learning from mistakes, which I argue are the two main themes of SVSSS

So while Maigu ridge is terrible in terms of being an enjoyable scene to read, that was not it’s purpose. It’s purpose was to utilize the tropes of both Danmei and male fantasy to take us out of those genres (where first times always go well) and get us to THINK about the characters and why they do what they do, their intentions.