#something something hope survives best at the hearth

[ruegarding]

today i'm thinking abt percy asking for his mother's blessing so he can either die in the river styx or die shortly after by fulfilling the prophecy and her response was to come up w a sign to let her know if he lives

[the-lonelybarricade]

In From the Snow - Chapter 1

Summary: With her sisters missing and her father dead, Nesta is forced to brave the coming winter and the contempt of her fellow villagers on her own. That is, until a mysterious dog appears and refuses to leave her side.

My contribution to @nessianweek Day 4: AU.

This is the Nessian installation to my They Are the Hunters series. While I would recommend reading the Elucien/Feysand stories, I did my best to give this story enough context to stand on its own. I really hope you enjoy!

Also shout out to Mr. LB for letting me borrow his computer to post this!

Read on AO3・Series Masterlist

-

The first snowfall of the year had always been a terrible omen.

Every year, as it laid siege to their poorly insulated cottage, Nesta’s family would wonder if they would live to see the snow melt in the spring.

This year, Nesta had known before the first snow arrived that their father would not survive the winter. His health had been deteriorating for a long time, and the news of Elain’s disappearance had devastated him, accelerating his decline until he could do little more than sleep beside the fire. She was a wretch for thinking it, but Nesta had long decided the day he didn’t wake up would be a relief. It was one less mouth to feed, especially when that mouth was hardly capable of swallowing for itself.

The firewood was dwindling. Nesta had used up so much of the excess in the days she had refused to leave the house, expecting the authorities to be waiting just beyond the front door, ready to carry Nesta and her father away to certain death. It didn’t matter if Feyre had been the one to steal the traveler’s horse or that Elain had allegedly been the one to murder her own husband. Neither were here to show for their crimes.

But the authorities never came. And her sisters never returned.

Surely, if either of them had been caught, the authorities would have come for the remainder of the Archerons? Nesta hadn’t yet braved the village to confirm, which meant that she and her father were on the brink of starvation, too.

Given that Nesta’s own constitution was rapidly weakening with the cold, it was no surprise at all that when the first snowfall visited in the night, it took their father with it. She didn’t feel relief when he didn’t open his eyes the next morning. She felt… numb.

Like her face when she opened the cottage door to a blast of frozen air. Like her fingers as she gripped the splintering shovel. Like her palms, rubbed raw from the repetitive motion of digging the metal into the cold, solid earth, then depositing it into a pile at her side.

Nesta had never had a good relationship with her father. She had always assumed that when he died, Elain would be there to express whatever sweet sentiment she felt he was owed at his burial. Unlike Elain, Nesta buried him in silence—just as he had been on the day Elain set down on a path to be married to a Lord’s son against her will.

Elain had never blamed him. Had always insisted it was out of his hands, just like their mother’s death. Just like their family’s fall from fortune when they were children. Elain was quick to forgive, always focused on what lay ahead. But Elain had never looked at their father’s ledger. Nesta had.

Not that any of it mattered now. Their father was dead, and Nesta likely wouldn’t be far behind. At least there had been someone to bury him in the ground, which was more than she could say for herself.

That night, she drank a cup of boiled water and fell asleep curled up beneath a thin blanket in front of the hearth. The fire crackled, close enough to coat her face and hair in soot as the snow continued mercilessly falling outside. Nesta knew that if she didn’t go to the village in the morning to find something to eat, soon she would be too weak to make the trip. And she would die.

By the time she fell asleep, she hadn’t decided which she would prefer.

She woke to sunlight filtering through the frosted window pane and the sound of scratching at her door. Nesta stilled, reaching for the fireplace poker as she wondered if this was it. Someone from the village had finally come for her. The authorities? Or was it just someone taking advantage of a lone, defenseless woman?

A creature sniffed at the small gap between the rickety door and the cold cottage floor. Gods, had someone brought their dog to chase her down? Nesta held her breath, watching the shadow pass in front of her door. Once, twice, three times, like it was moving in slow circles. And then it laid down, effectively barricading her in. She listened carefully for any sound of someone commanding the creature. There was only howling wind.

Fine, Nesta thought, creeping carefully into the room she had once shared with her sisters. The bed felt so empty without them—so much colder than sleeping in front of the fire. The room had a single window, just big enough for her to crawl through to make her escape. She pushed the latch open as quietly as she could and pulled herself through the gap.

Her landing was not overly graceful but quiet enough that she thought she wouldn’t be heard over the wind. Yet, when she turned to make her break, there it was. A dog so large she could have mistaken it for a bear. It had come around the house to watch her sneak out the window, and now it sat directly in her path.

It cocked its head, hazel eyes curious. If she didn’t know better—and she did—Nesta would have thought it looked amused with her stunt. Keeping him in her periphery, Nesta turned her head to assess if its owner was nearby, but nobody was around.

He didn’t look vicious. But he also didn’t look like a stray. He looked too well-fed, and his coat was clean. Well-groomed.

“Go home,” she said, making a small, shooing motion. “I don’t have any food to give myself, let alone some overgrown mutt.”

He was blocking the only way to the village. Ang grinning like he knew it. Cautiously, Nesta took a small step forward, then another, weighing the animal’s reaction. His posture remained friendly enough that she kept moving, still giving him a wide berth once she was on the main path.

The dog swiveled to face her as she stepped around him. And when she started down the path towards the village, he followed. The entire shivering trudge there, Nesta tried to convince him to leave. She’d have enough trouble convincing someone to sell her bread on her own, let alone with a gigantic dog following at her heels. Feyre’s cat had been the exact same way, and Nesta wondered why animals seemed to adopt such strange fixations on their family.

“Go,” she tried one last miserable time on the outskirts of the village. When he still refused, she stomped the rest of the way to the baker’s shop, determined to pretend the stupid thing wasn’t there at all.

It was harder to do so when she saw the baker’s face. “Nesta,” he said warily. His attention flickered to the dog at her feet, then back to her face. She didn’t miss the way his nose curled with distaste. “Hello.”

Never mind all the hours she had spent tutoring his daughter, then. Years of fostering goodwill with his family in exchange for a stale loaf of bread, dismissed on rumor that Elain might have murdered her husband. The village acted like the Archerons had the plague, and even if Elain had murdered Graysen, the reaction was certainly overblown. As far as Nesta was concerned, the Nolan men had been insufferable, and Elain had done the village a favor.

“Hi.” She pressed three copper pieces to the counter. “I just need one loaf.”

He stared at the copper pieces, not moving to collect them.

“What’s wrong?” She asked hotly. “My family’s coin was perfectly fine a month ago.”

“I’ve increased the price,” he said stiffly, pushing the coin back with his arm. Like touching the same coin would somehow mark him as the next Archeron victim. “This is not enough.”

“You used to charge me a copper,” she seethed.

He gestured towards the window. “Winter has fallen. Times are growing harder.”

“And if I asked Claire Beddor how much you charged her family this morning, what would she say?”

The baker shrugged, calling her bluff. “Why don’t you ask her?”

Claire Beddor wouldn’t speak to her. No one would. Not since Tomas, and certainly not since Lord Graysen’s murder.

Gritting her teeth, Nesta pushed a copper onto the table. The baker stared blankly at her, until she slammed down another. He shook his head.

“This is all we have,” Nesta said desperately, even though it wasn’t true. Feyre had stolen enough from the passing traveler to feed them for months—or it would have been if the villagers weren’t raising their prices out of contempt.

The baker opened his mouth, and Nesta truly believed he was going to send her onto the street to starve when the dog at her side began growling. The baker took one look at the creature’s bared teeth and turned pale. He quickly grabbed the extortionate amount of money from the counter and tossed a loaf at Nesta with a strained, “Get out of my shop.”

She’d take it, even if her blood was boiling. The loaf would be enough to last her a week, at least. It would buy her time to figure out how to deal with the villagers. What to do with the remaining coin. If she could just find someone willing to sell her passage to Velaris, it would be enough to get to Elain. But no one from this village would be willing to help.

“Here,” Nesta said, pausing outside her cottage door. The dog stopped with her, watching curiously as she tore a piece from the loaf of bread and held it aloft. “You take this, and we’ll be even, okay? You’ll leave me alone. Deal?”

The dog nodded, though she was certain that had more to do with how she bobbed the piece of bread in the air.

“Ready?” She said, raising the piece over her head. He shuffled back, keeping his eyes on the piece of bread. “Go get it!”

Then Nesta launched it as far as she could towards the treeline, watching as the dog launched itself after it, disappearing in the shadow. She used the opportunity to quickly slip back inside the cottage, hoping that when he returned to see the door was closed and that she wasn’t going to let him in, he would move on to harass someone else.

-

Nesta woke the next morning to a strange, rhythmic thud cleaving through the forest.

She wasn’t certain if it was the sound or the vibrations that trembled through the old wooden floorboards of the cottage that eventually dragged her from sleep. She rose, blearily fixing her eyes on the hearth that had died at some point in the night, the soot now jostling loose with each powerful blow outside.

Her concern was delayed, seeping slowly through the cracks of the frost-fogged window as she slowly steadied herself in the waking world. It didn’t take long, though, for the ice to leak through and grip her chest tightly.

Then, she was crawling toward the window, careful to keep herself obscured as she slowly raised her face to the frozen glass. It wasn’t the villagers finally come to mob her, thankfully. Though she couldn’t say for certain that the strange man standing over her family’s splitting block was any less alarming.

He held a familiar long-handled axe in his large bare hands. Nesta couldn’t count how often Feyre had warned her not to leave the axe outside. Enough times for Nesta to leave it willingly, half in pettiness and half because she couldn’t stand the sight of the thing. And now it was in a stranger’s hand, lifted over his dark head of hair with discomforting ease before he let it fall onto the upright block of wood he’d placed atop the flared stump. A clean, precise cut.

The man didn’t even survey his perfect work before he chucked the two pieces aside into the pile of wood he’d accumulated over what looked to be hours. Or maybe not. He retrieved another block and split it beneath the axe so quickly that Nesta didn’t doubt he’d be able to clear the whole forest by nightfall. He didn’t even stop to wipe a broad hand across his brow before he was chopping the next block, then the next.

Drawing away from the window, Nesta quickly surveyed the kitchen for something—anything—she could use to defend herself against a man with an axe. A knife seemed useless, but… Feyre had left her bow and arrow behind when she’d fled the village. Nesta didn’t know how to use it, not as effectively as Feyre, but he didn’t know that.

Feyre tried to teach her once. A few winters ago, when the harsh conditions had brought Elain looking so close to death that Nesta had felt desperate enough to learn. But she’d barely caught so much as a rabbit mimicking Feyre’s techniques, and by the time spring rolled around, Nesta resigned the skill back to her sister and took to other avenues of ensuring their survival, like making friendly with the woodcutter’s son.

Not that any of it mattered anymore. All that was left of her family was the rotting cottage and Feyre’s abandoned bow. Her youngest sister might have laughed had she been there to witness Nesta kick the door open with the string pulled to the corner of her lip.

The man paused with the axe raised over his head. He looked over at her, blinking as he took in the notched arrow pointed towards him, then her dressing gown, her bare feet. He raised a dark, slitted brow and grinned slowly as he rested the axe casually over his broad shoulder.

“Careful, sweetheart.” A pair of unnervingly clever hazel eyes raked her over. There was an edge to them, a wildness that seemed well suited to the forest at his back. “You’re going to poke someone’s eye out with that thing.”

“Get off my property.” Her breath clouded in front of her face. So did his—steady puffs of air through his wide nose, a sharp contrast to her heavy exhale even though he had been the one chopping wood.

Did he notice her ragged breath, her trembling hands? Hopefully, he was too busy eying her nightgown, how it’d been sewn for a body a few years younger, tight in the chest and hips because they hadn’t been able to afford a replacement in years.

“Or you’ll what,” he said, with infuriating calm, “shoot me?”

She tightened her grip, pulled the string back further like she intended to release.

He laughed. “Go ahead.”

He believed she didn’t have it in her, the bastard. Nesta kept the bow trained on him, entertaining shooting him just for the crime of underestimating her. “Why are you chopping wood here?”

“I thought this house was abandoned.”

Lie. He’d have been able to see the smoke drifting from the chimney in the hatched roof. Though, Nesta had no way of knowing when the fire had died while she slept. She wished she could go back in and feel the stone to gauge how recently it had stopped burning.

“And why would you be chopping wood at an abandoned house?”

He set down the axe. Her axe. And raised his palms as though in surrender. “I was planning to sell it.”

“You’re going to sell the wood,” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said proudly.

“At the village?”

“That is typically where one sells wood, is it not?”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Nesta said, examining his clothes. His winter cape, lined with wolf pelts she would have believed he’d hunted himself, had been discarded in the snow, leaving him in a belted fur-lined tunic of simple make. A pair of leather gloves was tucked into his belt, and his dark hair was tied off his face, though pieces of it hung loose at his temples, his neck. Better off than a common woodcutter, but certainly no lord’s son. “We already have a woodcutter in this village.”

“Is there not room for two?”

The Mandrays wouldn’t think so. It wasn’t Nesta’s problem, but it could be. If they knew he had been at this cottage first, chopping his wood here. Thomas was already looking for any excuse to throw her at the village’s mercy and with the rumors surrounding Elain and now Feyre… Nesta didn’t think she would survive whatever retribution Thomas would seek if he thought she had any association with this woodcutter.

“No,” she said, tipping her chin defiantly. Her fingers were growing numb, the string crooked round her finger cutting off whatever circulation was left. She gritted her teeth. “Go terrorize the next village over.”

As if he didn’t hear her, the man unlooped the belt around his waist and began gathering the wood into a pile.

“I said stop,” she hissed.

“What if I offer you a cut of my profits?”

Not good enough. The villagers wouldn’t take her money. They’d sooner accuse her of stealing it and hang her for the crime.

Besides, she didn’t trust a strange man threatened beneath a bow to return with any measure of good intentions. Particularly not once he discovered she was here alone, with no father or sisters or anyone to protect her, to hear her scream. It was better if this man forgot who she was. All she needed was to survive the winter, then she could attempt the journey to Velaris in the spring. And surviving meant keeping her head down, her mouth shut. Her bow unstrung.

“Leave a few pieces of wood,” she said. “And tell no one that you were here. That’s my price.”

There was something very dangerous about how his mouth quirked to the side. He began placing several logs in a new pile as he asked casually, “Afraid of making one of the boys in the village jealous?”

Nesta’s spine straightened. He might be asking out of ordinary interest, like any gentleman might inquire if a lady’s heart was taken. But from the predatory way he watched her, the way those eyes practically begged her to release her fingers on the drawstring, she thought it was more likely that he was probing for information, determining whether someone would come looking for her if he decided this cottage and its sole occupant were ripe for the taking.

“No one will buy from you if they knew where you chopped this wood,” she said, praying that alone would deter him.

His laughter rumbled through his chest. “Is that because you threaten all your guests with a bow?” Nesta thought it sounded oddly like a question and a compliment in one. She kept the arrow trained on him, kept her jaw clenched as he grinned. “Alright, alright. Understood.” He crouched to grab his cape, throwing it carelessly over his shoulder before lifting the stack of wood by the makeshift sling. He offered a nod of farewell as he set down the path towards the village, “See you around, then, sweetheart.”

Nesta waited until the sound of footsteps faded, and his large frame was eclipsed entirely by trees before she lowered the bow. He’d left the axe behind, embedded in the wood, and she cautiously ventured forward to retrieve it, as well as the generous pile of wood he’d left behind.

She hoped he was wrong. She hoped she never saw him again.

But she couldn’t get the sight of his eyes out of her mind. The way he’d watched her with a hunger that she knew intimately. Her heart was racing in fear, she told herself. If she’d learned anything from her sisters, it was that the desire of men was dangerous.

So when she heard something sniffing and scratching outside her door later that evening and peeked through the window to see the dog lying in front of the cottage, she let it inside.

Just in case the man returned and expected to find her alone.

[litfanatic]

Different but Not Less Than

Elucien One-shot Modern Au

Read on AO3

Summary: In which Elain observes Lucien buried under a mountain of children and thinks about how far they've come in their relationship.

Elain Archeron drummed her fingers against the marble countertop as she watched him from across the room. His suit jacket had disappeared along the way, his tie loose and hanging around his neck. A few strands of his hair had escaped his carefully pulled back bun. He didn’t seem to care as he was tackled to the ground by children covered in various degrees of finger paint.

His warm laughter permeated the air–the waves of it seeping down to her bones. She shivered.

It was such a contrast to the first day of the camp.

Such a contrast to the first time that she met him.

Even as he laughed with the kids, she saw him occasionally duck his head, hoping to hide the scars.

But they all had already seen them.

It had done something to him when some of the children had reacted negatively to his scars that first day he came to help her offload the snacks for the day camp, but he’d showed up again to help her.

Day after Day.

She grimaced as she thought back to how she was with him. Not that his scars had ever bothered her–Lucien Vanserra was the most beautiful man that she’d ever come across. 

His auburn hair shone like it was molten metal. His skin was the most beautiful bronze. No one looked like him. She thought of the fantasy romance books that she’d curled up in front of the hearth to read–he deserved to be a love interest in one of them. He sure did look like one.

Tall, lithe, sinewed arms, and a tongue that would enslave anyone to him. The scars did nothing to detract from his beauty.

That wasn’t what had affronted her about him. It was her sister who was trying to play matchmaker. Telling her what the best way was to get over someone. But she had been still in love with Graysen. He had walked away with a piece of her.

Literally.

She still couldn’t believe that she’d donated a piece of her liver to him.

Granted, the organ had repaired itself, but still.

And he left her.

After months of being by his side, nursing him. Putting him before her goals. Before the idea of her opening her own bakery.

He wanted more than her, and he'd just left her cruelly.

Feyre had tried to set her up on dates. The busybody. With her art department colleagues, with her husband’s brother, Az, who she didn’t even want to begin to decipher.

Lucien was her sister’s last attempt at matchmaking with Rhys even insisting that he was “a good male.” 

Nesta was the opposite, insisting that she didn’t need anyone in her life. Didn’t need a partner, but Elain wanted one. Wanted someone to see her. To know that it was okay that she was different from her sisters. That it didn’t make her less than them. That she still had her own thoughts and opinions. That her strength was different, but still strength.

He wasn’t Graysen. That was who her heart was still longing for.

That was until she realized that she was only in love with the idea of him and what their life would’ve looked like. 

She’d been conditioned for that life.

But she knew now that it wasn’t what she wanted.

Wasn’t what she needed.

What she needed had been in front of her. By her side. Constant. Even when she didn’t want to see him. When she thought that he only wanted to know her because she was Feyre’s sister.

He never forced her. Never pressured her, but he was there. Was always this quiet, calming presence except when they played their game. The one where he would deliberately rile her up to get a reaction. She was secretly glad that he thought her worthy of his wit. He had a knowing look on his face whenever she matched his banter—as if he knew that she had it in her all along.

That was the trick of Lucien Vanserra, and she’d realized it too late. 

Elain had chosen him.

Had fallen for him.

She was deeply, relentlessly and soul-crushingly in love with him.

She’d survived Graysen, but she wouldn’t survive if Lucien left her. Graysen might have taken a piece of her literally, but Lucien was a part of her soul.

Not that he ever would leave her.

He was loyal to a fault, and according to him, more in love with her than she was with him.

She thought that was debatable .

Elain remembered their first kiss. How he was wild with it. Unconstrained unlike others before him. Others that thought she would break.

Thinking of his passion made her toes curl even now. He could be gentle if he had to, but he’d learned her. He’d learned what she wanted. He gave and she gave equally.

No one had ever made her feel like how he did, and she wanted to do the same for him.

So she did as often as possible. When he kissed along her collarbone and made her arch her back, she whispered sweet words of undying devotion. She kissed the scar that made him him. She raved to him about his beauty—about his heart.

Because Lucien Vanserra had a heart even bigger than hers, and he gave love more than he took it.

So she would pepper him with it until he learned to take it—until he learned that he deserved love.

Lucien groaned as he attempted to rise, children dangling off of his long limbs. A smile as bright as the sun.

Her sun. 

Her light.

His eyes flickered over to her—one of russet, one of gold.

A knowing look on his face as he saw her watching him. His smile impossibly brighter than before.

He tilted his head, gesturing to the children. A contemplative brow raised and she could see it.

Little ones with gold-spun copper hair. Him buried under a mountain of them, pulling her down to join.

Elain could hear the laughter

And the laughter

And the laughter

Her heart quickened at his silent question. A question that she answered with her eyes, and she could almost hear his heart beat in response.

Yes.

[deadal3x]

🍪

[give me random mortal parent headcanons!]

alright I spun a wheel, you're gonna hear all about Pandora Bates-Wayne.

unlike other mortal parents, she...well she's not mortal. She's a demigod. A daughter of Athena, to be specific!

She attended camp from ages 12-18, and in those years, she became a legend.

Her step-mother and father had a little difficulty understanding how Camp worked and whatnot.

they are from another pantheon, so it took a few hours with Chiron for Barrett and Amy to trust CHB with their daughter

But once they learned, Things went smoothly!

Their pantheon is a secret for now, but trust me, It's been so fun working on them as characters hehehehe ok back to Pandora!

She spent a week in cabin 11, and once she was claimed, made a petition which nearly the entire camp signed.

the petition was to get a cabin specifically for unclaimed demigods, and it had Hestia's approval for the cabin to be dedicated to the goddess of family and the hearth.

Unfortunately, the gods denied her request.

Pandora was the last person before Annabeth to win four consecutive capture the flag games.

Pandora won a camp award for most enemies defeated in a single training session. The only other person to hold this award prior to Percy is Luke.

Pandora once told Zeus not to turn Apollo mortal for something the sun god did.

her argument was simply "There's other punishments out there. Don't you think stripping him of his godhood is a little extreme?"

she survived the encounter and since then, the camp has seen her as legendary.

Aurora Gonzalez of Cabin 10 was incredibly lucky to fall in love and marry Pandora.

Cabin six all talk about her, to this day.

the rest of camp talk about the IT sapphic couple that is Panuroa (Pandora X Aurora)

Annabeth grew up hearing stories of what Pandora did.

She also grew up asking Marcus Gonzalez-Wayne questions about her.

Marcus didn't mind the questions, He loved talking about his mom.

Then when she was 12, She met Pandora's bumbling, idiotic son, Alexander.

AJ tried so hard to keep it a secret that he was the son of a legend, but when he tells people Marcus is basically his twin brother, People make the connection.

Marcus and AJ do share a birthday but they're not literal twins. Marcus is an hour older.

anyways, After AJ and Marcus are born Aurora and Pandora's careers took different turns than what they planned

Pandora became a field agent in the Boston FBI field office

Aurora became a physics professor at Boston University

back to Pandora, I wanted her job to reflect her abilities and general skills and as a Criminal Minds fan, I knew she'd fit right in as a Profiler at the BAU

that being said this is NOT a CM/PJO Crossover. The FBI really does have a Behavioral Analysis Unit, and that is where Pandora eventually ends up working.

She runs the unit in Boston.

Marcus thinks that is literally so cool.

AJ, on the other hand have extreme anxiety trying to find his way at camp under her shadow because she's well known as a demigod

and then finding his way in school when people know she's the BAU Unit Chief; and that He's her son.

it's a lot of pressure for the 15 year old.

Pandora does her best to reassure AJ that he doesn't have to do stuff like she did, all he has to do is enjoy camp and stay alive. That's all she wants.

Pandora is literally the best mother ever, send tweet

Aurora too.

ok thats all, I hope you enjoyed!!

[ellekhen]

Hand, Hearth, and Home

Chapter 38 - To Dream Alone

Chapter Summary: Gale sits with Church as he consumes another tadpole. The tiefling's training with Tavi doesn't quite go as planned, and Church finds himself making a decision when faced with a literal wish come true.

Pairing(s): Astarion x Male Tav (Main); Past OC x Male Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 177K+ words; Chapters 39/54

Excerpt below:

Tavi looks preoccupied for a moment, before looking reproachfully back at him. 

“All I want is for our world to be safe,” he says wearily. “For you to be safe. I thought that seeing this face would make you happy. I thought encouraging you to indulge in Astarion’s company would give you enough of something to live for. But I’ve seen your mind — you’re still the same fool, intent on being a martyr.”

“I don’t… live for people, Tav,” Church scoffs. 

“No, but you do try to die for them,” Tavi says pointedly. “The whole point of these powers is for you to survive at the very least long enough to defeat the Absolute. So no, I will not give you one more means to destroy yourself.”

They both stand stock-still — facing each other in tense, reproachful silence. 

“It’s not just for the sake of being a martyr,” Church says quietly. “Every terrible thing that has happened or is going to happen will be worth it if I can ensure the others come out of this intact. I want to protect my allies. My friends. Tav…” his voice shakes. “I wasn’t there to protect you. And I can’t let that happen again. Not to…”

“…Astarion?” Tav finishes for him flatly. 

“Well, he’s… among my friends,” Church flounders. “So of course.”

“Hells, when will you admit that it’s more than that?” Tav asks exasperatedly. 

The tiefling closes his eyes for a long moment, before sighing.  

“Tav… I know that I really do care about him,” he admits, choked. “Like I haven’t cared about anyone else since… you. But I don’t think he feels the same way. I think I’m just a means to an end for him, but…”

“Maybe you just like to be used, petal!” Auntie Ethel had cackled spitefully. 

Church looks defeatedly at his friend. 

“I don’t think I’m meant to be with anyone, Tav. I’m condemned. I’ll either be consumed by shadows in a few days or, best case scenario, in sixty-some years I’ll be like Withers in the ruins — a caretaker for Mother’s temple until I die.” 

He huffs frustratedly. “And I don’t know why I even bothered letting myself get attached to someone again, given that I know what’s to come…”

“You wanted to be known,” Tavi says gently. 

Church eyes him, frowning at the similarity of his phrasing to Astarion’s that first night they spent together.

“You wanted to be known,” Tavi repeats gently. “You wanted to be seen and heard. Understood. Remembered. And Church… you are known.” He hesitates before gently brushing his hand against the tiefling’s cheek. “You are loved.”

His hand drifts slowly to the back of Church’s neck, and the tiefling’s breath hitches as he stares up at his old friend. 

“I know everything about you,” Tavi murmurs to him. “Your hopes. Your fears. The things you’ve dreamt for a future you once never dared to imagine…” his mouth quirks up into a small, wistful smile. “…but you still imagined it, didn't you?”

“…yes,” Church breathes. 

“So, what did you imagine?” Tavi asks him gently. “For a scared blacksmith’s boy, marching off to be a paladin for the sake of his father’s dream?”

Church closes his eyes, reaching up to press his friend’s hand to his face. 

“I dreamed you wrote to me,” he chuckles ruefully. “Every month, like you promised. You came back to visit the village every summer, and it would be just like things were before. We’d run up to the top of the bell tower to watch the sunset. We’d tease Lydia and Mairead and prod them into sorting out their feelings faster. 

“Your father would warm up to me, but…” Church scoffs, “...perhaps that’s the most improbable fantasy of all. Still, I’d have dinner with you both on occasion. He’d stop leaving the tavern as soon as I walked in, at least. 

“I’d still set out from the village not too long after you, though,” he rambles. “I’d follow you to Neverwinter. I don’t think I’d try to be a paladin but maybe I’d join an adventurers’ guild there. I’d see you nearly every day we were both in town. Maybe we’d even work together. Either way, I could just… spontaneously meet you for drinks. Food. Maybe even dancing…” 

He sighs, stepping closer to Tavi. 

“…maybe eventually more, if that’s what we still wanted. Or maybe we’d have found someone else instead, but we’d still be friends. I’m certain of it. 

“But…” he chuckles sheepishly. “I used to imagine that you’d be my… first. Or by some miracle I’d be yours, even though you had a couple years of the big city life on me. I imagined it would have been just as awkward as our first kiss, but still in that way just as perfect, you know?

“And then no matter how things turned out over the years, whether we drifted apart or stuck together, we truly would know each other. We wouldn’t have had to make up for years of growth over a stack of letters. We’d have already… had this.”

Church chokes on a sob as he curls his fingers against Tavi’s chest. 

“They wouldn’t have taken this from us before we even got to try. I could have had… years. I could have stayed away from her and the shadows entirely and had a lifetime. I…”

His voice breaks off into a frustrated growl as his fingers clench into Tavi’s shirt. 

“…you wouldn’t have had to feel so alone,” Tavi nods in understanding. 

“Yeah,” Church says emptily, looking up into those infernal, honey-colored eyes. “…and neither would have you.”

Read from the beginning!

[darthstitch]

fic (history class cryptids): how do you justify I'm mystified by the ways of your heart

Hob Gadling likes to cook.

In the beginning, it was, obviously, a survival skill. He still has memories of helping his Mam prepare the rabbit he'd caught for dinner for a tasty stew or a pie. He remembered walking into the woods with his sisters to look for wild vegetables and herbs, even mushrooms, Mam having taught them what was safe to eat.

"Old family recipes these are," she would tell them. "Passed on from me own mum and from me gran." Her brown eyes, the same ones Hob had, would twinkle. "Did ye know that it was the little folk who'd taught our family to cook? Sensible creatures they are, knew the important things were a warm hearth, a good meal and a full belly. They'd eat seven times a day, they would."

Seven times a day was bliss for all of them, when sometimes they could barely scrape up three.

And she'd gather them round, Hob and his sisters, with even the baby listening in rapture from his cradle, as she made dinner, all of them helping.

Hob still knows how to make his mother's best stews and pie. A fine spring day was usually the best time to make them.

Another kitchen-related memory was being with his dear Eleanor, who'd learned to cook at her Gran's knee. The scents of certain spices and herbs were enough to send him back to Eleanor's kitchen, of her stories about how Gran had perhaps charmed her Granddad with a certain dish and how Eleanor would be serving that for dinner, a toast to that redoubtable lady's memory. How Hob had laughed at the naughty twinkle in his wife's eyes, caught her by the waist to her not completely indignant squeals, silenced her with kisses that she had eagerly welcomed.

Their Robyn had been born nine months after that dinner, to the very day.

Eleanor had hoped to pass her Gran's recipes own to her children, to her own daughter but she had been absolutely delighted that her husband had wanted to learn everything as well.

As it turned out, Hob would be the only one to remember the recipes now. And the stories.

Eleanor would not be the last cook that Hob would learn from. There was Yasoda, with her naan and her wonderfully fragrant curries. It had been one of those times he did not regret being a hired sword, protecting their merchant family from thieves and brigands as they traveled on the Silk Road and on the seas.

Hob had also spent some time in New York, with his war buddies Fredo and Michael, who'd shared with him the best Italian dishes they'd learned from their Mama who had originally come from Sicily. There was also Ruyi and her family recipes from Canton and Szechuan, just before she'd been carried off to the Forbidden City to be an Emperor's bride. And he'd been there in Japan, of course, joining Kenshin and his family as they had all discovered sukiyaki for the first time at the Akabeko, as it had just been a recent invention for Japan's Meiji era.

Hob remembered them all, every tale, every memory, each time he decided to cook something he'd learned from them.

And to be honest, that was really how he went about feeding Dream of the Endless.

Unavoidably detained, Dream had said at first, when he'd finally shown up at the New Inn, 33 years and a few odd days late (Hob wasn't counting them to the minute, obviously not). Those beautiful twilight eyes had dimmed and Hob knew all the signs of trauma and distress when he saw them. It had been Dream's turn to tell him his own tale, dragged out at first one word at a time, beginning with his own name.

Dream of the Endless. Morpheus. Lord of Dreams and Nightmares.

(Hob would learn about the Prince of Stories title much later, but that was a tale for another day.)

Over a hundred years spent naked in that glass cage, without air, without water to drink or food to eat, with nothing except for the slow torment that his own mind could devise for him. Unavoidably detained, with the barest hint from Dream himself that somehow Dream had deserved it for his own stubbornness and pride.

Hob didn't know what infuriated him more.

He'd taken one look at his friend, who had looked even more gaunt and thin than he'd been the last time they'd seen each other, and had to visibly restrain himself from dragging Dream into his kitchen, sit him at the dining counter, and make him something to eat.

Feeding Dream was an alternative from trying to find Roderick Burgess' grave, so Hob could dig up the rotten bastard to bring him back to life and kill him all over again. What? Hob had favors he could call in, even if he mostly kept away from any else that smacked of the supernatural and the occult.

"I can survive without sustenance," Dream suddenly said, watching Hob's hands clench on the table. "And those who had me imprisoned have been suitably punished."

"I'm that obvious, eh?" Hob's lips twitched into a wry smile.

"Your daydreams were a little…colorful."

"God's teeth, man, warn a fellow before you do that."

"I do not make it a habit to peer into your dreamscape, Hob Gadling. Only that they're a little … loud … at the moment." Those blue eyes darkened just a little bit, the color of the ocean under a moonlit sky (God's wounds, Hob was turning into ruddy fucking Shaxberd, horrible prose and all). "Also rather bloodthirsty."

Hob huffed. "Well, that I'm not sorry for, duck." Christ, he'd barely swallowed back the urge to actually call him love, a word that was just aching to trip itself out of his careless tongue. "It's either the sword or the kitchen knife and since I can't avenge you anymore, I'll just feed you instead."

"I have eaten something since I've gotten out," Dream protested. But Hob almost had him, he could tell.

"This would be…?"

Dream looked properly abashed. "A bucket of fried chicken from a dream. It said… KFC, I think? I was not inclined to be discerning at that point."

Hob facepalmed. "No. NOPE. Not fucking dreamspace KFC. Instead, I'm going to cook you something. Maybe some congee to start, the way I'd learned it from Ruyi or she'd haunt me and say I bring shame to all her ancestors if I don't do it justice."

"And who is Ruyi?"

And that was how Hob Gadling, entirely by accident, discovered how to get Dream of the Endless to actually eat something. A story, along with whatever he was cooking, and watching Dream adorably wrinkle his nose before trying whatever it was that Hob set before him.

He liked the congee, redolent with ginger and green onion.

Soon enough, it became their own thing. Dream would visit, Hob would make him something and there would be a story to go with it. It soon became shared tasks in the kitchen, handing His Darkness a kitchen knife and something to chop. Or maybe it was dishes to wash and dry.

Hob was very pleased when his darling friend soon lost the gaunt look, color dusting across those fine cheekbones.

Somewhere along the way, duck and friend became love, dove and darling. In between curries and fragrant rice, pies and sorbets, stews and soups, there were kisses exchanged, gently chiding his owne hertis rote to stop that nuzzling at his neck or dinner would be ruined, but oh, gods, fine, yes, love, let me turn off the stove before we burn the house down and let me kiss you proper, hm?

Here were more kitchen memories to make, a tiny precious smile to coax out of his beloved, delighted laughter when Dream presented him with his own culinary creations, ridiculously proud to have mastered this skill as well, love in every bite.

There were new stories for them now, in Hob's own kitchen. And they'd be creating more, endlessly, if both of them had their way.

They would.

-end-

Footnote the First: Obviously, Hob's family had absolutely no relationship to the Little Folk who hid in comfortable holes in the ground, ate seven delicious meals a day, and had small magics that would help them hide from the Big Folk in a pinch. Whatever are you talking about?

Footnote the Second: It must be stated that Dream of the Endless took to domesticity like a duck to water, despite popular opinion. It drove his sibling to utter frustration, all that delicious want and need that had been bottled up with its matching plunge to despair and grief once thwarted, was now simply answered with equal fervor, causing a certain contentment and joy that had not been seen in millennia. It was nauseating. To say nothing of this whole fandom that had sprung around their ridiculous broody older brother, who was supposedly not the beauty of the family! And to top it all off, this fandom of desire-crazed humanity had been caused by their own grandchild, who shared her uncle's affinity for stories! This was an offense that could not be borne!

Footnote the Third:

Obviously, Hob Gadling has heard of Twilight. Who hasn't?

(Fine. He read the first book. It was not high literature but who didn't enjoy silly romantic stupid fluff every now and then?)

So he gets all the Edward Cullen jokes his students make when they first clap eyes on Dream. It's hilarious. Of course he thinks ol' Eddie-boy doesn't hold a candle to his darling.

And then, for once, jolly old England decides that there is SUCH A THING as sunlight and he gets to see Dream in the glorious sunshine.

Oh.

Oh.

OH.

Goddamn Eddie Cullen can keep his sparkles; Dream of the Endless glowed in the sunshine. And obviously, that was excuse enough for Professor Hob Gadling to steal some kisses.

Professor "Thomas Murphy" would like to point out that there was no need for kiss-stealing, as he was perfectly happy to bestow them upon his ridiculous husband whenever he wanted.

Footnote the Fourth:

Even Dream of the Endless needs to rest.

Once, he used to retreat to his own private chambers in the Castle. A bed, sheets softer and silkier than a whisper, coolness and calm and peace within. Alone and with no one to make demands upon him, no duty or burden to carry.

He contented himself with that, for a very long time.

Now, he find himself stumbling into the Waking, instinctively setting foot into a place that had been built for him by loving hands, where offerings of flowers and food and wine had been provided, where songs and stories were shared.

Dream seeks out a certain warm presence, smiles when he is coaxed to sit down. There are arms to hold him, kisses pressed to his hair, to his nose and lips. He nuzzles into a familiar scent, presses a kiss over a lovemark he had made just that morning.

"Hullo, love."

"Hello, husband mine."

Dream is home.

[elegantwoes]

The clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died,” Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. '

The chapter starts off with us being reminded of the Vale knights and Mountain Clan conflict and how the tension between them is growing.

She liked that less well. Without Bronn she would never have reached the Vale, she knew; the sellsword was as fierce a fighter as she had ever seen, and his sword had helped cut them through to safety. Yet for all that, Catelyn misliked the man. Courage he had, and strength, but there was no kindness in him, and little loyalty.'

Catelyn’s wisdom is visible in this part. Competence is a good thing in a person, but more often than not moral compass and integrity is more important. What use is skill if you cannot use it for good?

'She says yes, provided she finds a man who suits her,” Brynden Tully said, “but she has already rejected Lord Nestor and a dozen other suitable men. She swears that this time she will choose her lord husband.'

I almost want to say something but I will keep my mouth shut.. for now.

'Tyrion Lannister glanced up doubtfully. “And beyond that?” Brynden smiled. “Beyond that, the path is too steep even for mules. We ascend on foot the rest of the way. Or perchance you’d prefer to ride a basket. The Eyrie clings to the mountain directly above Sky, and in its cellars are six great winches with long iron chains to draw supplies up from below. If you prefer, my lord of Lannister, I can arrange for you to ride up with the bread and beer and apples.'

Brynden is ruthless. It seems like sharp wit is a Tully trait. #Tullysforthewin

'My brother is undoubtedly arrogant,” Tyrion Lannister replied. “My father is the soul of avarice, and my sweet sister Cersei lusts for power with every waking breath. I, however, am innocent as a little lamb. Shall I bleat for you?” He grinned.'

I can give credit when it’s due. Tyrion is actually funny here.

'It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard’s name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned’s bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply.'

Call my crazy but I always interpreted this part as Catelyn remembering what she said to Jon in his second chapter and her feeling guilty at her outburst.

'She remembered what her uncle had said of baskets and winches. “The Lannisters may have their pride,” she told Mya, “but the Tullys are born with better sense. I have ridden all day and the best part of a night. Tell them to lower a basket. I shall ride with the turnips.'

And it’s because of this why the Tullys will survive but the Lannisters will not. Again #Tullysforthewin

'It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. They had taken their toll. Her sister was two years the younger, yet she looked older now. Shorter than Catelyn, Lysa had grown thick of body, pale and puffy of face. She had the blue eyes of the Tullys, but hers were pale and watery, never still. Her small mouth had turned petulant. As Catelyn held her, she remembered the slender, high-breasted girl who’d waited beside her that day in the sept at Riverrun. How lovely and full of hope she had been. All that remained of her sister’s beauty was the great fall of thick auburn hair that cascaded to her waist.'

I don’t really like how Lysa is described in here. George RR Martin’s contempt for her is too strong in this passage.

'My quarrels?” Catelyn could scarce believe what she was hearing. A great fire burned in the hearth, but there was no trace of warmth in Lysa’s voice. “They were your quarrels first, sister. It was you who sent me that cursed letter, you who wrote that the Lannisters had murdered your husband.'

Catelyn’s outrage is so obvious in here. If there was one picture that could sum up her mental state right now then it’s this.

'Quiet!” Lysa snapped at her. “You’re scaring the boy.” Little Robert took a quick peek over his shoulder at Catelyn and began to tremble. His doll fell to the rushes, and he pressed himself against his mother. “Don’t be afraid, my sweet baby,” Lysa whispered. “Mother’s here, nothing will hurt you.” She opened her robe and drew out a pale, heavy breast, tipped with red. The boy grabbed for it eagerly, buried his face against her chest, and began to suck. Lysa stroked his hair.'

The way Lysa coddles Sweetrobin is unsettling to say the least.

'Even if they could bring an army through the mountains and past the Bloody Gate, the Eyrie is impregnable. You saw for yourself. No enemy could ever reach us up here.'

If you consider how many times this line is uttered throughout the book series you know it will be disproven at some point. Will it happen in the form of the mountain clans invading, or worse, in the form of a dragon?

'Catelyn wanted to slap her. Uncle Brynden had tried to warn her, she realized.'

Catelyn is really funny when her temper flares up.

''Make him fly,” Robert said eagerly.' Lysa stroked her son’s hair. “Perhaps we will,” she murmured. “Perhaps that is just what we will do.'

Don’t make false promises you can’t keep, Lysa. A woman like me will be disappointed.

Next chapter we are at our reluctant detective: Ned Stark.

[meowww-ffxiv]

Estinien and Liios got a lot to connect on actually. Since despite having a PhD in aetherological engineering and being an inventor and engineer Cid could respect, Liios started his life as a hunter in the mountain.

He mourned the simplicity of that life, he confessed to Estinien in private. Where you counted the seasons with the fall of leaves and the strength of the winds, the chill in the air and the fish in the rivers. Where you worried only about meat and clothes, and how you might survive on the morrow. But tonight you could sing and laugh with your family round a fire, and the breadth and span of your world was small and manageable, if steep.

Estinien was a shepherd. Once, his horizon had been the green plains of Coerthas, before the dragons and the Calamity and vengeance stripped it all away. Before the fear of losing who he had left, and the determination to protect them, had driven him away from it all. He'd walked the world a little by then, as had Liios. He'd seen more than most of his peers.

In the privacy of each other's company, Liios dared to fantasize: a cabin in the Coerthan hinterlands, not far from Idyllshire where he and Ptolemy had built the best parts of their adulthood as teacher and caretaker. Close enough to Master Matoya's cave for the occasional visit. Close to the streams for fishes in the spring and fall.

There would be a fruit tree, he murmured to Estinien. An apple tree, perhaps...maybe...if they could get it to grow. Else there could be a little garden, for vegetables and herbs. Between the two of them, hunting would be easy work. Liios could make their tools and clothes. What he couldn't they could trade for at Idyllshire.

In the spring when flowers swept through the green hillsides they could enjoy the fragrance. And in the fall, they could pick mushrooms and prepare jams for the winter. Even in the winter they could enjoy the warmth of their hearth, together. Liios would sing, and play the harp, while Estinien took the opportunity of peace to work on his budding wood-whittling hobby.

They could have sheep. Two sheep, more than enough wool to suffice them both. Even a pygmy yak? Chickens for eggs. Not too many, but enough to fill their bellies. On clear nights they could go out to a nearby cliff, hand in hand, and gaze at the stars.

It made Estinien's heart ache with something like homesickness, to hear Liios lay out this fantasy. And that was what it was -- a fantasy. They both knew this kind of peace would elude them for most if not all of their lives. Not because of circumstances, but because of who they were. What they had decided were important enough to bleed for.

But still.

Still.

When Liios's voice had faded to soft, even breath, each exhale soft on Estinien's bare skin, he replayed his words in his head, one by one, until he memorized even the cadence of bliss in each syllable.

And he allowed himself to hope.

[poppitron360]

I will never stop saying this, I feel like we should’ve seen Hestia and Leo interact.

For her, fire and the hearth being a symbol of home, family, and hope- and those all being things he lost to fire. Something about “Hope survives best by the hearth” and Leo’s mom’s name “Esperanza” meaning “hope”. Hestia could’ve taught Leo the good side of his powers, when he’s convinced himself that it only brings death and destruction.

the fact of the matter is percy jackson and the olympians is a story of a negligent system in which demigods often fall victim. luke’s motive as the main antagonist throughout the series is to dismantle that system, dismantle the thrones on which the gods sit. hestia, however, does not sit on a throne. She places herself at camp half-blood among the demigods, reachable and ready to provide them warmth. and when the war reaches its peak, lives are threatened and the olympians leave to defend their symbols of power, hestia remains on mount olympus and tends to hearth, nurturing what is left of family. hestia is not everyone’s favorite Oolympian because she has done nothing to harm the demigods (though, that is a huge factor). she is the most honorable because she does what she can to maintain hope and stability throughout adversity. hestia was the last olympian remaining because she represents what matters most when everything falls apart.

[beantothemax]

the full chapter

“Tell us more about your adventures!” That was the cry of my friends back in my hometown. This weary soul cannot recall like she used to, though. So I will use this old book to record the events as I remember them, and give it to my friends when it is completed. 

AH… Where to begin? Perhaps the tavern is the best place to start. 

It was a rather rainy evening, and me and my brother were in the tavern having a spot to drink and a bite to eat. We were good friends with the keeper, so he would often let us eat free or for less money than other customers had to pay. We were sitting at our regular table, when a cloaked figure walked in. They looked rather roughed up from what we could see- cuts along their arms and a nasty bruise on their jaw. Their hood covered their eyes, but they wore a black tunic and dark billowing pants that my brother would swear up and down were crafted from pure smoke. I cast my eyes down to my food- I didn’t want any troubles with the newcomer. The oak door slammed shut behind them as they stalked up to the bar. They mumbled an order of beef stew and ale, and sat at our table. It was then that I chanced a glance at the figure and saw two piercing blue eyes returning my gaze. At first, I thought I was hallucinating, as they disappeared back underneath the hem of their hood as quickly as they had appeared, but when I saw my brother’s expression, I knew it must have been real. He had seen it too. 

We all ate in silence, until the stranger broke it. Their voice, undeniably a woman’s, spake clearly. “You two… Do you live together?” She asked, and I nodded. “Aye, that we do.” My voice was gruff- I did not need to be an eloquent lady in the backwaters village I lived in. We were all polite with each other, but there was no pleasantry or small talk. We were all very precise and to-the-point about what we were saying. Perhaps that way of speaking was the reason I ended up in such trouble… 

“Might I stay a night or so? I fear I have no money to my name, so I cannot wait out the storm in the inn,” the woman requested. My brother shrugged. “Don’t see why not. You can pay us by helpin’ with our chores, how’s about that?” 

The woman nodded, and we all returned to our food, pleased with the arrangement we had made. When we were done, we placed our dishes on the bar- the cloaked woman clearly following our example- and we donned our storm cloaks, and braved the weather outside. 

‘Twas a fearsome roar, the wind outside. It whipped at us, biting at  my exposed ankles and tossing me about across the street. At one point, I almost brought the poor woman down with me as I stumbled, the wind throwing me around as though I were nothing more than a doll that a wee child might thrash. 

Our home was a quaint little thing- a white-stone cottage with a wooden roof and vines growing down from it. We had a brick chimney that was currently smoking from whatever brew our sister was concocting this time, and we had a small porch area covered by trees that kept the rain off by being so tightly interwoven, and a wooden swing for three hanging from a particularly sturdy branch. I stared forlornly at my garden of azaleas and primroses, hoping they would survive the downpour that was currently flooding their beds. 

My brother wrenched the door open, and we all hurried inside, throwing off our cloaks eagerly and casting our boots off, carrying them to the hearth to set upon the drying stones. The woman, now fully revealed, turned out to be quite pretty. Her eyes were the same unnerving blue as they had been in the tavern, her hair gleamed a bright ginger, and the injuries she sported now looked even more dire when thrown into the shifting firelight from the lounge. My sister looked up from the cauldron on the fire, something sweet boiling inside, and tutted. “Another stray? You two must stop this. It’s getting ridiculous,” she scorned us as she began investigating the woman’s body for more hurts. “Sit, my lady, please. Let me tend to your wounds.” She bowed her head, and the woman shook hers. “No need.” To show us what she meant, she held out her hand, which glowed warmly. She pressed it to her jaw and all her cuts, and they all healed. We could only watch as she healed herself with magic- though my sister’s elixirs were a magic of their own. 

“Come, Avery. Let us be ready for bed.” My brother grasped my wrist, leading me to our room. I didn’t understand at the time why the woman using magic was so taboo. I do now. 

I quickly got myself into my nightdress, and found the woman and my sister sitting in the armchairs, both nursing mugs of the sweet stuff I had smelt in the cauldron. “What is that, Lily?” I asked my sister, and she gestured vaguely with a hand. “Taste it, Avery.” I always hated when she was vague. I grabbed the ladle and one of the mugs, and gave myself a bit of the liquid. It was definitely a liquid- maybe tea, or perhaps we were lucky and my sister had managed to get some sugar at the market, and it was juice in the cauldron. If it was juice, however, I doubted my sister would have been willing to give it away to a stranger. I brought the mug to my lips and drank deeply. I gasped as I swallowed. It was juice! I beamed at my sister, who simply smiled slyly. “Juice!” My brother cried joyously. My sister nodded. “Yes, Morgan. Juice. I got some sugar at the market- a vendor forgot it was there.” My heart sank slightly as I realised what she meant. Not that I hadn’t been driven to thievery myself, but it always pained me whenever the others, who were so kindhearted and well-intended, had to do it. I liked it being just myself acquiring things through such morally ambiguous means. If I was caught, I could only blame myself. With the other two in the act as well, if one of us were to get caught, we could all go to the gaol. I drank the juice again, savouring every sip. The woman from the tavern had since fallen silent since the deal we had struck with her earlier, which I found a tad strange. However, I said nothing. I didn’t want to start a quarrel with her. 

As my brother and I drank from our cups, my sister spake with the lady. “Your name is… Lydia, you said?” The woman nodded. “I am. And I thank thee for allowing me to rest here for so long.” My sister waved her off. “‘Twas nothing. Avery, may you show Lydia to her room in the attic?” I jumped to my feet- at the chance to question the woman without the scornful gaze of my sister staring me down. “Come. I’ll show you the way.” And I started down the corridor, Lydia following behind me like the Reaper coming to harvest my soul. 

ok. i. officially do NOT trust lydia after reading that last line.

I really like this so far! excited to see where it goes

[thebattleofstarcourt]

look i know pjo only sucks slightly less than hoo but at least pjo had some pretty fucking powerful, intelligent quotes. hoo was a walking shitpost with half the characters having at max, a 5th grade education

[astriiformes]

from ur tags yesterday: folk music recs? 💜(:

also I hope you’ve gotten home and are feeling better! sorry about the grocery store):):

Ah see here's where I get to explain something fun because while I could also give folk music recs, what I was offering in the tags of that one post were filk music recs, which was not actually a typo.

Filk is basically the folk music of fandom -- which does not always mean it's about fiction or other nerdy topics, although it very often does. You'll hear it played at concerts or in music circles at some more old-school conventions, which is the context it first emerged in, although these days there are also virtual filk circles, filk podcasts (like FilkCast, which is a great place to find more filk if you like any of these recs), and music by filk musicians available on platforms like Bandcamp or Spotify -- or floating around on tumblr blogs like @filkyeahfilk. It's a really joyful and close-knit tradition with a very cool history and a lot of people making fun, funny, creative, moving, and clever music -- sometimes all at once -- mostly just for the sake of making music, no matter how weird or unpolished or niche

As for some recommendations coming to mind at the moment:

Dawson's Christian is an absolutely classic filk song (and space ghost story) with about a dozen versions out there at least. The version I linked is my favorite though, by Vixy & Tony

Talis Kimberley's song Kitchen Heroes wins in my book for having an excellent and extremely metal chorus about the importance of practical hand skills over, combat ones ("It's the stock and the cellar and the hearth and the hive / will decide who falls and who survives")

Beth Kinderman & the Player Characters are some friends of mine who make really phenomenal music; some of my favorites of theirs include Refusal of the Return (off a concept album inspired by/deconstructing the Hero's Journey), which has been giving me Big Luz Noceda Feelings for a while now, and The Dread Gazebo

Cheshire Moon are some other friends with really phenomenal stuff; I really like The Witch in Your Story, Banshee, and Build Your Wings

Oops We Split The Party by Clearly Guilty is a song that I feel very called out by as a D&D player, and also delightful

Heather Dale’s Mordred’s Lullaby is an amazing, haunting Arthurian legend inspired song and definitely liable to wedge itself into your brain and stay there in the best possible way

I always recommend Tim Griffin's Lucy on the Line to people with the warning that they WILL be crying by the end (for good and deeply hopeful reasons) -- which all the friends I have linked to to have admitted is exactly what happened. Absolutely give it a listen but maybe have, like, some tissues at the ready.

I have loads more recs in my #filk tag on my blog (as well as links to my duo Astrisoni's music, we don't have a ton up on Bandcamp but we have some stuff here on tumblr too, along with the EP & single there)

[poppitron360]

Reblogging to spread my "Leo is besties with Hestia" agenda.

Something about the message about "hope survives best by the Hearth", Hestia's whole deal being about hope and home and family and comfort and how Leo lost his "hope" (Esperanza) and his home, family, comfort TO fire. Leo seeing the good side of his powers in Hestia. Her showing him that fire is primarily a tool, neither good nor bad- because if it was just a symbol of death and destruction, it would be controlled by Ares, not Hephaestus.

Me: Oh, a fun arc to give Leo in HoJ would be him learning to see the beauty in his own power rather than just the destruction. It would be poignant for him to finally realize that fire is, first and foremost, light.

Me to me: You stole that from Sharkboy and Lavagirl

[samstree]

“Jaskier, please...”

“Nope. Not talking to you.” The bard turns around so fast his hair flies into his mouth. His fingers fidget on the lute strap, and to be fair, he doesn’t know what to say to Geralt anyway. “Stay here if you want, but don’t even try.”

Jaskier runs upstairs, heedless of the whole tavern’s eyes on him.

Shutting the door, Jaskier can hear footsteps chasing behind him. The creak of floorboards indicates the witcher’s presence in the hallway. The tension is palpable as he waits for Geralt to knock again.

He doesn’t.

Jaskier slides down against the door and lets out a sigh. He ponders his next steps all while wondering about Geralt’s new look, which he didn’t have time to react to earlier. Well, he’s one to talk, Jaskier thinks as he tucks away the hair blocking his face again.

The footsteps return.

And to his surprise, a piece of paper is slipped under the door.

Jaskier puts down his lute and picks up the paper. On it is a simple drawing of two stick figures, one with a sword on its back, the other has long hair parted in the middle. At least, that’s what he thinks they are. The hair is really just two curved lines.

Under the two figures are two words written carefully: best friends.

Jaskier has half a mind to burn the paper in the hearth but thinks better of it immediately. After soo long, it’s almost too much. The reality of it is hitting him at full force. As much as Jaskeir would like to deny it, he’s indeed spent the past two years not knowing if Geralt survived the war or not, and as much as the sight of the witcher brought him anger, it also unfurled the worry that has been making him sick to the stomach.

Jaskier stands up and opens the door.

Geralt has that look on his face again. That lost puppy look.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The bard steps aside.

“Come in so we can talk.”

The dejection on Geralt’s face morphs into something akin to hope, and then, unbridled relief. The faintest sign of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Oh dear, Jaskier has truly seen everything.

The witcher makes the move to enter when Jaskeir halts him with a hand, right over the...crease in the middle of the chest plate. Sweet Melitele.

“You know what, take off...whatever this is,” he deadpans, gesturing to the armor. “And then we can talk.”

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part I

Ahh I can’t believe it’s finally done! After a year of working on this beast, it’s finally ready for me to share. This is something I started way back last summer, and I decided to finish it as my project for this year’s @geraskierbigbang. It will be ten parts in total, and I will post one part per day until it is complete! There are several art pieces that were created by the wonderful @herostag​ and Miranda.draws for this story, which I will link when the appropriate section is posted. For a summary and further links, please see the masterpost.

Next | Ao3 | Masterpost

“Alright,” Geralt said. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Yennefer looked up at him with bright eyes, curious and already mirthful. She was sitting across from him in his quarters, reading through a tome she’d found in Kaer Morhen’s disheveled library. Geralt had just come from a bath after hours spent training Ciri in the yard, and the room was filled with the warm evening light, supplemented by the fire crackling in the hearth. Yennefer had insisted on carting dozens of tapestries and drapes to hang around the drafty keep, and the room was nearly stuffy with their bulk keeping the heat in.

Yennefer gave him an amused smirk. “I will make no such promises before I even know what you’re going to say.” The gentle teasing brought a fond smile to Geralt’s face. After the events of the mountain all those years ago, things had been understandably tense. Yennefer had been reluctant to join them when she had finally met up with Geralt after Sodden, but had eventually agreed to seek refuge in the witchers’ keep and teach Ciri to control her magic. Once she’d met the girl it had all been a wash; it was clear as soon as their eyes met across the room that Yennefer was as much a part of Ciri’s destiny as Geralt was.

Geralt had expected that to either mend the rift between them enough for things to go back to the way things were, or make things even more awkward. Instead, they found themselves in a sort of in-between. Over the years his affection for Yennefer had only grown, but he found himself looking to her more and more as a friend—maybe his best friend. After Jaskier, of course.

Speaking of. “I was thinking about Jaskier.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes obviously. “As you are so frequently wont to do. The thaw will come soon enough, dear, and you can run off in search of your bard.”

Geralt felt his ears grow warm. Witchers couldn’t blush, not truly, but he still felt the tingle of it as he fidgeted with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, absently tracing a finger against the grain of the wooden table. There were two goblets of wine sitting between them, but so far neither of them had begun to drink. “Do you know how many winters it’s been since I found Ciri?”

If she was confused by the odd turn in subject matter, Yennefer didn’t show it. Instead she looked thoughtful. “Two, perhaps three? You know I don’t follow the seasons with diligence.”

“Neither do I,” Geralt agreed. “I was thinking the same though, two or three years since the fall of Cintra. Which means Jaskier is…” He paused, trying to do the math. “He was a few years past forty, during the dragon hunt, I think. He must be closer to fifty now than not.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. “I recall mentioning something about his crows feet. What of it? Humans age. Are you only just discovering this?”

Geralt forced himself not to grumble. In a way, he was only discovering it. He’d known humans across the years, of course, and knew that many that he’d once been acquainted with were no longer alive or were in their twilight years. For decades Geralt had wandered through the world, changing no more than a ghost would, touching the lives of regular mortals for a brief instance, maybe a few times if they were particularly unlucky. No one had stayed by his side, dedicated themselves to a relationship with him, the way that the bard had. The amount of devotion that Jaskier showed to him had made Geralt antsy, in earlier years, and then confused and angry by turn. He had hated the idea of someone needing him, had hated needing someone in return. The way his chest felt heavy when he and Jaskier parted ways had left him furious with himself and the bard.

And then Ciri came into his life, and everything had changed so quickly.

With Ciri, it didn’t matter whether Geralt felt like he should care for her, or if he wanted to. He needed to. Without him, the girl would die, or be kidnapped by Nilfgaard for who knows what purpose. He had to feed her, and clothe her, and teach her, and he had to love her for her to thrive.

She made it very easy. It was only afterwards that he realized how much of an idiot he’d been to Jaskier, and the thought of how he’d treated the bard over the years had plagued him. It had been months before he could find him to apologize, but Jaskier forgave him almost immediately—which Geralt found both relieving and infuriating at the same time. This was the first winter they’d spent apart since. Geralt left the keep more rarely now, heading out on the Path only when the months grew truly warm and returning at the first hint of falling leaves. Ciri was safe on her own, he knew, but he missed her when he was away. And he could admit now that one of the forces driving him back into the world over the last few years had been the itching desire to find Jaskier again and settle the yearning in his chest for another year. He was less inclined to venture forth when his bard, his daughter, Yennefer and his brothers were all in one place.

This winter Jaskier had begged off, saying that he had “work in the south,” which could mean anything from spending a decadent winter in the court of some noble or sludging through the front lines as a Redanian spy. Geralt had learned not to pry too deeply into Jaskier’s business when he wasn’t around. It was often either too explicit for him to stomach or too confidential for Jaskier to share freely.

It worried him, being away from the bard for so long. He could get hurt, or captured by Nilfgaard, or worse. But what really terrified Geralt was the idea that he would find Jaskier in a tavern along the Path and realize that the bard had grown old, to find silver in his hair and wrinkles beside his eyes. “He’s getting too old,” Geralt said to Yennefer, who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“You must have known when you started travelling with him that he would eventually leave you,” Yennefer said, not unkindly. “Humans are so short lived.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice about becoming his muse,” Geralt said with a huff. Despite his improved relationship with Jaskier over the past few years, he still found it difficult to admit that he had always been more than willing to let the bard tag along. If he’d wanted to travel alone, he would have. But he never had. “I just didn’t realize…”

“It always comes sooner than you think it will,” Yennefer sighed. She set her book aside and picked up her goblet of wine, turning to look out the large window their table sat in front of. It faced west out of the keep wall, towards the mountains and the forest beyond. The sun had set below the craggy peaks, throwing the snow covered valley below into darkness. Geralt could just make out the ruins of the old tower, its stones dark against the white landscape. “You can’t cure his mortality, Geralt.”

“We did.”

The look that Yennefer gave him was sharp, almost angry. The firelight in the room turned her violet eyes darker, like mulberry wine. “At great cost,” she snapped. “I can’t imagine you would put him through the Trials.”

A stab of panic shot through his gut at the thought. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t survive it anyways. Only children stand a chance at all.”

Yennefer nodded, apparently satisfied that Geralt hadn’t completely lost his mind. “The boy hasn’t got an ounce of Chaos in him, in spite of his rather chaotic nature, so I highly doubt they’ll accept him as a late trainee at Ban Ard.”

“There must be other ways,” Geralt said, feeling petulant. “Less conventional.”

“I cannot believe we are actually discussing this,” Yennefer said, rising to her feet. She picked up her book from the table as well as her glass. “There is no way to achieve immortality, especially not without sacrifice. You know that, Geralt. Drop this foolish line of thought.”

Geralt rose after her, reaching out to catch her retreating wrist. A grasp loose enough that she could break it, if she wanted, but Yennefer paused. “Please, Yen. Just… look into it for me? I can’t—the thought of—” He cut himself off, dropping his hand away from her arm. The look she gave him was more pitying than he would have liked.

“I’ll do some research, but nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up, Geralt. There’s a reason there are so few of us,” she said. Her face softened slightly, as much as it ever did. Despite Ciri, Yennefer was still made of more glass and fire than anything else. “I know you love him, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. I promise, I will do my best.”

Geralt nodded wordlessly as she left and wondered if Jaskier's eyes would be as bright next time he saw him.

*

For weeks Yennefer said nothing about his request, and Geralt refocused on spending time with Ciri and preparing to depart for the spring. Lambert and Eskel had already left a month before, as soon as the road down the mountain began to thaw, but Geralt had hung back. The roof needed repairs, a difficult job to do in the midst of winter, and it was a hard task to leave for Vesemir alone. It was always like this, now—him looking for odd jobs to keep him at Kaer Morhen, with Ciri, making excuses until Jaskier’s jitteriness or Vesemir’s raised eyebrows forced them on the road again. Some of that was mitigated this season by the silence he heard when he found himself listening for the sounds of lute strings strumming gently in the background, and Geralt’s increasing anxiety about Jaskier’s wellbeing. Even so, it was hard to leave Ciri behind.

The girl was progressing rapidly as she entered her teen years, the chubbiness of her youth morphing into lean if awkward muscle as she continued to work on her swordsmanship. When Geralt and his brothers weren’t pushing her through drills, she was studying monsters and alchemy with Vesemir, or practicing her magic with Yen. She never seemed to tire, eagerly absorbing any lessons passed on to her and desperate to prove her worth. The only person she seemed to let her guard down around was Geralt, who found himself often goading her into mock wrestling matches (which he refused to throw on principle) and humoring her when she became restless and wanted to explore beyond the keep. Kaer Morhen was dangerous in the winter, but as spring approached and the deep snows on the surrounding mountains began to thaw, the duo spent more and more time trekking through old ruins and sleeping beneath the stars.

He could put off his journey south no longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He wondered if he’d been this petulant as a teenager. Certainly Lambert had. “I can take care of myself, and Yen will be with me.”

Geralt tapped her wooden training sword with his own, indicating that she should prepare to go again. When he was a boy he’d trained against the other foundlings, stumbling around like pups through drills and sparring matches. Ciri trained against full witchers, and only Eskel ever faked a misstep here or there to allow her to get in a good hit. When she won a fight for the first time, it would be on her own merit.

The girl raised her sword into a decent fighting stance, and Geralt moved to correct her footwork. Her sword work was exceptional above the belt, but she consistently forgot her stances, throwing herself off balance. They’d begun putting her on the pendulums to force her to focus, dancing between posts to attack the dummies. Geralt had spent many a night rubbing salve into her bruised shoulders, gained from taking fall after fall from the low poles. No one forced her, but if there was one thing Ciri hated, it was admitting to weakness in herself. “Sword up,” Geralt said, and launched into his attack.

He stayed on the offense, forcing her to practice the defensive drills they’d started going over recently. “I know you’ll be fine,” he said, continuing their conversation. His breathing was relaxed, almost meditative through the slow exchange of blows. “Just seems cruel to leave you with only the old man and Yennefer for company.”

Ciri giggled despite herself, and Geralt found himself grinning back before he smacked her lightly in the ribs with the training sword. She swore—Lambert, Geralt thought with chagrin—and danced back a few paces. “Gotta focus,” he said, still smirking at her.

She poked her tongue out at him childishly and reposted off of one of his blocked attacks. He easily swayed out of the way, but the movement was fluid and smooth, which meant someday it would be fast, faster than he could dodge. He gave an encouraging nod.

They continued to spar for another half an hour or so before breaking, heading to the well to fill their water pouches. Geralt sat on the short ring of stones and Ciri slumped on the ground beside him, leaning against his leg. The simple trust and familiarity she exhibited around him still took him by surprise, sometimes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of her head. Her hair was almost as white as his.

She sighed, wiping dripping water from her chin as she tossed her water pouch down. “I figured,” she said. “Say hello to Jaskier for me, when you find him? I missed his songs this time.”

Geralt’s caress turned into a playful ruffle. “I will. Any requests for books?”

“Ones about Elves,” she said immediately, “and Skelligan alchemy. It’s different from ours, did you know? The Druids—”

Geralt chuckled. “I know. You’ve said half a dozen times. No fairytales this time?”

The girl hummed, reminding him for a brief and touching moment of himself. “Just bring Jaskier back. He tells about your adventures so much better than you do.”

“He’s certainly made a career out of it,” Geralt grumbled, feigning annoyance. “I’ll do my best. You know how he is.”

“You missed him too,” she said, hitting his knee with one closed fist. “I know you did. You get all…Well, more grumbly and mopey than usual, when he’s not around.” She wrinkled her nose up at him in exaggerated disgust. “It’s gross. But I do want you to be happy.”

Geralt knocked back against her gently with his knee, swallowing around the feelings that rose in his throat. “You just think I’m a boring old man who won’t help you put toads in Eskel’s bed. But you never even ask. I’m the expert, not Jaskier.”

Ciri laughed, bright and crisp in the morning air, and Geralt felt warm despite the fading winter chill. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would find Jaskier, and next winter he would tell Jaskier that he had to stay at Kaer Morhen. For Ciri, if nothing else. And if it was more for Geralt’s sake than anything, well, no one had to know.

*

Yennefer found him before he left, saddling Roach in the stables.

“Go to Triss,” she said by way of a greeting. Geralt knew what she meant by the gravity in her tone and the tension sitting in the corners of her mouth. “Ask after Ida. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll speak with you, but a Sage is the only one that might be able to give you anything.”

Geralt reached out to grasp her hand firmly in his own. “Thank you, Yen,” he said honestly.

The sorceress sniffed. “Well, you owe me one, I suppose. I hope you find what you're looking for. But be careful.”

“I won’t do anything that might put him in harm’s way,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She gave him a slight smile before leaning in to brush a kiss over his rough cheek. The simple touch warmed him from inside out. “Say hello to the bard for me. Tell him I heard about that disastrous competition in Vizima. Ought to have him stewing for a good long while.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’ll give him your love as always.”

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “Be safe. You know how to reach me, if you have need.”

“I do,” he said. “I will. Take care of Ciri.”

“It’s more the other way around, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft smile, and Geralt understood exactly what she meant. Ciri had saved them both, in more ways than one. Every time he left her was more painful than the last. Someday, he knew, they might travel the Path together, a witcher, a sorceress and their daughter. Maybe even a bard, if he was extremely lucky.

Geralt hoped he would be.

[wcnka]

"You're kind to say that," And while Willy was often overcome with waves of great pride at his own creations, he sometimes needed to remind himself to be too big-headed. There was still so much for him to learn, even now that he'd chosen his place of settling down.

"But as much as we might wish it, none of us can survive on chocolate and sweets alone. That is a sure-fire way of ending up at the dentist. Or hospital."

He was intrigued by those markets he could see not too far now as their pace increased — his mainly to get himself active, his legs fighting against the chill. "I hope they have something hot on offer." Now that he thought about it, Willy wasn't entirely sure what sort of cuisine this city was famous for. He'd been so wrapped up in his own adventures that he hadn't had the chance to take a look at that restaurant map he received upon arrival.

"What do you like to eat? Other than chocolate." He felt confident enough to ask; she'd been able to drink his hot cocoa, after all. "I've always found myself fond of soups and stews. My dear mother, she made the best stobhach gaelach; a hearty Irish stew. She would make a loaf of soda bread, too. We would slather the slices in butter and use it to dip into the stew."

He missed that stew and the bread and the cold winter nights on the boat, huddled together by their small hearth. But Willy missed his mother above all else. What he wouldn't give to see her one last time, to have one last embrace...

She felt her heart rate quicken as the chocolatier reached a hand out into the dark. Her breath caught in her throat, tensing a little. It wasn't so much that it hurt but that it surprised her. Most were so afraid of the dark, afraid of what they did not know, that they wouldn't dare reach out...They didn't choose to see her, let alone touch her. She swallowed back her emotions, though, afraid that she might scare him away. The warmth that came just from his fingertips was enough to make her feel...different. It was a lovely feeling. Unlike anything she had felt in a very long time.

A bit of relief, but also confusion, washed over her as he suddenly changed the subject. She did not want to talk about her own troubles any longer, but she was also surprised at his sudden urge to move on. Had she offended him? Or had he been afraid of offending her further? He was not running away...For now, that was all that really mattered. That meant more to her than anything in the world.

"I'm..sorry you're cold," she hummed in response, her voice a soft, barely-there whisper again. This time it seemed less out of fear or sadness and more out of genuine sympathy. She could not feel the cold for herself. Nor could she offer any warmth. She was a being of pure darkness...Cold was practically her ancestor.

"We can walk. If you like. Perhaps it might warm you." But she could not say he would be very comfortable walking with her by his side in the middle of a market. "People will likely choose not to see me," she pointed out gently. "You may not even notice me after a while..." If there was too much light, she might dissipate entirely. Her consciousness could remain present, so long as he was OK with not being able to see her physical form and only hear her voice as a thought in his head.

"There are many markets around here," she agreed, glancing back toward the circus that was still only half-setup. They would likely finish it by tomorrow evening. The other stalls he spoke of, though, she knew were probably open already. They had been here for much longer than the circus.

"Though I doubt any of their goodies will be quite as good as yours." The cocoa had been enough of a testament to that.