#that it's meaningless and will grant them nothing. he tells rose her death with be pointless. he believed his own would be too

[californiannostalgia]

Elder Olympians Outtakes

*Disclaimer: Please be aware that a significant portion of this is indisputable crack. Prehistoric curses have been translated into vaguely similar modern swear words.*

[Rated Teen and Up for Swearing and Blood]

.

Hestia (Present Day)

She was a bit excited to have one-upped the twin archers. Anyone could have a heartfelt conversation in the middle of the woods. But sanctifying a soulless Olympian terrace with sisterly love? That was something else. Home and Hearth was her dominion. Obviously, she should be the best at it.

When the rain was truly pouring, she brought her brother back inside so they could chat by the fire. She tried to shove in a few more life lessons into the process.

"You know, to quote the ancient monk from that Doctor Strange film—we don't get to choose our time. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

". . . Tolkien."

"And that ancient monk from Doctor Strange. Credit where credit is deserved."

Zeus frowned. "When did you have time to go watch Doctor Strange?"

"I enjoy my material comforts. Don't interrupt me, or I will set your bed on fire."

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Hestia grinned, mischievous—do you still know me, after five thousand years?

“You wouldn’t,” Zeus repeated, and Hestia had to admit to herself: either she hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought, or her youngest brother had a peculiar knack of seeing through her.

“Well, you always did know me best,” she sighed, somewhat surprised at the comfort that this knowledge brought her.

.

Hades (5000 years ago, give or take)

“Fuck you,” Hades muttered, swiping away the gold dripping down his brows—his sleeve was sodden with it and crusting over—“fuck you, I hope your shitheel entrails are shat on by demonfuckers—“

“Insolent child,” boomed the Titan, his teeth flashing white in a grin that split his grisly mouth. “Tell me where your younger brother is, and I will grant you a faster death!”

Hades dug the tip of his spear into the earth and flung dirt into the Titan’s face. 

Fuck! Hera’s voice echoed in his head. Poseidon got his arm ripped off!

Hades gritted his teeth and muttered under his breath, “Hera, I am literally about to die, please stop telling me terrible news.”

.

Demeter (2000 years ago, give or take)

“Shut up,” said Demeter, standing barefoot in a barren field heavily blanketed with snowdrifts that reached her thighs. 

“I didn’t say anything,” said Hestia.

“I know you’re judging. I know this looks strange to you. You don’t understand my choices. Don’t judge.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Hestia rummaged through her cloth knapsack and pulled out a pomegranate. “Fruit?”

Demeter stared. “That is a pomegranate.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It grows in fucking Hades’s garden.”

“It does. I couldn’t find any other type of natural-grown fruit.”

“I don’t want your fruit!” Demeter scrubbed a frustrated hand over her face. “Hestia, it is winter. I hate Hades.”

Hestia nodded. “I understand. Would you mind if I ate this, then?”

“Styx, I don’t care! Go away! I’m brooding!”

“So you are aware you’re brooding!”

“Nyx and Tartarus—”

.

Poseidon (Present Day)

Percy Jackson was a bit of a dilemma.

The first time Poseidon’s siblings saw the child, they were taken aback. Tousled black hair framed a face that was too mortal, too fragile.

He looks like Poseidon, they thought, unwillingly transported back to a time of storm clouds and blood and a sunrise above a battlefield of carnage.

The first time Poseidon saw Percy, the child was unafraid to demand answers from the gods.

He is nothing like me, thought Poseidon, and was painfully relieved.

.

Hera (5000 years ago, give or take)

Poseidon was laughing, and it sounded wrong, unhinged, desperate—

“Keep your head, you idiot!” Hera yelled, grabbing his shoulder.

“I will bind you in chains,” the Titan was promising, “I will carve out your insides and poison your blood, you will beg me for death at the foot of my throne for eternity as my trophy for the coming ages—“

“Shut up, we’re taking a minute!” Hera screamed. She lobbed a dagger at the bastard. The Titan batted it aside.

“No one will put chains on me again,” Poseidon said, shaking with laughter, “I will not go back to imprisonment, Hera, you said—“

“I promised you, I know! We can pick this up after we kill the son of a bitch, yes? Don’t go away on me now, save it for later—”

.

Zeus (more than 5000 years ago)

The hags screamed their mirth. “Oh, child,” one managed, gasping with laughter. “There is no peace in your future. There will be no respite. Your eternity will be that of constant battle, and sooner or later you will tire of it. Nothing will sate you, be it sweet company or thick wine. There will come a time when you would rather turn a blind eye to hints of oncoming war than go out and meet them, steel against steel.” She cocked her head. “Are you sure you want this? If you return to your mountains, none of this will come to pass. Reconsider. Are they really worth the price?”

He didn’t understand. They were talking in riddles. He’d never been that clever. Even the ladies who had raised him and loved him very much (they said so all the time: we love you very much, sweet child—) had giggled as they outsmarted him in games of chase and mock battle.

He wasn’t smart, it was true. But he didn’t have to be smart to know that he wanted to meet his siblings for the first time. He didn’t have to be smart to understand that he wanted to find his mother and tell her, I came to save you, just like you saved me.

Zeus clenched his fists. “I am not here to listen to your meaningless drivel. Tell me how I may defeat my father.”

Their cackles rose anew. “My, the newborn has fire to him! Very well, little king.”

The laughter was unsettling. “I’m not a king.”

The hags ignored him. “So you chose—so it shall be.”

[pequenoleon]

“what’s in a name?” (Good Omens) on AO3

“what’s in a name,” the actor on stage sighs, “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” he frowns, though understands juliet’s plight exactly. names are more complicated than let on. or, crowley's journey of self-discovery from creation to after the apocalypse-that-wasn't.

they know what they’re supposed to be before they even know themself, before creation, a time before time, when god needed extra hands for her bidding to bring good to the universe. what was good? what was the universe? god did little to answer these questions. instead, god said, life started with the angels. but none of them knew why yet.

there was lucifer first, then michael, then raphael, and gabriel, the archangels of the void. the light from lucifer's wings, and god's guidance, was the first glowing star in their world. it was beautiful, they had overheard michael say once, but they weren't there to see it.

not all angels were created in a single snap of god's will. rather, they appeared together, moment by moment.

god was beautiful, they remember that. they were brought with the rest of the angels into her light, her warmth, and given purpose. none had no reason to disagree with her almighty.

"samael," she spoke to them, "rise."

they did, unfurled white wings. in that one moment of existence, samael knew that being an angel, being granted the power of creation to help with the universe, was the most important thing. each angel had their own unique gifts, she said, opportunities to give Earth and beyond.

they liked the beyond bit. samael wanted to go beyond Earth, make a difference there; even as curious as angels are, they was the first to ask why.

"because, samael, there's a greater plan at stake that you will play a role here, as all do."

they were the first to question their essence.

"but why am i samael," they asked. they were given this name afterall.

"because you are the blindness i cannot see, the venom that will be spit back at me."

it made no sense, and they decided not to press further.

samael moved, not yet having a physical form, and joined the others who rejoiced in a bigger family.

---

samael wanted to fit in. noting how different they were from the rest, they were eager and ready to serve. yet they moved independently with their tasks, opposed to waiting in line to be assigned. they liked the freedom. other angels scorned. michael thought samael only needed more responsibility to step into their role as an angel of the lord, to fall into line. what michael meant was to act as expected.

samael didn't get along with many angels. most other’s wings would tremble, outstretch, arching up in protection of themselves-- a barrier, a do not approach, a notice of being an outsider within your own flock. samael kept their distance then, eager with the new task of guarding the seventh heaven.

"oh, a promotion, you must be excited." an unfamiliar voice said.

samael hadn’t noticed the angel who approached them. a principality, clear wings and a holy crown rested upon them.

"i would rather be out there, among the stars, creating, or living amongst it."

"that's a beautiful thought. sometimes i feel the same way too...?”

"samael, and you?”

"aziraphale.”

"an honor."

they were the first angel to show true kindness, the odd way that energy poured off of aziraphale put them at ease. they chatted. aziraphale showed off the sword the almighty had given them, its fire caught the light of heaven and samael became obsessed with it.

fire, heat, the warmth of it.

aziraphale was the perfect angel, samael thought. poised to protect their creator's design, rolling with what they were given. they became friends.

---

the only other angel to give them the time of day (day was just invented, they quite liked both day and night) was lucifer, and his close knit group. lucifer, the morning star, demanded a new type of identity for himself, he wasn't just an angel, he was god's favorite, and rumored to be the most powerful.

samael wanted to be as respected as lucifer.

they often left their duties to join lucifer and watched the world. they didn't like guarding. michael yelled at them for it, but why were they guarding anyway? guarding what? who amongst the angels had the thought to do anything other than what they were told?

oh, the questions they had.

"do not question the plan, samael." michael said.

"thinking isn't right for an angel, you know better." gabriel said.

raphael was absent as always. but it was lucifer who praised their curiosity.

names are important, the meaning they bring. lucifer brings light through his wings' glow. samael thought of aziraphale's sword, but lucifer's glow was somehow still so cold.

the difference was as striking as the time that now passed by.

lucifer showed samael the power they held, the power other archangels tried to hide from them– creation, like the lord herself.

"you must listen to yourself, samael, follow your own path, and do as you must. create your own miracles."

samael, in all their strength, created a nebula. yellows, and blues, space dust swirling through the vast void, a giant canvas. lucifer said they had the right to name it, as it was theirs. carina, the name on the tip of their tongue. an explosion of stars, birth and death happening simultaneously... for the first time, they felt proud of a creation. the freedom it came with, this feeling was life.

compared to the warmth aziraphale would give, lucifer was cold, manipulating... but lucifer was more powerful than aziraphale, and through lucifer, samael could show god that they could do so much more.

that was their plan. they didn't need god's great plan, but other little plans along the way that would get the same place. questions helped them get there, so why were they bad?

---

samael had another interaction with god, rare for the time, as whispers ran through heaven everywhere. they were called upon by michael, summoned for lack of reporting to their duty.

"why do you cause trouble," michael spoke, "don't follow lucifer's ego."

samael didn't respond. what could they have said, that lucifer was the only interesting thing happening around each of the realms of heaven, that without the whole world there was nothing to guard or protect. their existence had been meaningless.

it had felt so long since samael had felt the grace of their god. she was angry, but the ripples of her love for her children was strong and yet not as strong as her own angels.

"what can you tell me about lucifer, samael?"

they bristled. sight blinded by light, they shielded away. "lucifer has the idea that we, the angels of heaven, should have a stronger hand in creation, to follow our own desires--”

"that is not what i asked of you.”

"your grace, you asked very little of me in the first place."

the light grew stronger, and samael felt terribly small, their wings wrapping around them for protection.

"i have plans for you. do not try to go against them." and that was meant to be the end, where samael corrected their ways and went back to the post of the seventh heaven. but samael only wanted answers, answers that no one would give them, and somehow that was wrong.

"what plan?"

there was a silence. the question was the last straw. the aggravation from the angels and her lord weighed as heavy as the weight of the universe on samael's shoulders. through the anger, even god spoke so softly. it still rattled through their being.

"the great plan, samael, the test to show where their true devotion lies in the world i give them."

"who?" they dared not say more, but the curiosity within them was not yet sated.

"my greatest creation. a test, samael, a test you best pass."

god went quiet, and samael knew that was the end of that. the world was the lord's greatest creation, and yet with the sky and the rivers, and the glorious beasts that roamed the grasses, she was not yet satisfied.

michael sent samael back to their post. they stayed, guarding, in displeasure.

then things did change. the humans. adam and eve, god had named them, were given the most beautiful place of creation to live in but under the one rule that neither two touch what she commanded was untouchable. a tree, a simple tree, samael thought it was laughable. the sixth day brought more than humans. it brought envy. lucifer hated them.

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[raendown]

Day 2 of @madatobiweek. Prompt: Blind Tobirama.

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 2585 Chapter: 1/7 Rated: T+ Summary: An accident at work leaves Tobirama blinded while his eyes are bandaged to heal from some rather nasty burns. Too busy with his own job to play the role of caretaker, wife too pregnant to place the burden on her, Hashirama calls upon his best friend Madara to stay with them and help Tobirama out in anyway he can. Madara isn't exactly thrilled to play babysitter but he can see an opportunity when one comes along; this may be the chance he's always waited for.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

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Focal Point

For someone who had been largely MIA over the past few days Hashirama was disgustingly brief in his request for Madara to come over. He hadn’t even offered so much as a single excuse for his behavior beyond a few murmurs about some family emergency and needing to be home while everyone available tried to pull together and help out. What they were trying to help with Madara had no idea since his idiot best friend had talked around himself several times before asking with uncharacteristic seriousness whether he could come over or not.

Of course Madara had said yes because despite the fact that he would never lower himself to actually admitting to it he did miss his best friend, the man he had spent time with nearly every day since they were around twelve years old. When he got there, though, the first thing he was going to do was badger an explanation out of him for the sudden disappearance. Normally Hashirama was blowing up his phone with meaningless texts from the moment the sun rose over the horizon. To his shame it had actually taken until noon for Madara to realize his pocket had been suspiciously quiet all day and fire off a few texts of his own that never got replied to.

The subway obviously had to be extra crowded when he hopped on because that was just his luck. Only a few days of separation and already he forgot why it was always better to take a cab to Hashirama’s neighborhood. Madara buried his face in the neck of his sweater to block out the stench of body odor and other things he didn’t want to think about until finally he was at the stop closest to his friend’s home. The rush to disembark nearly sent him tumbling off the platform and down on to the tracks but he managed to pull himself out of harm’s way by taking a solid grip on a passing stranger’s backpack and letting himself get dragged along for the ride. Only once the crowd had moved on and he was at least semi-free of the bustling masses did he finally dare to move out on his own again, heading for the western exit.

Since Hashirama’s house was still a fifteen minute walk in to one of the nicer neighborhoods, Madara spent the whole time kicking up fall leaves and going over all of his guesses for what the idiot might have been doing in the past few days, everything from spontaneous amnesia to randomly deciding to join a drug cartel and run coke in to another country. Granted, the second one wasn’t very likely since the man was more terrified of his wife’s wrath than death itself and Mito would certainly have a few things worse than death to rain down upon her husband if he decided to get involved with those sorts of seedy activities. Of all the things Madara had ever threatened his friend with nothing would ever compare to an ominous ‘I’ll tell your wife’ and yet he’d never seen a happier couple.

He would almost be jealous if they weren’t so disgustingly schmoopy about it.

By the time he arrived at the right house on the right street there were several leaves caught in his hair and he was cursing himself for not remembering to restrain it before going out in the wind. The door was unlocked so he let himself in and deliberately kicked his boots off in a messy heap, knowing Hashirama would be the one to get in trouble for not reigning in his guest properly.

“Where are you, dipshit?” he called in to the eerily quiet house. Something thumped on the second floor so he headed that way, thinking perhaps that he might not have heard Hashirama’s response.

Al the lights were off, he noticed. Well, not all of them, but enough of them to make him wonder if Hashirama had gotten in trouble again for being unkind to the environment. It gave the whole place an eerie vibe to follow the singular trail of light from the kitchen close to the entrance all the way up the massive sweeping staircase. Really Hashirama had too much money but at least he had a wife classy enough to know how to show it off properly instead of the three tiered bouncy castle Hashirama used to dream of living in.

Once he had climbed all the way up to the second floor he paused to look left and right down the hallway, wondering which direction to try first. He used to think that a house this big was too much space for just the two people who lived here even with a baby on the way but somehow Hashirama always found a way to fill every damn room in this place – and use them all! He even had a whole room just for his stupid plants where he could be found each day watering them and chattering away like it would help them grow.  

Just as Madara decided left was as good a direction to try as any Hashirama popped out of the room right in front of him and shrieked in his face with frightened surprise, probably not expecting to see him there. Startled, Madara shrieked back.

Like idiots the two of them stood there shrieking back and forth until finally Madara could think around the panic enough to clap one of his hands over Hashirama’s mouth, cutting off all sound and plunging the long hallway in to sudden silence. His friend offered him a sheepish look before clawing the hand off his mouth to grin in apology.

“I didn’t realize you were here already!”

“What do you mean ‘already’? I rode the subway, it took forever!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ve been losing track of time lately. Things have been really…difficult. But I’m glad you’re here. Would you like some coffee?” He sighed and Madara realized the other man did look incredibly tired. “I could really use some myself.”

Grumbling, Madara stepped back and waved for Hashirama to go ahead of him. They wandered back down the stairs and in to the kitchen where his host went straight for the coffee pot. Once it was set up and burbling away he slumped down in to the closest chair, running both hands through his uncharacteristically tangled locks with a harried expression. The bags under his eyes were deep enough to be suitcases and Madara found that sort of offensive; eye bags were his shtick, Hashirama had no right to pull them off so well.

“I meant it, I’m glad you’re here. With Mito as pregnant as she is I’m having trouble dealing with this situation myself and juggling work at the same time.”

“What situation? You’ve been giving me the silent treatment for days, I don’t know what’s going on!”

Hashirama wilted like a flower. “It’s Tobirama. There was an accident at his lab and he’s…” Fear gripped Madara and squeezed tight, choking his heart and closing his throat. Every second that passed without an explanation left him more and more tense until finally he exploded.

“He’s what!? Spit it out!”

“Oh he’s fine!” Hashirama said. “Mostly. He’s in one piece, at least! But the explosion–”

“Explosion!?”

“–burnt his retinas. I know a specialist who owed me a favor and she took a look. Everything should be fine but Tobi isn’t allowed to remove the bandages for a couple of weeks. So he’s effectively blind for a little while, which means he needs a bit of help. He’s staying here with us in his old room and I’ve been trying to take care of him but you know what it’s like when I’m on call. Babies are born when it’s convenient for them, not when it’s convenient for the doctor.”

Madara’s voice was faint as he murmured reflexively, “You’re the one who wanted to be an obstetrician.”

Whatever whining answer Hashirama gave went in one ear and out the other as Madara immediately disappeared inside his own head. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have his sight taken away so suddenly and so completely, the terror that would fill him as he worried over whether or not he would ever see again no matter how much the doctors reassured him. Good eyesight was almost a family tradition. He couldn’t think of a single Uchiha who had ever even had to wear glasses let alone gone blind or something. If he had to choose a sense to lose it would not be his sight. Maybe hearing. He could still read if he had his hearing and learning sign language couldn’t be too hard, he thought. Learning English had been a nightmare but he’d gotten through that well enough.

Eventually he tuned back in to the world to hear Hashirama going on still about how hard it was to be on call while also trying to care for his pregnant wife and how adding an injured sibling on top of that just made everything twice as hard to figure out. The flow of words only stopped when Madara reached out to clap a hand over his mouth again, this time with a frown.

“Get to the point already,” he snarled. Hashirama pulled his hand away and tittered.

“Sorry. I got carried away. I called because I need your help. I can’t be in two places at once and I know you have to work too but you can work from anywhere as long as you have your laptop! Could I maybe convince you to come stay here and…keep an eye on Tobi?”

Madara blinked. “You want me to what now?”

“Please!? Tobirama really needs someone to help him out with things and I already worry for Mito when I’m not around but I can’t just ignore my patients–”

“No, stop.” Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Madara demanded, “Are you asking me to come stay here so I can babysit your little brother? Have you gone insane?” Of all the stupid favors he had been asked for during their long friendship this definitely ranked among the stupidest.

“Come on, it won’t be that bad! He just needs someone to cook meals and help him get around, maybe entertain him a little bit. It’s not like it would be super hard!”

“Have you forgotten the part where he can’t stand me?”

Waving his hand dismissively, Hashirama laughed. “That’s not true at all! You just need to learn how to read him properly. Believe me, you would know if he couldn’t stand you. He’s not afraid to be vocal about that sort of thing.”

Madara shook his head doubtfully but didn’t bother arguing further. Apparently Tobirama was already here in the house somewhere and he’d always had abnormally sharp ears – useful now that he would need to rely on them a little more than usual but even blinded he was unlikely to spare any sharp words if he overheard Madara talking about him.

A cringe put a stop to that line of thought, bringing him up short and forcing him to take a hard look at the reality of what Hashirama was asking him. Friends weren’t something Hashirama lacked but people he could trust to take care of his precious sibling? After the rest of their family had all been taken by the same sickness a few years back Hashirama had seemed to cling to his last brother like a lifeline, holding tightly as though afraid that if he let go he would lose Tobirama as well. Knowing that he was among the few this man would trust with the last of his family was unsurprising, of course, but still touching.

That didn’t mean he was in any way excited to do this. In all the years they had known each other Madara have gotten no impression from Tobirama other than disdain and distaste. Younger he might be but his brain could outrun the both of them put together and he was always quick on the draw to point out when he thought Madara was doing something stupid – which was pretty much all the time. Even if he thought about it Madara couldn’t think of a single pleasant interaction between the two of them. Usually they just avoided each other as much as possible and left it at that; it was easiest.

“Don’t you have a cousin who lives in town?” he asked as a last ditch attempt to avoid the awkwardness he just knew was bound to come with agreeing to this stupidity.

“We do but she’s out of the country on a work retreat and they weren’t even allowed to bring cellphones or anything. She would come home in a heartbeat if I could reach her – probably more to get out of there than for Tobi, to be honest – but I just don’t have a way to do that.” Hashirama sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve had several coworkers covering my ass as much as possible over the past few days but they’re all just as overworked as I am and they can’t keep this up. Please? Please?” Like an inevitable tide he went for the same old move he’d been perfecting since they were twelve, the infamous puppy eyes, at which point Madara understood that he had lost. He gave a sigh of his own and prayed for patience.

“I’ll need to pack some clothes and shit. And it’ll take a while to get all my notebooks together and grab my laptop. Honestly, you could have asked me over the phone so I could do all this before coming over. Now I’ve got to pay for a cab both ways just to get back here!” Grumbling, he shoved his hands in his pockets and spun around to head for the front door.

“Wait! I can give you a ride home! I’ll just need to run upstairs and let Tobi know that I’ll be gone for a little while so he doesn’t try anything adventurous.” Hashirama paused to wrinkle his nose. “The first night I brought him home he tried to find the bathroom by himself and ended up weeing in the hall closet. I had to rewash all my linens and some of those sheets still don’t smell right when I make the bed.”

Madara blinked twice and then roared with laughter. It did make him feel better to know that his new ward had already made a fool of himself a time or two.

Not wanting to waste a good brew, the two of them sat down and enjoyed the coffee Hashirama had been making before they left. It was nice to catch up after several days apart. Trading gossip as they usually did, reestablishing the bond several people in their lives had dubbed worryingly codependent. When they were finished he took the mugs to the sink while Hashirama trotted upstairs to speak with his brother for a minute and then Madara allowed himself to be led outside and piled in to the stupidly expensive car in the driveway. On the way back to his apartment he made his friend regale him with all the silly idiot mistakes Tobirama had made so far in his adventures as a temporary blind man, laughing without shame no matter how he was scolded for it.

With those images in his mind the next couple of weeks were looking a lot more fun.

[shinidamachu]

At Last

Summary: the well never worked again alternate universe. In honor of Day 6 of @inukag-week: AU.

Word Count: 902  Genre: angst  Fandom: InuYasha Pairing: Inukag Format: drabble  AO3 Link: 🌹  Fanfic.Net Link: 🌹 

Sad voices, one by one, had gifted her ears with the sweetest whispers, words of farewell broken by persistent sobs. Kagome tried to put names to the voices but in the end, all she could remember was their faces — and that she loved each one of them with everything she had.

Even so, she didn’t dare open her eyes to gaze at them one last time. Kagome knew what she would find and she would rather held on to the happy memories they shared together, the ones treasured and saved deep into her mind to keep her warm in the cold days. And she hoped that they would pay her the same courtesy, remembering the person she was before her body started to fail her.

Silence fell over the room when the last person left. Kagome harnessed the moment to make thankful prayer. First, for the many lives she touched and for the ones that touched hers. Then, for the misfortunes that had thrown her into a different path than the one she expected and all the blessings she had harvested out of it. Finally, for being allowed to spend her numbered days in the comfort of her bedroom.

It had been a difficult battle, but her family granted her wish when it become clear there was nothing modern medicine could do. Kagome would know. She was a doctor, after all. And a priestess — a very good one, at that matter — though this part of her past was unknown to them.

Nobody understood why Kagome had never wanted to move out of the old shrine, nor her reasons to be so attached to the mysterious well it sheltered. Not a soul alive  knew that when the wind blew her face, she dreamed of blurry trees, fluttering white hair and strong, clawed hands supporting her as she pretended to fly. InuYasha was a secret to everyone else.

With one exception.

“Nee-chan. Can you hear me?” Fingers moved her grey bangs out of the way. “I’m gonna stay right here with you, okay? Until it’s time for you to go, I-” His voice gave in to breaking sobs and after placing a kiss on her forehead, he pulled a chair and sat next to her bedpost.

Kagome wanted to tell him not to cry. If anything, he should be happy for her. People fear death because they are afraid of what they don’t know. Although she also ignored what waited for her on the other side, she knew who would be waiting and it was enough to make parting feel like coming home.

The well that connected her world with his had never worked again since the day their story was cruelly interrupted by the whims of destiny. At first, she had hoped it would get fixed somehow but then days turned to months, months to years and Kagome slowly started to realize it was a permanent thing. Nonetheless, she always believed they would find each other again. However long it took, in this or in another life, they would find each other again.

In the meanwhile, Kagome had build herself the best life she could. She had fallen in love, again and again, each time different from the other. She had made mistakes and learned, laughed and sang, cried and danced. She had witnessed miracles, seen the magic that went unnoticed by pessimist eyes. She had also faced tragedy, met the worst the world had to offer and used it to become stronger. She had been loved, deeply and unrestrained. She had been happy.

And she did it all while still loving and missing him, every second of every day.

Kagome wasn’t sure how much time had passed — it was such a meaningless concept now — before she felt a change in the room, a nostalgic sensation calling to her soul in a way she hadn’t felt since her teenage years.

“Kagome.” There it was, the sound she so desperately needed to hear. Her eyes opened on their own accord, drawn by him like they had always been. Suddenly, Kagome felt like fifteen again. All the numb butterflies in her stomach came rushing back to life at the vision of her favorite white, red and gold combination.

Something about the way InuYasha’s eyes gleamed had her tired heart beating on a pace she had forgotten it was possible to achieve.

“InuYasha…” Until that moment, Kagome had never let herself speak his name out loud and to do it felt like letting out a breath she was holding for far too long. She tried to keep the tears at bay — she remembered how much he hated when she cried — but it was hard to repress them when, without warning, echoes of a conversation they once had made her chest burn with the same relief she felt back then. “You came for me.”

“Dummy. ‘Course I did.” With a smile that reflected her one, InuYasha closed the distance between them, promptly using a clawed finger to clean her wet cheek. “Ready?”

When she rose, she left behind a body that wasn’t hers anymore — every inch of it marvelously marked by time — and a life lived to the fullest. And when she interlocked her fingers with his, she knew there was nothing on this world or the next that could break them apart.

“Ready.” She said, at last.

A/N: this was based on the episode "Not Yet" of One Day At A Time.

[brialavellan]

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

(NOW ON AO3)

Chapter 1 ||  Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5

CH 6: On the Path

“Foolishness. Pure foolishness” Vivienne muttered while she paced back and forth across Cassandra’s office while Cassandra frowned deeply, her head buried in her hands, saying nothing except a long and painful sigh. 

“You had to know this was coming,” she said, turning back towards her, arms folded, her face knotted into a severely disapproving frown. “She was always terrible at the Game, I’m surprised she ever got as far as she did.”

“Natalie has always been nothing but trouble.” Cassandra said,  “She served Grand Cleric Victoire. She was one of the fiercest critics against the Inquisition for the start. And of the Herald.”

Vivienne sighed, a little louder than she would normally allow herself, but the office of the Divine was the only place in all of Orlais, and Cassandra was the only person in Thedas, where she could put down the burden of decades of practiced movements and the mask of graceful airs, if only for a moment. “You cannot let this go lightly, Cassandra. By trying to discredit your chosen instrument, she is trying to discredit you. This is a serious threat against the Chantry, one that our dear Herald has further agitated by allying herself with Briala.”

Vivienne’s frown and her voice softened as she pulled up a chair and sat next to Cassandra, placing a delicate hand on her shoulder. “You’ll do what’s right. I know you will. But what is always right is not what is always best. Your Chantry is still young, and you cannot squander what goodwill you’ve built up by a bad association. You need to remain a strong and powerful voice.”

“Maybe I should speak to her. Send a message that the Herald is off limits. And Briala…”

“One minor concession we have to make. Let her rant and rave about the Dales. We could save Halamshiral for the elves…at the cost of losing this war,” Vivienne said, her voice cool and matter-of-fact. “The elves can have Halamshiral back when this war is over.”

“She won’t be happy to hear that.”

“Her little infatuation with the Marquise sometimes prevents her from seeing sense.” Vivienne said with obvious distaste, “You know this. In war, we make sacrifices. And we are at war.”

“I will keep what you say in mind.”

Their conversation trailed off to a comfortable silence for a few moments, just two women enjoying the serenity of each other’s presence, when a harsh rapping at the door called their attention. Vivienne rushed to put her mask back on as Cassandra rose to open the door, obviously irked by this intrusion. She opened the heavy mahogany doors to find a young initiate, stammering and shaking in place as she clutched two small pieces of paper to her chest.

“Your Perfection,” she said with a hasty bow as she struggled to form words, shielding her eyes from Cassandra’s harsh visage. “I’m sorry, so so so sorry to interrupt. I received this missive from the Marquise Briala, and a raven came from Kirkwall addressed to you.”

Vivienne’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said, taking the notes into her hands. “Now please leave until we call for you.”

The initiate handed the papers to her briskly and bolted out of view. Cassandra unfurled the first note, marked with the seal of Kirkwall’s Viscount, her eyes carefully scanning the page.

“Apparently, ‘Manehn has a lead in Kirkwall,” she told Vivienne as she read the rest of the note, “one of Varric’s…oh Maker….one of his former companions. The blood mage friend of Hawke’s.”

Vivienne laughed, a haughty laugh that presumed that this lead would be useless. “Yes, of course my dear, what could go wrong with that?”

Cassandra sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “Should we not use every tool necessary. The lead is a blood mage, yes, but I trust Varric.”

“And I do not.” Vivienne countered. “But you are right. We should use every tool necessary. I just think blood magic is a dangerous, useless tool.” She paused for a moment in silent contemplation. “It is as likely to produce demons as much as results. What about the other missive? Does the Marquise request we save her from her own nonsense?”

Cassandra broke the seal and unfurled the second missive. Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips tightened in anger.

“Natalie openly works against us now. And she has been spotted at Celene’s side.”

“Well that isn’t surprising,” Vivienne said coolly, “Celene would do anything to weaken the Dales short of open war, if only because Briala, I will admit, has built some connections through careful concessions. But it does mean we should expect a visit from the Empress herself, or one of her stronger allies. In the meantime, tell Briala to head directly back to the Dales. We need her there more than we need her here.”

Cassandra penned a quick missive and opened the door, spotting the young initiate at the end of the hall. A quick movement of her fingers summoned the young woman to her side. She handed the missive over.

“Seek the Marquise of the Dales and turn this over to her.”

“Of-of-of course!,” the young woman stammered as she took the note and rushed down the hall and turned the corner, running right into Katrina, who was twirling a small dagger in her hands.

“And what do you have there in your hand, little bird?” she asked her, her lips spreading into a cheshire grin. 

“I-I-I have the missive to Marquis Briala….” She said, “It is is nothing of importance surely…is this what you wanted from me? Please tell me this is what you wanted…”

“Absolutely. You are exactly what I need.” Katrina said as she plucked the missive from the trembling girl’s hand. “Your debt is paid and the dues collected. Your secret is sealed.”

She clutched the dagger and with a quick swipe drew it across the girl’s jugular. She fell back, legs buckling underneath her, eyes wide and hands trembling, clutching her throat as blood spurted from the gash and gurgled from pastel pink lips. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

“With your death,” Katrina said with a scowl as she stood over the bleeding body of the initiate, calmly wiping the dagger clean with the hemline of the initiate’s vestments.

She chuckled as the initiate’s hands slackened and her eyes fell closed with the last of her lifeblood draining onto the marble tiles.

“Foolish girl thought she’d actually live after this,” she said to herself, shaking her head at the naivete, no, the audacity. These lives were meaningless. There would be greater sacrifices to come. The rivers of Thedas would run crimson with the blood of their enemies. Innocent elves died everyday, at the hands of humans far crueler than she could ever be. At least the death she granted was quick. She was just evening the scales of justice.

She retrieved a note from her satchel and dipped it in the crimson blood, then pressed it into the young woman’s fingers. A little misdirection that would lead to bigger payoffs, she hoped, if Fen’harel would stop dragging his heels.

“Capture the Herald. Kill the other two.”

One lunged forward towards Davhalla but fell with a quick lightning bolt to the chest, twitching and writhing in agony. Two came after Aveline, but both were expertly cut down with a parry and shield bash. Another rushed towards her side, sweeping upwards with his sword, but ‘Manehn cut him down with a quick swipe at his side and a dagger in the back.

The elf’s eyes widened as she saw them cut down one by one, followed quickly by a quick motion of her hands as she pooled mana around her, a fireball growing between her fingers.

“Move!” ‘Manehn shouted, eyes wide, at Aveline and Davhalla, and both barely darted out of the way of an incoming fireball, the air growing hot with magic and Aveline’s hair slightly singed from a near miss.

The elf smirked as she rushed for higher ground. All three turned and scrambled after her, ascending up a steep cliff face.

She turned to face them with a wicked grin, eyes glowing, the Fade warping and wrapping around her as she drew a blade and slashed her arm. The fresh blood glistened around her fingers before giving way to a small sundering, a tear in the Fade from which a demon sprang forth, bulbous and bloated with rotted abscesses for eyes and talons dripping with black ichor.

“For the glory of Fen’harel!” the agent shouted as the demon rushed forward until she stumbled back with a arrow firmly lodged in her chest.

‘Manehn turned to see, to her dismay, Varric and Mirwen perched above them, Varric obviously chasing after Mirwen, imploring her to get back.

More elves rushed to meet their blades, all coming from a single point, a cave carved into another rock face while the demon glided towards Varric and Mirwen, its unholy shriek ringing in their ears.

“There!” ‘Manehn yelled as she rushed forward to meet them. One charged forward and thrust his sword upward, which she parried. He turned to bring it down on her head. She parried it with a quick swipe of her blade up. He spun around but met the blade attached to her left arm. Blood spurted from his mouth as he fell.

Behind her, two approached Davhalla, charging at her with brandished blades. She uttered a few words and with a downward swing of her stave, turned the ground to frost and their legs to ice while their eyes widened in horror as they became encased. Aveline charged forth with her shield, shattering them into pieces.

A rain of arrows from the rock face where Varric stood made a few others flail and fall, clutching their chests, screaming in agony.  Mirwen took off, tears streaming from her face and she reacted to the pooling and pulling of the Fade, bolting towards a nested spot above the cave, flinging fireballs at the demon and the few stragglers that remained. The demon trained its eyes and her and began to follow, ready to consume and possess his prey.

“Get away!” ‘Manehn  screamed as she rushed the demon, lunging forth and driving a blade deep into the demon’s back. It screamed, clawing at the wound that spurted with ichor that seared ‘Manehn’s arm as she thrust the blade deeper still.

Mirwen froze, her hand still encased in flame, her eyes still wet with tears, heart wrenched by this most egregious of sins, the warping of the poor spirit into a monster. She raised a trembling hand towards ‘Manehn and the demon, spoke a strange incantation, and a sudden bright light burst forth, coating the battlefield in stinging brightness.

The demon was gone now, as well as the burns on ‘Manehn’s arm. Only an echo remained, a withered remnant that whispered a soft thanks in Elvhen before it dissipated.

Mirwen glanced back at ‘Manehn, mouthing a quick ‘sorry Mamae’ before she collapsed to the ground.

‘Manehn gasped as she rushed to her side, with Aveline, Davhalla and Varric quickly following behind. She fell to her knees by Mirwen’s side and lifted her head with great effort with her right arm. Mirwen’s eyes fluttered open as she stirred and steadied herself.

“Varric, you need to take her back,” she said, eyes flashing and skin reddening underneath her dark skin from obvious rage, “For real this time.”

“It’s not his fault, Mamae,” Mirwen pleaded, “You needed help, I turned back. He tried to stop me.”

‘Manehn took a deep breath, trying desperately to force down her anger. “I told you to leave for a reason.”

“You can’t find the eluvian without me,” Mirwen protested, “I had to help!”

“You mean the eluvian inside the cave that all these elves were trying to protect,” ‘Manehn retorted.

Mirwen gave a listless shrug. “At least let me see a real eluvian before you send me back.”

“It should be safe now,” Davhalla said, trying her best to be as diplomatic as possible.

‘Manehn shot a quick glare at her before acquiescing. “Well, we have no time to lose,” she muttered as the party entered the cave.

The cave where the eluvian hid was dark and damp, riddled with a multitude of foulness and fungus that settled into a miasma that left eyes watering and noses covered.

“Why would anyone even think to put a portal here?” Aveline said, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“These eluvians were constructed thousands of years ago,” Davhalla helpfully mumbled through a cloth she had raised to her mouth and nose, “maybe the environment here was less….well, let’s be frank, fucking disgusting.”

“I hope these shiny brown deposits are mushrooms,” Varric unhelpfully added.

"Wait."

‘Manehn signaled the party to stop behind her at pointed at the floor. The fetid brown slickness gave way to smooth limestone and even hints of green moss. The miasma began to dissipate and the air bcame crisp and cool. An enormous mirror stood before them, flanked on both sides by halla statues, the mirrored surface rippling like small waves in a clear pond.

“Deactivated.” Mirwen added, crestfallen. “I had hoped the scrying worked because it was activated.”

“It was activated.” Davhalla said. “They could just as easily have closed it once they saw we were coming.”

‘Manehn closed her eyes, waiting for the unbidden whispers from the Well to coalesce into a signal, a sign, any sort of helpful indicator to get past the eluvian.

The discordance that normally plagued her began to warp and rearrange itself in her mind, to one resonance, one voice, speaking a few words.

Lasa ghilan revashiral

She repeated the words and the eluvian sprang to life, the dim reflection now glowing white hot, shimmering with streaks of blue warping and winding across the surface, lighting up the dim, dank cavern and forcing the three to avert their eyes to adjust.

“Fucking lies,” ‘Manehn said, looking back at the eluvian, “‘Guide me to freedom’. The fucking audacity….”

Davhalla clasped her shoulder. “And that’s why we’re gonna stop him.”

‘Manehn nodded and turned towards Davhalla. “You need to come with me. Mirwen, Varric will make sure you get back to the Cathedral. Aveline…you need to smash this mirror behind us.”

“Absolutely not.” Aveline said, shaking her head furiously.

“Well,” ‘Manehn pointed to the glowing eluvian, “we’ll get to wherever Merrill is a lot faster going this way.”

“You shouldn’t go this way. We don’t even know exactly where Merrill went.”

“She probably fled to Ferelden,” Varric said. “She told me that’s where all her trouble began. I’d go back there, if I was her.”

Aveline glared at Varric. “And what if you both get lost?”

“We won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

‘Manehn closed her eyes again, trying to make sense of the discordance, the whispers that resumed in response. She could not make out their exact words, but felt an affirmation that she should proceed.

Her eyes fluttered back open.

“Just a feeling,” she said as she she took a deep breath and stepped into the eluvian.

[starcunning]

This Beast That Rends Me: 1 Apr

Hi and welcome to … whatever the fuck this is!

I’ve had the loose framework for this story in my head since last August (and X’shasi shortly thereafter), and hopefully can get some of the words out over the next few weeks. Be warned that none of this will be edited, and strong themes may be present throughout. Check the tags for more info.

This Beast That Rends Me

Prologue

He fled and she chased, as her nature bid her, until he led her at last into the gardens. The sun shone on her face, and she could hear the wind rustle through the leaves, but there was no calm to be found.

“Welcome to the Royal Menagerie,” the Viceroy greeted her. There was an edge to the pleasantry as sharp as the steel naked in her hand. X’shasi did not bring it to bear. Not then, and not while he spoke of the history of her homeland. Her gaze was transfixed instead by the cage of lightning that kept bound the primal. She could smell the ozone of its prison and the rankness of its hate. Shasi cursed herself for a fool: they never had found it, but distracted by other concerns, she had not wondered where it had gotten to. “It was you, after all, who let slip the Allagan hound to drive this eikon into my arms,” he gloated. The shock of his prescience must have shown on her face, for he laughed: “Oh, my. Have I said too much? Forgive me. This sensation is … wholly unfamiliar to me.” A shake of his head, the silk of his hair gilded by late-afternoon sun. “A question, then—and I should like very much for you to speak from the heart. If I were to stand aside, what would you do to this eikon?”

X’shasi said nothing, looking from the man to the primal that dwarfed them both. It was, to her mind, a foregone conclusion. A score of primals returned to the aether spoke louder than she ever could. “You will not indulge me even with a simple reply, then?” he asked, almost pouting. But what followed seemed to cheer him: “No, you think only of the fight to come. How alike we are.” It was not the first time X’shasi had thought it. “A pity,” he said, the rasp of his voice lending an irony to the words. “There is another alternative. Or there would be … had you only mastered your abilities.” It was tempting bait, and she must have let that show, for he smiled. “I speak of the Echo, of course. Does it merely render you immune to eikonic influence? Or is it rather that your influence is far greater than theirs?” He let the question hang before dismissing it, and her. “But these implications are of no moment to a savage, who thinks only of killing the beast before him …”

Thus his research, it would seem. Thus what had been made of Fordola rem Lupis. Shasi had never fought one of her own kind before her—no, she amended. She had fought her own once before. There had been joy in it then, as now. Joy as much as sorrow; thrill as much as regret.

The Viceroy was still speaking. “Man should fight for the joy of it,” said he. “To live, to eat, to breed—lesser beasts snap and howl at one another for this. Only man has the wisdom and the clarity to embrace violence for its own sake. For we who are born into this merciless, meaningless world have but one candle of life to burn.” Did she? “I know you understand this,” he told her, almost purring. “You and I are one and the same. Together, we could while away the quiet hours as friend and confidant … if you will accept me.”

She had an answer for him then. It was the answer she had given all her life to those who had asked her aid. It was the answer she had proffered even in the most hopeless situations, even to those who had offered her violence in return. The answer she had given Thancred. And Estinien. And Arbert. “I accept you,” she said, hand outstretched. He laughed: “Are we to embrace, and let bygones be bygones? Do our deeds weigh so little that you would cast all aside? Come. ‘Twas plain from the first how this would end.” Fate was a bitter pill, but she had refused to take it then, and would not take it now.

“You live for these moments—when all hangs in the balance … when the difference between life and death is but a single stroke. I live for them too! This is who we are, my friend! This is all we are!”

He woke the primal then. Its cry thundered in her ears. She could feel her heart in her throat, her sword in her hand. Her eyes locked to his, even as they changed, even as he became one with the primal.

Zenos fled, and she chased.

“If I’m to die, then let it be in summertime In a manner of my own choosing” — Neil Hannon

Chapter One

His retreat was a streak of green across the crimson sky, leaving a trail of aether strong enough for her to follow. Zenos landed among the flowers, the gentility of white petals around him a contrast for the savagery that had gone between them. Her companions would arrive soon.

He coughed, staining white flowers red. Then, breath whistling through his lungs, he laughed. “Oh, the hunter has indeed become the hunted.” She could smell the tang of iron in the air. The blood glistened on his lips as he smiled. “And yet,” he said, “there is only joy. Transcendent joy as I have never known. How invigorating; how … pure, this feeling.”

He came to his feet, the Ame-no-Habakiri naked in his hand. But for what? They had given their all in the fight before. Shasi grasped her focusing crystal. The blood on her hands made it slippery, dulling its azure facets.

“Is that what this was all for?” she asked. “For the sake of feeling something?” “Yes,” he said, his breath quavering through him. “Oh, to enshrine this moment in eternity.”

He lifted his sword—not against her, but to his own throat. She had, for a moment, the clearest vision of what was to come. On the string of aether still between them, Shasi pulled herself inside his guard. Too late.

His arterial spray caught her in the face as he sank to his knees. She saw the light fading from his eyes, blinking her own, but her strength was in her balance. Gripping him by the neck, she called upon her white magics.

He fell into the bed of flowers, but his chest rose and fell. There was something—some expression she could not quite place—and then his eyes closed.

She turned toward the sound of footsteps. Her companions were there: those who had fought beside her as well as those who could not.

It was General Aldynn who spoke first. “Where is he?” Shasi wiped the blood from her face and snapped off the practiced salute of the Immortal Flames. “Here,” she said. “Dead?” he asked. “No,” she said, shifting her weight, putting herself between the Crown Prince and her allies. “Still breathing.” “You have your orders, Lieutenant Kilntreader,” he reminded her.

So she had, and had acted despite them. That hasty promise should have meant little enough, but he had asked for her aid, and she had given it. And, examining her feelings in that fleeting moment, X’shasi was surprised to discover how she had wanted him to live. “We could question him,” she said then. “He must know a great deal that would be of use to the Eorzean Alliance. And …” X’shasi paused, tongue darting out to wet her lips, tasting iron. “I think he would tell it to me.” “Question him?” Raubahn scoffed. “We can’t even keep him.”

“Then give him to me,” she said. “I cannot,” the Flame General told her. “You will not,” X’shasi corrected, “though I ask for so little. I slay your primals and fight your wars and protect your people. I ask for nothing, ‘til now, and if you will not grant it, you may find another Warrior of Light.”

It took him aback; she could see the way he set his jaw. She had to lift her chin to look into his eyes. Better to look upon the incomprehension on his face than the disgust in others. It seemed an age before he nodded, motioning the chirurgeons forward. “Move him,” he said. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Kilntreader.”

[the-desolated-quill]

The Name Of The Doctor - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

I remember at the time there was a lot of panic within the fandom. The Name Of The Doctor? Oh God! He wouldn’t! Is Moffat actually going to reveal the Doctor’s real name?! Heresy! Sacrilege! The end of Who is nigh!

Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, I recognise that was just silly. Of course Moffat isn’t brave enough to reveal the Doctor’s real name. He’s stupid enough, but he’s not brave enough. And in some ways that provides a small comfort. While The Name Of The Doctor is without a shadow of a doubt the worst series finale in the whole of New Who, at least the Doctor’s name has been left untouched.

So the Paternoster Gang, Clara and River Song (yes she’s back again. Sigh) meet up via a hallucinogenic trance to discuss the Doctor. Because it’s always about the Doctor isn’t it? And I want you to bear this in mind as we continue.

So some gibbering serial killer has revealed that ‘the Doctor has a secret that he will take to his grave, and it has been discovered.’ This is soon revealed to be yet more of Moffat’s pretentious bollocks because it turns out the grave has been discovered, not the secret. So why didn’t the serial killer just say ‘the Doctor’s grave has been discovered’? And how the fuck does he even know about it anyway? Did the Great Intelligence tell him? Why didn’t the Great Intelligence talk to the Paternoster Gang directly if he wanted to lure the Doctor to Trenzalore?

This leads me to quite possibly the only thing about this episode I actually liked. The Whisper Men. They never give an explanation for where they came from, but I like them. They’re very creepy. At least at first. Unfortunately as the episode goes along, their threat is diminished dramatically because all they ever seem to do is just stand around hissing at people and spouting stupid nursery rhymes. Also they kill off Jenny, which made me sit bolt upright in my seat as I realised that the characters are actually in danger for once, only for Strax to magically bring her back to life with his remote control. So what was the point of that?

So off we go to Trenzalore to visit the tomb of the Doctor. I have several problems with this. For starters, I really don’t want to see the Doctor’s grave. I think in Moffat’s zeal to massage his own ego and pull the rug out from under our feet, he’s now at serious risk of stripping too much of the Doctor’s mystery away. Also I get why the Doctor would be reluctant to find out where he dies, but how can he possibly avoid information like that? He’s travelled to so many places and helped so many people to the point where he’s become one of the most well known people in the universe. He’s in recorded history. Surely he’s bound to come across the date and circumstances of his own death at some point whether he wants to or not. Besides, haven’t we done this already in Series 6? Why are we doing this again? And if the Doctor was always destined to die at Trenzalore, why bother killing him at Lake Silencio? And if him dying at Lake Silencio is a fixed point, how could he possibly die at Trenzalore? This makes no sense.

Still, at least Trenzalore is nice to look at. There’s some gravestones and a giant TARDIS. Then it gets ruined by yet more Moffat idiocy. Who put the River Song grave secret entrance there? They never explain that. And if this is post Library River Song, I’m not 100% sure how she can be taking part in the Paternoster Gang’s ‘conference call.’ Nor how she and Clara can be communicating with each other when it’s been firmly established you need to be unconscious to make the conference call. I certainly don’t get how in God’s name the Doctor is able to talk to her at the end when he hasn’t even had a whiff of hallucinogen. Truth be told, I haven’t the faintest idea why River Song is even in this. She’s basically there to open the tomb because she’s the only person who knows the Doctor’s real name. Moffat’s ego working overtime yet again. It’s funny how Moffat likes to make fun of RTD’s obsession with Rose when his obsession with River is infinitely worse. I mean I wasn’t too fond of Rose neither, but credit where it’s due, at least Rose was a three dimensional character. River is nothing but a Mary Sue who always has to be better than the Doctor at everything and yet displays no actual character or agency of her own. The fact she apparently made the Doctor tell her his name should tell you everything you need to know about Moffat’s mindset as a writer. The Doctor didn’t tell her because he trusted her. She made him. She’s always the one who has to have an advantage over the Doctor, the title character, because she’s Moffat’s special creation and he wants her to be oh so important without putting in the effort to properly justify it. Plus she’s not really that strong or independent because, like every other female character Moffat has ever written, her life still utterly revolves around the male protagonist. At least one silver lining we can draw from this episode is that it looks like River Song might finally be gone for good at last. Thank God.

Then the Great Intelligence shows up, played by Richard E. Grant, to give us his bullshit evil plot. Apparently when the Doctor died, he left a wound in time that stretches right back to when he was on Gallifrey (I don’t get it either. Just go with it), and now the Great Intelligence wants to use this wound to kill the Doctor because of... reasons.

Now if you’re not familiar with the Great Intelligence, I imagine you must have been pretty confused as to why he hates the Doctor so much. And do you know something? As a die hard Whovian who has seen both the new and classic series multiple times, I’m pretty confused too. Seriously Moffat, out of all the villains you could have picked, why the Great Intelligence? For one thing, his prime motivation has always been to try and find a body. He clearly has a body now, so that’s his motivation gone. And second, why does he hate the Doctor so much that he’d be prepared to kill himself in order to unwrite the Doctor’s entire life? I’m not saying the Great Intelligence and the Doctor don’t have history, but compared to the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Master or even the Sontarans, the Great Intelligence seems like a really odd choice. Outside of ‘it’s the 50th anniversary’ I honestly don’t get why the Great Intelligence is the baddie. They don’t even give a good reason for what he’s doing. He’s basically doing it just because he’s evil and killing the Doctor would be an evil thing to do, so he’s going to do it I guess. I don’t even understand how the Great Intelligence is able to unwrite the Doctor’s life. He steps through the wound and then just stands there scowling. And how does Clara manage to stop him in the end? She steps through the wound, multiple versions of her appear throughout the Doctor’s life and then... what? It’s all so vague and utterly moronic.

Sigh. I suppose I can’t put this off any longer. I know @prettycanarynoir and @thealmightytwittytwat have been really looking forward to me tearing Clara’s story arc a new arsehole, so here goes. 

Clara, the impossible girl, was born to save the Doctor. Now the funny thing is I could see this arc actually working (you know? In an alternate universe where Steven Moffat was a long distance lorry driver rather than a showrunner and someone with an actual brain was writing this episode instead). The problems is, like with a lot of Moffat’s idiotic series arcs, the buildup has been so poor. Outside of the Doctor constantly bellowing how impossible she is, there’s no effort to actually explore this or get Clara involved in her own arc. She never finds out about her alternate selves until the very end and she doesn’t so much choose to sacrifice herself for the Doctor rather than be forced into it by circumstance. Clara has the same problem as River. Moffat is determined to make her better and more important than the Doctor, but he never gives her any real character or agency of her own. Just look at the scene where she makes the decision to jump into the wound. Flinging yourself to your death isn’t exactly something you take lightly, is it? But the way Jenna Coleman performs it, you’d think she was just popping off for half an hour to do a spot of bungie jumping. You don’t feel the emotional weight of her sacrifice whatsoever because there is none. Clara isn’t scared or apprehensive or anything. She’s just her usual smug self. She doesn’t behave like an actual person would, and that’s because Clara isn’t a person at all. She’s a plot device. And to make things even worse, despite establishing that once you jump through the wound, there’s no way back and you’ll be lost forever, Moffat once again changes his own rules so that the Doctor can rescue her, thus making her sacrifice completely meaningless. it’s just utterly dreadful writing.

But the worst thing of all is what this whole Impossible Girl arc ends up doing to the Doctor. I completely resent the implication that the Doctor is utterly ineffectual without a companion to help him. What? Did you think the Doctor got out of those situations using his wits and his brains? Nope. Turns out Clara was the one responsible all along. (And as for the scene where Clara tells the First Doctor which TARDIS to steal, I would like to take this opportunity to tell Moffat to grab something long and spiky and to shove it firmly up his own rancid, self indulgent arse). 

Finally I’d like to go back to something I touched upon at the beginning of this review. It’s all about the Doctor. Remember the good old days when the Doctor was just some guy who went on adventures across time and space and helped people out? Now he’s become this ultimate puzzle piece that completes the universe. Whole star systems blink out of existence just because he dies. He’s that special and important now. There have been quite a few times during the Moffat era and indeed this very series where the action has ground to halt in order to talk about just how special the Doctor is. To a certain extent I can understand why Moffat is doing this. It’s the 50th anniversary. Things were bound to get a little nostalgic and no doubt Moffat sees this as a fitting tribute, but the problem is the show is starting to become too insular. Doctor Who was never just about the Doctor. It was about the worlds, cultures and people he met, and we learnt about his character through his interactions with them. By making the Doctor the centre of the fucking universe that everything revolves around, it actually constricts and restrains the rest of the show. That’s what Moffat really can’t seem to understand and it’s this reason, among others, why I have such a low opinion of his work on Doctor Who.

The Name Of The Doctor doesn’t make any sense on any conceivable level. A lot of it just comes across like really bad Doctor Who fanfiction. In fact the majority of Series 7 felt like that. Most of the episodes were badly written, under-developed and/or poorly thought out, and at this point Moffat had become so pretentious and so ego driven that he was actually starting to put a serious dent into the franchise. I honestly can’t think of a worse candidate to write a 50th anniversary special than him. I mean the insulting way he introduced the War Doctor alone was... No. I’ll save that for next time.

[hegagergerk]

My reactions to The Last Jedi

I have mixed feelings about The Last Jedi. There are some aspects of it that I loved, but there was a lot that I really didn’t like. I’ve seen it twice, and each time I left the theater thinking, “Well. Huh. I don’t know what I feel.” I felt this uncertain about The Force Awakens, for comparison, but I left Rogue One knowing I liked it.

I also want it known that I am a fan of Rian Johnson and his work. I LOVE Brick, and Looper was pretty great. So I was pretty excited going into this film.

Perhaps, if this had been the first in a trilogy, I might be able to overlook the parts that I don’t like, as I did in The Force Awakens. But this is the second part - the meat of the story. And honestly, the whole thing felt gamey.

SPOILERS (and unpopular opinions) under the cut.

Pros:

It’s a beautifully shot, visually striking film. 

Adam Driver shirtless

Adam Driver, period. Love that boy

I love what they’ve done with Luke (the grumpy old hermit schtick), and I loved what little time we spent on Ach-To. The location was beautiful, I loved the Caretakers and the Porgs, and I loved Luke’s take on the Force and the Jedi.

Rey Random is the best answer to her backstory and the explanation I was hoping for. I loved the mirror cave sequence. It’s an even better touch that not only were they random people, but they were awful and neglectful. Ouch. Didn’t think they’d go that far.

I love that Rey and Kylo want to fuck each other. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

I’m okay with Luke trying to murder Ben and then regretting it, even though I understand why many people are not. I actually really like the exploration of Luke’s character, and the digging into his personality flaws and weaknesses - namely, that he was prideful of his own legacy, which gave him several blind spots with regards to his nephew, and led to his biggest failure as a Jedi. It’s true - it is, initially, out of character, but I think this lapse in judgment was more horrifying to Luke himself for that very reason, and resolves for me, at least, why he would isolate himself like he does. 

I liked Luke’s death. I liked that it’s hinted that he was ready to go, anyway, and he got to go out heroically in the end.

I LOVED Luke and Leia’s reunion. Oh my god. The tears. I just. Can’t get over it. Especially knowing that Carrie Fisher wrote that scene? Fuck me

Cons:

It feels like 3 different films crammed together into 2 ½ hours. One of these films, I very much wanted to watch, but was never given enough of (Rey’s story). Another of these films, I wanted to want to watch, but found myself losing interest as time wore on (Finn’s story). The remaining one - I could have done without entirely, and I ended up resenting completely by the film’s finish (Poe’s story). 

Some of the humor worked, but a lot of it really didn’t - especially the gag about zapping dudes into walls at dramatic/semi-dramatic moments (Hux, Poe, and Finn). Granted, humor is pretty subjective, but for comparison, I either loved or had no issue with the humor in both The Force Awakens and Rogue One.

The preachy bits were REALLY. FUCKING. PREACHY. Like, dude, I agree with the points you’re making, but wow, I’d appreciate if you didn’t insult my intelligence by being so god damned ON THE NOSE about it. I thought this movie was about ~ambiguity~ And yes, I’m talking about the “don’t abuse animals”, “it’s a WAR MACHINE”, and “men don’t respect feminine women” thing. I felt like these moments were 4th-wall-breaking and did nothing to serve the story or the characters, not to mention being out of place in a Star Wars film (Star Wars is cheesy, but not THAT kind of cheesy).

Rey’s part of the story ends about 2/3 of the way in. After her battle with Kylo, she pretty much disappears from the narrative, only making a quick cameo at the end of the film. Seriously. The movie pretty much belongs to the male characters after she confronts Snoke. 

Rey never truly suffers any lasting consequences for her choices, whether emotionally or physically. Compare this to Luke’s defeat by Vader in Empire, which leaves him physically maimed and emotionally broken and betrayed. Rey is sad when she admits the truth of her parentage, yeah, and she’s not happy when Kylo usurps the First Order command, but even if this betrayal devastates her, we don’t get to see her break down under these revelations. It might be hard for Rey to acknowledge her shitty parents, but does verbalizing this hinder Rey in any way? Does it introduce an obstacle that seems impossible to overcome? Is it truly her lowest point? Ask the same questions of Kylo becoming the Supreme Leader, with regard to Rey’s feelings. Is this betrayal on the level of Anakin to Padme? Hell, even on the level of Obi Wan to Luke? Rey wrestles with Kylo over the lightsaber, nopes the fuck out, and then magically appears on the Falcon, hollering jovially about how swashbuckling and fun it is to be gunning down the First Order. In other words, she feels like she’s had an easy time of it. We really needed a scene where she shows some emotional wounds - whether when Kylo is passed out and she’s about to leave him, perhaps looking down at him with longing and sorrow, deliberating on why she should, but can’t, kill him - or whether at the end, sharing pain with Leia. But it’s like her failures don’t touch her or her story.

I’m a huge Reylo stan, but I’ve got to be honest - Kylo and Rey’s dynamic, while easily the most intriguing thing about the movie, ended up being severely underwhelming. Four conversations, and then she’s ready to go-to-bat for him? When they were touching hands in the hut, I literally was like, “Wait. Is that it? Did I blink and miss something?” They chopped Reylo down to the barest minimum of relationship progression, leaving out a lot of story-telling beats that would have bridged the gap between their antagonism and their intimacy. I felt cheated out of their story, and I really wanted to be on board with them, considering their shared loneliness and character comparison/contrast was something I was extremely excited about going into this film. I’ve read one-shot fanfics with more elegant development than this film.

I’m NOT a Snoke stan, nor was I terribly interested in his backstory or in coming up with random ass theories involving his backstory, but damn. Snoke’s abrupt dismissal from the narrative, despite being an awesome scene in isolation, feels cheap retroactively, and I can empathize with the fans who feel let down about his meaningless identity (especially when they were taunted by LF for giving enough of a shit to come up with theories about said character). The truth is that, since the sequel trilogy takes place within an established universe - and Star Wars, at that - we, the audience ARE owed a bare minimum amount of explanation for Snoke’s existence, his power, and his goals. Where was he 30 years ago, when Palpatine was in power? If you can’t at least give me something, my suspension of disbelief is shattered. And no, it’s not my fucking job, as a member of the audience, to fill in the blanks with regards to basic storytelling. At this point, why the hell couldn’t Snoke have been Darth Plageius? Or Palpatine reborn? Or whoever the fuck. If any further context had been given to him, it could only have added some meat to the story - its not like this information would have detracted from Kylo’s killing of him (if anything, it would have made that moment even more awesome). I mean, you had to hold my hand about “evil arms dealers” and “animal rights” and “she wasn’t interested in LOOKING like a hero”, but you can’t give me some damn context for Snoke? And no, I don’t give a fuck that Palpatine had no backstory in the original movies - right, we knew everything we needed to know about him, which was that he was a super powerful Force-wielder who took control of the galaxy. I wasn’t wondering, “Hmm, I wonder where that other super evil bad guy was 30 years ago while he was coming to power!” about Palpatine, because there was no frame of reference for that - and now, with the prequel trilogy, there’s definitely no need. But hey, for Snoke? Yes. Yes, that sort of information is relevant here. Even your most basic bitch casual fan left The Force Awakens wondering, “I wonder what that Snoke guy, who is most certainly older than 30 years of age, was doing three decades ago?”

Finn’s whole story was underwhelming, as much as I liked both he and Rose together. Nothing of consequence came of their story, whether by plot movement or emotional revelations - save that he decided, somewhat sloppily, to die for the Resistance (because he didn’t want to be an apathetic asshole like DJ, or whatever), only to have his choice undermined at the last minute. Nothing about his arc resonated with me. Perhaps because there just wasn’t enough time devoted to him? As much as I hate the whole “Finn is always sidelined uwuwuwu” discourse, I have to agree with them here. Furthermore, I feel like his prior-stormtrooper-ness is totally irrelevant to the portrayal of his character? It was bad enough in The Force Awakens that he didn’t seem affected by having to kill his fellow stormtroopers, and it has continued to be irrelevant in The Last Jedi. I was really hoping for some sort of moment where he and Rose connected over the deaths of Paige and his stormtrooper brethren, people killed while fighting in militaries, whether by choice or by force. This personal soul searching would have been much more poignant than the preachy babble (none with which I disagree, let it be noted) we got. I mean, the revelation that the Resistance and the First Order both get supplied from the same people who vacation on Canto Bight doesn’t really add anything - stakes, revelation, dimension - to the actual story. Like, do I suddenly not care about the Resistance getting blown out of the sky? Should I actually root for the First Order to wipe them out, so that the war will stop? Does this information seriously tempt Finn away from the whole stupid conflict? Does it change ANYTHING for ANYONE? (Hint: It doesn’t). 

I absolutely hate that Poe is being groomed to be Leia’s “good” son. Like, if I could kill something with fire in this movie, it would be this. I absolutely hate that Leia didn’t even spare her son and her brother a backwards glance at the end of the film, when they set off to flee through the caves. Perhaps this wouldn’t sting so much if Carrie were still alive and there was a chance of filming a reunion and reconciliation between mother and son, but that is not to be. 

I hate that Poe, who is NOT a main character, who was a perfectly killable side character in the previous movie, actually has the most dynamic arc in the whole film. Somehow, in a film that is supposed to be about a young woman, and in the midst of several intriguing female characters both old and new, it’s the most boring male character who gets the most agency and screentime. (I love that people were worried that Kylo would usurp Rey, but honesty…it was Poe).

Poe also has a higher kill count than Kylo Ren in terms of people who died because he was a Stupid Male, and yet Kylo Ren is the villain whose redemption is merely teased, as opposed to set into action? I mean, Poe was better at wiping out the whole resistance than the actual Supreme Leader, but nobody thinks he needs a redemption arc? oh, I guess he Learned From His Failures, so its all good.

Anytime someone said “spark”, I died a little inside.

“Hope is like the sun” - kill me now please

Leia spacewalking is an idea that I like on paper, but thought it was awkward in how it played out on screen.

Wow, so, Finn and Rey - two characters I was dying to have reunite - have NO actual dialogue exchanges. But we have enough time for Poe to say Hi to Rey but like Poe is the main character now don’t you know Like, what the fuck.

Okay, venting done.

[zamantha-ducroix]

The unspeakable has occurred. Zamantha must kill her husband, Davmir Du'Croix! How does it happen? Tell us a tale about how and why the lady demonologist was compelled to slay her one true love!

First of all. Screw you for making me write this, sir. Secondly, big trigger warning. Death, blood, gore, abuse, etc, etc. It’s a really long read. (I’ve trimmed it down a lot, my google doc for this prompt is 7 pages long- if you’re interested in reading it, message me!) and it’s about Zamantha killing Davmir. So it’s gonna get twisted… 

Tagging for relevance: @davmirducroix / @blaireducroix, @penvenomstarkstar, @jagathi-amarjeet

Here lies Lord Davmir Du’CroixPatriarch of the Du’Croix ClanDevoted Leader, Beloved Husband

Darkness was falling over the family’s graveyard, but the newest monument of gray marble stood out plainly. The funeral rites had been completed and the majority of those who had gathered for the burial ceremony had dispersed. Some, however, still lingered and moved about the area.

Two silent bastions stood silent, tall, and firm. Their hands were folded behind their backs. Finn, now donned in the crimson and black of the Crimson Guard, seemed to be chiseled from stone with how motionless he remained throughout this watch. To his left was Aeos, Davmir’s former personal guard. Though both men wore masks of strength, there was an air of grief about them.

Yet it was nothing like the sadness that radiated off the newly appointed matriarch of the Du’Croix clan that stood between the two large men. From behind her dark veil, Lady Zamantha Du’Croix watched as full shovels of dirt were tossed atop her late husband’s coffin.

Per tradition, she had been the one to place the first layer of soil over it and it had felt like she was burying a piece of herself. In that moment, she had wanted nothing more than to run from the graveyard where the reminder of what she did was lay bare for the world to see. But now she found that she was unable to turn away. Even in death, she felt the pulling string that bade her to stay with him.

You killed him.

Pain spiked through her legs as her knees slammed into the ground, a sob catching in her throat as she doubled over. She felt her fingers curling through the tall grass but couldn’t see through the tears in her eyes. Everything hurt. Every part of her mourned the loss of her husband and regretted the events that had caused such….

You killed him. You did this.

She wanted to bury herself under the dirt with him. Together in death as they were in life, as they had been until…

You killed him.

It wasn’t my fault…

Zamantha had been working on a contract with a new cafe opening up in Elwynn, not far from the city’s gates. Drafting up numbers and planning out shipments had taken up most of her night, and she had met with the owner for an early morning meeting. Hours of work had gone into her proposal, and it had ended up working out in her favor. Another successful endeavor for the Order, their name continuing to spread across the kingdoms. The signed contract was waiting on Penny’s desk, accompanied by a note informing her that she would be going home for a few days.

Home. In the past five years, she had only been home twice. Ever since Blaire’s funeral, when Davmir was granted true and absolute leadership of the Clan, Zamantha found that she could no longer remain there for longer than a few hours at a time. Her husband’s advisors had begun questioning her loyalties, though none could deny that she was a valuable asset. Honestly, she simply couldn’t bring herself to remember the life that had been lost. Even now.

It was Penny who had encouraged her to go home. Davmir had come to stay with her in her Stormwind apartment quite often, but now it was time for her to deal with the pain and return home.

But first, she had a research date with a certain doctor. Her usual meetings with Percival had been pushed back recently, delayed in response to her busy schedule. It was past time they were able to catch up.

Dinner had already been laid out by the time she had returned to her apartment. Percy was lounging in the chair he often occupied when he visited. He glanced up from his book as she entered, a brow rising upwards. “You’re late, Chief Advisor. And to think that Lady Starkstar always speaks so highly of your punctuality.” A dark smirk flickered across his lips.

Do not force me to live this again, you sick bastard…

A twisted power coursed through the lady’s veins as she stalked through the manor halls, willing all those she passed to dare get in her way. Whispers and nervous glances followed her to the war chambers where her husband and his council were meeting to prepare the upcoming guard rotations. The majority of them would be unarmed, not expecting an attack here in the security of the stronghold.

Little did they know.

All eyes moved up to the woman as she entered, folding her hands behind her back with a gentle smile and approaching her husband’s side. Her black gaze studied the men gathered before looking over the maps spread out across the table. This was the moment.

“Kill them all,” a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Just as it had for days. “The time is now. Strike!”

“Gentlemen, I do apologize for the interruption, I know you are all quite busy… You must forgive me, though. It has been quite some time since I have seen my husband. You will allow me a moment alone, hmm?”

“M’lady, of course, but- if you don’t mind my asking, are you feeling well? You look pale, and your eyes-”

A twisted hand reached out and shoved Davmir away with an unusual amount of physical strength as her other hand swung forward. In one fluid motion, fel fire sprung from her fingers and engulfed each man. There was no escape. Their dying screams rang in her mind and set her soul ablaze. A wicked smile pulled at her lips and a cackling laugh sounded. With each dying breath, the flames abated and disappeared back into the nothingness from whence they came.

Davmir- her brave, handsome, smart, beloved husband- stood shellshocked for the moment, unable to do anything but watch as his wife burned their own men alive. Men that had served them for all the years they had ruled, that had no prior warning to the attack before it came. But realization washed over him before too long. This was not his wife.

He was on his feet and lunging for her before she could react once more, crashing to the floor beneath his larger form. She hissed, struggling against him. Those black eyes of her seemed blank and lifeless, but he held hope. Somewhere in there his wife remained. He just had to find a way to reach her.

Yet she continued to change before his eyes. Her nails were growing, turning into curved claws, which she used to dig into his arms in order to free herself from his grasp before swiping at his face. He withdrew with a grimace, hastily pulling away from her as they both scrambled to their feet. “Zamantha, this isn’t you. Come back to me. Please.”

“Come back to you? I was never yours to begin with.” A demonic growl had found its way into her voice, her Common heavily accented and dripping with hatred.

Whatever it was that she was becoming, he had to stop it. One way or another.

The creature charged him, ignoring the charred bodies and the ever-growing flames that were beginning to engulf the remainder of the room. Her focus was on him. The one in her way. The one that would continue to hold her back from her true potential. She could be so much more. So much stronger. If only she didn’t have him holding her back.

Decades of combat training had not prepared him for this, but he did what he could. Tables became shields, dull knives became daggers, until he could make his way to the shelves that housed proper weapons. He could make a stand now, though he was not sure how long such a thing would last. It all felt so meaningless.

Each slash of her claws dug deep gauges into the shield. But this could be used as an advantage. The next time she struck out, she found her claws stuck into the wood, unable to be quickly freed. He lashed out in response, slicing across her arms. It was enough to send her reeling backwards in a howl of pain, but it only served to anger her further.

This time, her claws made contact, ripping through his flesh like paper. Blood gushed from his wounds as he collapsed with her demonic form atop him. He was going to die here. She was going to kill him.

For the first time in too many years, he found himself calling out for the Light. And for the first time in too many years, it came to him. He could have healed himself, could have staved off death until proper medics got to him. But his focus was on his wife. His partner. His best friend. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Holy Light filled her mind, chasing away the corruption in agonizing pain. She screamed a blood-curdling scream of absolutely excruciating torment. She saw nothing, felt nothing, but the blinding magic he had unleashed upon her- something he had done only once before, in a moment not so dissimilar to this.

She collapsed beside him as the Light faded, eyes shutting.

Please, make it stop… Haven’t you made me suffer enough?

“What have you done?” She gasped out, fingers tangled into her hair, as if she could tear the whisper of that voice from her head. It all made sense now. The book of mind manipulation spells in his lap that day. The dark smirk that he had worn. The splitting migraines. Davmir’s broken form in front of her. The blood of her husband on her hands... “How-” She shuddered.

Percy caught her chin, tilting her face up to study those slender features. The doctor’s other hand rose to stroke the tears from her cheek. “I’m sorry.” The worst part was that he sounded like he meant it. Then his grip tightened and she winced as his nails dug into her soft skin. A malicious look came about him. “Together, we will make this world burn. Your beloved Davmir was the first of many to come.”

“No.” There was a familiar sensation brewing in her chest, strong and volatile. She was going to snap.

“No?” His laugh was cold and heartless. It boomed and echoed through the small room. When leaned into her ear, his voice was a dark growl. “As if you had a choice.”

“I will never be yours!” The magic tore through her form. Vicious void energy lashed out from her very being. It struck him with such a wicked ferocity that it threatened to tear him apart.

But when the magic faded, Percy was gone. There was no trace of him. She had missed

And she was alone…

Finn’s hand gently grasped her arm, pulling her back to her senses and up to her feet. He pulled his lady close to his side, supporting her trembling form.

“Send for Jagathi,” she murmured, her mind’s eye conjuring the malformed visage of her mentor. “I need his help.” Finn began to offer a retort, but she shook her head. “He will pay for what he has done. Send for Jagathi. I have a Doctor to hunt…”

[kingofthebats40]

Death //from drabble meme

Henri-Bernard placed a few flowers on Severus’ grave. He picked lilies, and he wasn’t sure why, but he had a feeling Severus liked them a lot. They were from Henri-Bernard’s wife Eliza’s garden. She had grown them herself, and with the circumstances, she agreed to give her dear husband a few.Henri-Bernard was kneeling next to the grave. It was a quiet night in the middle of June. Of course, Severus had died almost a decade ago, but the old man couldn’t bear to see the younger man’s grave until today. His therapist and his substance abuse counselor both had recommended that he go and get the pain out, and give Severus the goodbye he needed. Today, Henri-Bernard felt like he was ready.He was alone. He was wearing a loose cotton black shirt, along with newer jeans and some mahogany brown Oxford shoes with black laces. He didn’t mind brushing off dirt if he needed to. If Severus could deal with it, so could he.“Severus.” Henri-Bernard tried to smile, almost as though they were just old friends who got into a fallout a long time ago. His smile was painfully forced, and he could feel it. Therefore, he decided to skip out on the smiling and just get on with what he needed to say.But then he couldn’t figure out exactly how.How exactly could he apologize for causing Severus’ death? The Dark Lord never would have suspected a nice hit on the back of the head with a plank, but then that…that damned snake appeared. She was about as big as the one he kept seeing in his dreams, with teeth as sharp and a glare just as hateful. He took one look at that demonic creature and he just…froze.Just like in his dreams. It would bite his neck and he would fall to the ground, and the snake would…Henri-Bernard started to choke on his own breath, and he put a hand on his chest. He started to heave a little bit, and he held back tears. He thought about what Severus would have done if he were actually alive and looking at his former companion in that moment. The Potions Master would most certainly sigh and shake his head and tell the Werewolf to stop being such an overly emotional dunderhead, as he was a grown man. The thought at least made Henri-Bernard smile for a bit. Most people thought Severus was needlessly a jerk, but for whatever reason Henri-Bernard found that Severus understood him more than anyone else.Henri-Bernard’s smile faded once he looked at the gravestone once more. He was worried that someone would have vandalized it at some point due to his controversial nature, but considering he was buried quite a while after death, in a hasty ceremony, and there were also most certainly protective charms, he was glad that the stone was left intact.He absentmindedly started to trace the date of Severus’ death. He didn’t even make it to his fortieth birthday, and yet the two men looked like they were around the same age if they stood side by side. Now Henri-Bernard was nearing his eightieth birthday, as long as he continued to follow the advice of his doctors, and made his wife happy. He thought about how Severus died with perhaps no family left, no children, and Henri-Bernard being his last friend, the only living person who knew that he wasn’t the ruthless, cold Death Eater everyone had thought him for. He thought about how his own fears and disease had betrayed both Severus and himself. He wondered if Severus felt any more pain after being attacked and murdered and yet not being able to see his so-called friend in sight. But then he thought about how Severus’ death kicked his ass into gear and finally urged him to get treatment, just as Severus had suggested. Granted, Henri-Bernard decided that the Muggle way was probably more effective, something Severus probably would have turned up his nose at, but would have also been happy that Henri-Bernard was at least trying to be more productive.He took in a deep breath. “I hope you know what happened. And I hope you know that I never wanted your death, Severus.”It would be impossible to tell. Maybe God told Severus everything he ever wanted to know, because Severus would most certainly be in Heaven if God was at all merciful and kind. Maybe Severus was in another plane of existence and his past life was trivial and meaningless in comparison. Maybe he was gone for food, like the mist, and he would never know why Henri-Bernard didn’t rescue him, because he simply just wasn’t alive, anymore.Either way, the tired and withered flesh was gone from Severus’ bones, and all that was left was the skeleton. His wounds were gone, his broken heart was gone, and his mind that was wracked with evil spirits was gone, too. No matter what ended up of Severus’ soul, his suffering was surely over.Henri-Bernard pat the grass, feeling quite uneasy that his friend was six feet away from him, lying in the warm dirt in his coffin, unaware of anything that had happened in almost a decade. But he knew that Severus, at the same time, wasn’t there.“Are we both at peace, now?” He asked the stone, almost as if he had expected an answer to be written underneath. It wouldn’t surprise him in the world he was in.He decided that he didn’t need anyone to tell him the answer. He knew.“Nice seeing you again, mate.” Henri-Bernard rose. He left the flowers with Severus. They two would wither away and die, only to be carried away by the wind, and disintegrate into nothing. How lucky were they?

[colorofichor]

*    *    * Her quarters had become the corner she backed into. It was oft quiet in the afternoons, the same hour the sun beamed inside; sweat condensed beneath her thick lockes and the only way she could manage to keep the stench of King’s Landing’s population’s sewage out of her mouth was with pitcher after pitcher of wine. The vineyards were sweeter in the east than they were in the west and gave her teeth a tint of red. She missed the cages of lions lining Casterly Rock; she missed when Lady Cersei Lannister’s word was final. Though daughter of the Hand of the King, they treated her as another woman whose name would be meaningless when she was sold to the highest bidder and given his.   No amount of gold could fix the callous smirk embedded upon her face.   She was drunk on her third glass of pinot noir when she heard the knight’s footsteps. They were heavy, flat, and made a terrible conundrum as they marched right through her door. She made no effort to smile, nor acknowledge his presence other than with a sharp glare as he tore her chalice out of her hand.   “I do hope this has made you happy,” he began, like he always had.   “I poured a drink just for you,” she mocked him, almost spitting. “It’s an honor to be your servant, Ser Jaime. Shall I clean your chamber pot next?”   “Do you have any idea what this station has brought unto me? Of what I must bear witness to and to say absolutely nothing?”   Do I care?   With a cocked brow and a great exasperated sigh, she refilled her chalice to the rim. “I expect you’ll give me every detail.”   Knighthood was all Jaime had ever cared about. He was never interested in their father’s politics, or the glory of House Lannister. He wanted to play and swing his sword and be a little boy forever, ignorant of responsibility. When she discovered their father’s plans to wed Jaime to the flighty little Lysa Tully, Cersei  s a v e d  him. She deliberately abolished Tywin’s ambitions for an opportunity to make him happy.   She would fight him with teeth and claws if he regretted it. 

[immoralrpg-blog]

Congratulations, ANA, you have been accepted for the role of LILY EVANS, with the faceclaim of LUCA HOLLESTELLE. Your portrayal of Lily is whimsical and altruistic and not without her flaws, which helps her to stand out as a three dimensional character. You understood the importance of seeing that Lily isn’t as perfect as her sister believes, and her struggles with her own sense of morality make for an interesting arch. Nicely done! Please head along to the CHECKLIST for your next steps.

IC

CHARACTER NAME:

lily marie evans, although her mother was incredibly keen on naming her lily kathleen, which her father wasn’t particularly happy about (as he’d had a neighbour called kathleen growing up, who wasn’t a very nice woman). after a lot of arguing, they settled on marie, as it was sweet and simple like their oldest daughter’s name: petunia jane.

lily \ lil·y \ as a girl’s name is pronounced li-lee. of old english origins, it was taken from the name of the plant having delicate, trumpet-shaped flowers regarded as a symbol of purity and perfection. while lily is most definitely a firecracker and won’t take no for an answer, i think her first name mirrors the hidden parts of her most people don’t see — there’s a childish innocence inside her, a purity that has yet to die. even as the war progresses and she sees more and more horrible things, lily still believes in the kindness and good in people; no matter how hard it is slowly becoming.

marie \ ma·rie \ as a girl’s name is pronounced mah-ree. of hebrew origin, it is a name of debated meaning. many believe it to mean “sea of bitterness” or “sea of sorrow.” however, some sources cite the alternative definitions of “rebellion,” “wished-for child,” and “mistress or lady of the sea.” the name is born in the bible by the mother of jesus, the son of god. as cliché as this might seem, i think that the fact that lily gave birth to harry is a good allusion to mary, mother of god — the woman who gave life to the savior. not to mention that marie has a sweetness to it that goes perfectly with the name lily — it’s delicate and simple, fitting my version of the character like a glove.

GENDER & PRONOUNS:

cisgender, she / her / hers.

FACECLAIM:

luca hollestelle

katie stevens

eleanor tomlinson

BIOGRAPHY:

born in the beginning of 1960, lily was welcomed into an average muggle family. the girl grew up alongside her big sister, petunia, her role-model and best friend, for the girls were truly inseparable — always walking hand-in-hand and laughing at jokes that violet, a primary school teacher, and harry, a writer, were not allowed to understand.there was never a flower without the other, they were merely an extension of the other, the year of difference they had from each other meant nothing. petunia and lily were two of a kind and they loved it.

enrolled at the school where her mother worked, lily’s life was a bed of roses — no worries or too much responsibility weighing the child down except for what she was going to play the following morning; a few worksheets worth of homework being the only thing that turned sunny days slightly grey. it was not until lily was nine years old that she learnt that, perhaps, her life was not as average as it appeared. ever since she could remember, she had done things that most children couldn’t but she hadn’t paid much attention to it — she couldn’t do a handstand like a girl in her grade, so why should she worry that other little girls did not know how to change the colour of flower petals? a dreamer, she never once questioned her abilities, often being too distracted to even bother to notice them: she’d always been different and being so didn’t scare her – lily was who she was and as long as she wasn’t deprived of her free afternoons, what was the problem is she could float right off her swing? it didn’t matter. until one day, as she was playing alone, changing a flower’s appearance, lily met a black-haired boy named severus who told her that she was a witch; that the things she could do were not simply skills — they were magic.

as any other little girl, she was ecstatic. magic. she had always believed in fairies and spells, in the tales her gran had told her about before she merrily drifted off to sleep, but being a witch had not once been something the redhead had considered and yet it made sense. severus fascinated her, taught her about a world she would someday be a part of, became a shoulder she could lean on and a friend she adored – petunia was pushed into the background, somewhat forgotten amongst afternoons of listening to the snape boy talk about spells, charms and potions, of castles and villages filled with wizards. it wasn’t her intention, lily never wanted to push her sister away, and when tuney began to grow cold and cruel, bitter even, the ginger didn’t understand nor accept her actions. a stubborn person by nature, lily too began to treat her sister as she was treated and all hell broke loose in the evans household.

the red-haired girl received her hogwarts acceptance letter mere months before her twelfth birthday and she was as excited to learn more about magic as she was to leave home — wanting to get away from tuney and her unjustified hatred. in her young mind, lily couldn’t possibly understand why her sister had so quickly grown to despise her and, stubborn as usual, she couldn’t bring herself to even ask why. so, come september 1st, the young miss evans was sorted into the house of one godric gryffindor and she soon forgot all about how great severus said that slytherin was.

in gryffindor, the girl felt at home; like she belonged but even though she made plenty of good friends, never once did she ignore sev in front of them — he knew her like no one else did. she was always loyal to the core, never wavering, never giving up, even when severus began getting involved with people she knew were no good, even when his “friends” whispered ‘mudblood’ as she walked by, it didn’t matter because it wasn’t sev – sure, she would have loved it if he hadn’t joined those aspiring death eaters, but she ignored the truth. it was unthinkable for her best friend to be one of them, to want to join voldemort in his fight for blood purity. it was hard for lily not to see the best in everyone. and that was her mistake.

fifth year proved to be a big one for the ginger. she was made prefect, something that made her as proud as anyone can be – she, a muggleborn, was granted such an honour, one she’d secretly wished for but never really voice out loud. a person fond of fairness and justice, nothing made lily happier than to be able to do what she believes is right: those who deserved to be punished, the people who insulted her under their breaths when she walked by and tormented first years, mere babies compared to their abusers, were soon given what they deserved; the people who helped the poor, scared children and respected the rules were rewarded, even if only with a warm smile and a nice conversation. order was always something the witch found most important and now she could make sure it was a constant in the halls of hogwarts. of course, she too enjoyed the power that came with it, the feeling that she was important, that she mattered. it helped her push away the emptiness that rolled over her unexpectedly— that feeling that made it hard to get up in the morning, the utter struggle that her days were more often than not. it kept her at bay, above water. it helped.

everything changed, however, when called lily a “mudblood”; showing the redhead just how much he’d changed since they were nine years old, how lost his soul had become. but more than that, it finally cracked the dam that had kept her controlled— suddenly, she was forced to hide behind a mask of perfection she couldn’t keep up straight anymore ; forced to pretend that she was fine, that she was still lily, when truly she felt like a shadow. her chest was numb, her thoughts slow and taunting, her body so heavy she wanted to cry at the sheer idea of crumbling under it. all that she’d worked for, all that she’d done suddenly was so meaningless when compared to the low buzz of the thoughts that consumed her— she was a shell, barely functioning behind closed doors when she allowed herself to feel the intensity of her new state of being.

the summer, more than anything, is bound to serve as a distraction from the loneliness that this year brought her, from the cold that’s lodged deep inside her bones. she’s trying to survive, trying not to crack, but with every day it gets harder to hide. to pretend. to smile. but she’ll do it, because lily evans does what needs to be done and she has no other choice.

QUESTIONAIRE

describe your secret in your own way.

“ it’s… ”  a moment of pause, a wrinkle of brows and forehead. a breath.  " it’s like… floating. you never really fall, you don’t do anything— you just float through every moment, every second of your day. nothing you do breaks your fall, nothing pushes you closer to the bottom ‘cause there’s no bottom. you kind'a wish there was, y'know? “  there was an empty, humourless chuckle that echoed in the room ; lily’s hands moved to tug at her sleeves in a poorly concealed attempt to calm her nerves.  ” anything’s better than feeling like you’re floating through life. and yeah, you could hold onto someone but what if you end up draggin’ them down with you? it’s scary, so you don’t. you… float some more, until you can find a way to crash. the courage to crash, more like it. “  her shoulders shake as if she was trying to push the thoughts away, but her eyes remain solemn— dark against pale skin.  ” and the really fucked up part is that when you float? you have a lot of time to think. and that’s what kills you. “

expand on one ( or more ) of your connections. tell us about them. your relationship with them.

” look, things with severus are complicated, yeah? “  the sigh that pushes past her throat is almost silent, soft in nature as if she’s done so often enough for sighs to hold no meaning.  ” he’s a what if. lots of things are, i guess— you wonder what you could have done differently, what you could have changed if you’d been better, more supportive… if you could have changed anything at all. and you’ll never know, which makes what ifs the fucked up part of life— you’ll wonder until you can remember what happened. “  there’s a moment of quiet, as if the girl was bracing herself for something. wetting her lips, her grip on her sweater sleeves didn’t waver even as her voice did.  ” i miss him. no—no, i miss what he means. that kind'a makes it worse, not missing him for himself. i miss what we used to be, i miss the way he made me feel— the way i was when we were kids. horrible, innit? i miss the lily that i was when things were okay. “

pick one word to describe yourself. why that word?

” brave. “  this time, the smile that tugs at the corners of pink lips is genuine and so is the spark in green eyes. it’s odd and it shouldn’t be there, not after the subjects you discussed— she knows that you know that it’s an abnormality. but it’s real.  ” maybe 'cause i’m supposed to be, maybe 'cause i want to be. it’s one of those things— if you say it out loud often enough you might just make it happen. i might not be brave, i might not even know what being brave actually is but… i want to be it. weird, innit? “  her head shakes and a hand brushes red locks aside— the soft smile still sitting on her face.  ” i guess brave just beats the alternative. who wants to think of themselves as weak? “