#the noble sanctuary book

[luveline]

Can you write where the reader walks into James room and he's crying and its the first time shes seen him cry so she comforts him pls xx

thank you for your request! fem, 1.2k

James’ house is a sanctuary to everyone he’s ever met. There are scratches on the wall by the door where Sirius has thrown it open, long deep welts of ruin under a drunken hand, two best friends laughing to the bedroom where they share a bed. You’re used to Sirius by now, an extension of James you love and make room for, but waking up to the heir of the most noble family in London sleeping off a hangover with his face buried in your boyfriend's shoulder still surprises you. His snores never change. 

Then there’s Remus, the sweetheart, tracking dirt into the living room because he so often forgets he’s wearing shoes, distracted by a book or a thought he shares in half smiles knowing James will listen. 

You’re everywhere. In photos like the rest of them, in your coat on the hook, your clean washing on the stairs, your shoes in the bedroom cupboard. There’s a red smudge of your lipstick on the wall at the top of the stairs where James wiped your bottom lip and then used the wall to hang over you, kissing. He keeps meaning to paint over it, you know. He says the same thing every time you bring it up, a laughing, “I’ll get to it, you thing!” 

You’re used to smiles and sounds here. You aren’t acquainted with this. Sniffles from the bedroom, long, stringing gulps of air and the answering sob. It makes your chest flip. James hasn’t cried in front of you in a year of dating and two years of knowing him. James doesn’t even get pissed off unless it’s for somebody else. Something awful must’ve happened. You rush to find out what. 

In the bedroom, James is just sitting there falling apart. Just, sat on the bed, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking like an awful jagged up and down, like he’s hurting; the shock of it is in every inch of movement. James is beautiful in everything, skin and hands and dark, dark hair, but he’s hurting now as he drags fingers wet with tears through frizzing curls. He must have heard you coming up but he can’t stop, lifting his chin, an apology twisted in his mouth that he doesn’t say aloud. 

“Lovely, what happened?” you ask, sure you’re gonna fall through the floor. “What happened? What–”

You aren’t giving him time to answer. You need to know. 

“No, it’s alright–”

“It’s not alright,” you say, standing in front of him with stiff arms. “What happened, James?” 

“It’s okay.” He cries a little, sniffs, looking up at you with swimming eyes. “It’s alright, I’m just– it’s just– well, it’s just everything, I suppose, but it’s…” He looks down, his mouth twisting again in an apology you don’t want to take. He shakes himself. 

“James, what’s everything?” 

“Silly stuff.” James takes your hand. Telling, that a boy who’s spent his entire life looking after the people he loves would attempt to comfort you with tears still hot on his cheeks. 

You look down at his long fingers. 

James plays piano. He learned your favourite song for you before he’d ever asked you out, and when he’d played it for you, he’d played so beautifully you felt sick for days, felt sick every time you thought of him, but in the moment he’d laughed at your teary eyes and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. Lovely girl, he’d said, laughing, I won’t play it again if you’re gonna cry like that.

You figure he must want comfort as he gives it, wrapping your arms around him to steer him toward a soft kiss, his hair like strands of satin under your lips. “Nothing that upsets you like this could ever be silly.” 

He pushes you away. Not without love, but pushing away regardless. He stands in the space you leave and wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands. It’s nearly like he’s dancing. Just the way his arms move. But then he drops them and turns away from you, your heart plummeting to your stomach. 

“James.” 

“It’s not like that. I was hoping I’d be done before you got home. Should we go out for dinner or something?” 

“James–”

“What?” he asks, smiling, at odds with his sad eyes. “Love, it’s really fine, I’m fine.” Love. You let out a long breath, chest a cold ache slowly warmed by his gaze. There’s care for you in every eyelash, but it still shocks you when he hugs you. “It’s okay. Sorry I scared you.” 

James. “Fucking hell, Jamie, I’m not scared, I want you to tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it for you.”

He chokes on breath. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t believe it himself, a crack running straight through his words. “Sorry,” he says, sickly, kissing the top of your head as you’d kissed his. 

Clearly he’s not going to let you be the one domineering the situation, but that’s okay. He can kiss your head and hold you on the edge of too tight. You slip a hand under the edge of his T-shirt to stroke his back, until your hand is numb to it, and he’s sagging against you heavily. 

“You’re really not fine, I can see that much.” 

He’s quiet, but you can tell there’s something he wants to say. 

“But that’s okay,” you say, hand clasping his back . You pat a steady rhythm there as he sighs. “It really is. I don’t know why you think you have to be finished crying before I get home, but that’s not true. You can cry. You can cry buckets. Please don’t pretend you’re not upset because of me, I’d feel so bad.”

Something hot and wet touches your forehead. “M’sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You pull back to pat his cheek. 

James stares at you. Tears well in usually warm eyes and get caught in the wet hedge of his lashes. You try to wipe them away before they can fall —you don’t wanna see your sweetheart crying. 

“Don’t frown,” he says softly. 

“I’m trying not to. Here, let me,” —you wipe his cheeks with your sleeve, voice a muttering thing as his skin pinks beneath your touch— “just get that there for you. Your eyes are red, Jamie, I hope you haven’t been upset for too long.” 

“No, uh. No, not too long.” 

“Can you please tell me what’s wrong? I’d like to know.” 

James’ face presses to your neck in seconds. He pauses, and then he sobs. That’s more like it. You stand there in the bedroom until your legs are stiff, and then you only move to lay him down in bed to be your little spoon. “It's not fine,” you say, your arm around him, the other playing in the swirl of his parting, “but it will be. You’re really too handsome for all these tears.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

He sounds sweet when he’s trying to make you laugh. You reach over him to kiss his hot cheek.  

[shownohajimarida]

In the Beginning...

In the beginning, God made phantoms and thieves.

If you're reading this in English, there's a 90% chance you first learned the word Kaitou from Kaito himself—and only slowly come to realize just how many corners of Japanese pop-culture it's really bled into, from Tezuka to Tuxedo Mask to Princess Peach. There's thieves, there's thieves with style, and then there's phantom thieves. A law unto themselves in their own worlds and ours, a breed of gentlemen who can magically stay gentlemen while doing the most ungentlemanly things known to society.

You'd need a book—probably a whole shelf—to properly explore all the ancestors of this proud archetype, never mind all the twists and turns it's taken in modern times. But we're a bunch of poors in money and time, so let's settle for just one tonight.

Fun fact, there's a doctor in Japan who runs a full-time clinic, lectures for one of the top med schools, and still finds room to blog about his fifty-odd niche interests. With him lighting the way, we tracked down this: the oldest book Japan's National Library has ever picked the word Kaitou out of.

Not a gentleman sort of book, you'd assume—and be absolutely right. Dated 1908 (just a little after Leblanc's Lupin, just a little before his first Japanese translation), Eishirō Suzuki's Strange Worlds is a loud, proud freakshow, trotting out ghost story after tall tale after Believe-It-Or-Not article about some wackos in America marrying in a lion cage. Our story of interest comes about halfway in: six pages and change, unmistakably headed 怪盗.

What lies within? A tragically forgotten ancestor to this great and greatly profitable archetype? Or a dead-end that happens to share the name and damn little else? Or, despite all odds, a combination of both?

Why don't you see for yourself?

Pull up a seat, grab a drink, and enjoy our exhaustive translation of history's first...

Phantom Thief

In the days of Jōkyō,¹ near Shitaya's Ikenohata-town, a pawn-shop called Yamaguchi Place² stood rich beyond imagining. Its master, with eleven vaults to his name, was a long and proud worshiper at the Benzaiten³ shrine on Shinobazu Pond. Now, it happened that this man heard the Shogun’s offices had recently surveyed the pond for land-filling, and grew troubled.

One evening, having closed early and settling the day's accounts, the boy tending the shop heard a tap at the front door, and opened to look. Lo and behold—there was a magnificent palanquin, inlaid four-square with silver, bound on every side by tens of fine, sentinel-eyed Samurai. Shocked, the boy ran to his master telling all. The master, no less shocked, came out with warm greetings, asking the company into his home.

Then from the palanquin emerged a most exquisite woman, so noble and divine of bearing that she might have been taken for a celestial maiden, with face sweeter than any peach or plum, and dress of the richest twill brocade. With hardly a sound this beauty sat, drew open her vermilion lips, and bade all listen—

“To begin, my being is not of flesh, but an envoy of Her Lady Benzaiten, in whom thou hast believed all thy life. The Shogun's men mean to bury Shinobazu Pond, and Her Ladyship suffers no small distress hearing this, for Her own power may well draw sanctuary from any ladle's-worth of water, but Her kith and kin—some hundreds upon thousands of scales—must wilt and suffer without mires to call home. “Deep ran Benzaiten's pity, and with it a divine will to bring salvation of some, of any kind. Mercifully, thy garden declares a most generous pond, and in behalf of those kith and kin I call upon thee to guarantee it as their new sanctum. If thy faith in Benzaiten be strong and true, take not these words in vain. Know only that Her Ladyship wills a night of storm and squall, fast approaching, to lay Her kin. Come that day, thou shouldst make fast the doors of thy home, withdraw to thine own room, and put no eye at door-slit, nor foot outside to enquire. Heed this, and Benzaiten will grow thy riches ten-fold in reward. Such is my message, in sum.”

Hearing this, the man grew ecstatic—rapturous, even. He spared nothing treating his guest, servants and all, to the very end of their departure.

In less than a fortnight came a dawn with greying skies, and by afternoon rain was falling, the wind slowly rising. On this day the man chose to fast, thinking it the day Benzaiten would descend, and so admonished his family and cohorts, warning them to keep the doors firmly shut and let no-one out after dark.

As the night crept toward second-watch,⁴ the wind grew wilder and wilder, until all the trees and bamboo in the garden could be heard thrashing, and all the water in the pond roiling. Now every breath was held, every head bowed, every heart thundering, thinking it time for She to come. Gradually the rain stopped and the wind ebbed, and the master, unable to wait for dawn, immediately threw open the door, eyes cast on the garden and its pond. There, he saw fish darting—more than the prior day—and thought, Benzaiten, your fellows are sown. Then, thinking of the promised reward, he rushed to check his stores. But as he swept up and down the row of vaults behind his shop, what did he find? Every lock undone, and every door open! Now uneasy, he entered, and found nothing left! Not the pawn-goods, nor the furniture, nor the thousand-ryō boxes. Floor to ceiling, everything was nigh-bare. He stood alone, dumbfounded and gaping.

Now, it happened that a shrine sat in the mountains on Kōshū-Kaidō Road, and before this shrine came men in packs, reeking of banditry, laying down their fresh and ill-gotten gains, eager for a proper portioning.

Onto this the shrine opened its doors, and who should be shocked to see the bandits' chief! No older than twenty-eight years she stood, with beauty to shame the sky and stars. A beauty that laughed aloud and said—

“My, what lovely work, boys!”

It was this very enchantress who had gulled the shop-master by claiming to be a goddess's envoy—and then, catching the slightest storm, sent all these men to his shop in dead of night. Some had hitched ropes to trees and bamboo all around his garden, and whipped them to bluff the sounds of a roaring wind, while others had beaten at the pond to affect waves. Under such clamor they had cunningly hidden any sounds of vault doors opening, of wares being moved.

A most unusual—most phantasmic—thief, no?

—Eishirō Suzuki, Strange Worlds: Tall Tales and Oddities (1908).

¹ Approx. 1684–1688 CE. ² No relation to Kappei. That we know of. ³ Wealth goddess strongly associated with rivers and lakes. One of Japan's Seven Lucky Gods. ⁴ Approx. 9—11pm. Adapted from Old China's gēng-diǎn system, each "watch" marking one-fifth of the time between sunset and dawn.

[niwaart]

Can we please please please have more Victorian era yanderes

Enjoy<3

Bound by Silk and Shadows

#Part1

The heavy oak doors of the Grimoire Library groaned as Jason pushed them open, the scent of aged parchment and candle wax flooding his senses. This place—hidden in the underbelly of Gotham’s aristocratic district—was one of the few sanctuaries where he could breathe without the weight of his scars suffocating him. 

The hood of his tattered cloak was pulled low, casting shadows over the ruined half of his face. He knew what people whispered when they saw him. Monster. Madman. The Joker’s failed experiment. Even among the lower classes, where he now lurked, his presence sent servants scrambling. But here, among the forgotten tomes of magic books and old books , he was just another shadow. 

Or so he thought. 

He hadn’t been paying attention. Too absorbed in tracing the spine of a black-bound grimoire, its title etched in gold: "The Forbidden Arts of Lazarus." His fingers twitched. If only. If only magic could undo what had been done to him...

A soft gasp. The sharp scent of lavender and ink. 

He turned just in time to see her. 

The impact was sudden—her small frame crashing into his chest, the books in her arms tumbling to the floor in a flurry of parchment. His own tome slipped from his grip, landing with a dull thud beside a delicate volume titled "The Ethereal Language of Spells." 

And then worse. 

His hood. 

It fell back, the fabric sliding like a coward’s retreat, exposing him. The jagged, ruined flesh where the Joker’s knife had carved laughter into his skin. The burns. The scars that made children scream. 

His breath hitched. No. No, no, no—

Instinctively, his hand flew up, fingers clawing to drag the hood back into place. He couldn’t bear it. Not another look of horror. Not another....

But then....

She didn’t scream. 

She didn’t even flinch. 

Instead, she knelt, her gloved hands gathering the fallen books with a quiet efficiency. Her dress brushed against the dusty floor, and for a moment, Jason was struck by the absurdity of it. A noblewoman, kneeling in filth. 

Then she looked up. 

And God. 

Her eyes... wide, curious, unafraid locked onto his ruined face. Not with pity. Not with disgust. Just… recognition. As if she saw him, not the monster. 

"I’m sorry," she murmured, her voice softer than the rustle of turning pages. "That was my fault." 

Jason couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His pulse roared in his ears. 

She stood, holding out his book—his book, the one that could damn him if anyone knew he was reading about resurrection—and for a heartbeat, he thought she might say something else. Something about his face. About who he was. 

But she didn’t. 

Instead, she simply pressed the book into his hands, her fingers brushing against his gloved ones. A touch. A touch that didn’t recoil. 

Then she turned, her skirts whispering against the floor as she walked away, leaving him standing there like a fool, his heart pounding like a prisoner’s fists against iron bars. 

Jason didn’t remember leaving the library. 

One moment, he was standing there, clutching the damned book like a lifeline. The next, he was outside, the cold Gotham air biting into his exposed scars. His carriage—a plain, unmarked thing meant for servants—waited, the driver eyeing him warily. 

She didn’t know.

That was the only explanation. She couldn’t have known who he was. No noblewoman would have touched him if they knew. No one would look at Jason Todd—the disgraced, the scarred, the unwanted—without fear. 

But then… why had she apologized ? 

Why had her fingers lingered? 

Why—? 

The carriage jolted forward, and Jason realized his hands were shaking. 

Who was she?

A noble. That much was clear. But not one he recognized. Not one who flaunted her status in Gotham’s cutthroat society. A ghost among the aristocracy. A girl who read books on magic and didn’t scream at the sight of him. 

A girl who, for one fleeting moment, made him feel… human. 

His grip on the book tightened. 

He would find her again. 

And next time, he wouldn’t let her walk away. 

[ilreleonewikiart]

(Bonus) Fashion Studies

House Rogare – Lys

As mentioned before, even though the Westeros fashion studies series has ended, I wanted to share two bonus studies before reopening commissions—so here we are!

These might even be the start of a new series focused on Essos fashion. Who knows? We'll see 👀

In this upcoming series, the designs are less tied to noble Houses and instead reflect the many roles in Essosi society (like nobles, priests, politicians, and military figures).

This study (and the next one) is based less on canon and more on my AU fanfiction, where House Rogare and the city of Lys play a major role. The clothing designs follow my own headcanons, so they may differ quite a bit from how Lys is portrayed in the books.

Even the family sigil was designed by me!

Let me know if you enjoy this new layout and character arrangement ✨

"House Rogare is one of the oldest families from Lys. It is said that its founder was a certain Lysarro from Tyria, a merchant of pearls who was among the first people to settle in the city after it was created by the Valyrian Freehold; his family then became the first to gain the rank of nobles, after the Doom of Valyria. In time, the Rogare became wealthy and powerful, creating the Rogare Bank, which eventually grew large enough to rival the Iron Bank of Braavos and even surpass it. Under the lead of Lysandro Rogare, First Magister of Lys, whose daughter married Prince Viserys Targaryen in 137 AC, the bank was able to expand its influence even in Westeros, becoming one of the principal investigators of its technological and economic advancement.  Lysandro's brother, Drazenko was about to marry Princess Aliandra Martell of Dorne when a mysterious illness killed her and her family. The family, like most of the nobles of Lys, are in the business of prostitution and owns three of the ten most important high-rank brothels on the island - The Perfumed Garden, the Fruits of Spring and the Summer Pleasures -  and after the betrothal of  to Prince Viserys, they started to expand their business even in King's Landing, where they opened two pleasure gardens, the Spring Delights and the Pearl of the Sea.   Unlike the others, the Rogare are famous for breeding and training their Ruklon (male prostitutes) and Pubres (female prostitutes), in order for them to create the finest and the most beautiful bedslaves on Essos and beyond. House Rogare have an important role in the political and economic life of the city, having commissionated the construction of many important public building, like the Great Library, the very first Temple dedicated to the Goddes Adera, the patron of the island and other little sanctuaries to other minor Lyseni deities.  Also attributed to them is the construction of the Great Bridge, one of the five bridges that make up the city, the same for the giant copper statue, covered in gold depicting Lior, the God of Trade, in front of the Temple dedicated to the god of the same name. Since some of them are part of the Conclave of Magistrates, they are legally entitled to front-row seats in the city’s huge open-air theater, located in the Blennosos Gevives, the Hill of Beauty, the island’s arts district. Although they have personal basins in their home, by social custom the Rogare, both male and female, usually go to wash themselves in the great and lavish public thermal baths of Vogesso, named in honor of the Magister who had built them a few centuries before, located between the Commerce and Justice districts. The two most emblematic buildings of House Rogare, however, are their Gold Bank and their family residence, located in the easternmost part of the island, atop Golden Hill, The Lenton Queldie. " - TDIOBCB wiki

[jessamine-rose]

⋆˚♱ଘ Requiem for the Damned ଓ♱˚⋆

*holds head in hands* Idk why Dottore keeps haunting me with writing inspo. And for this idea to manifest just before Holy Week….fuck it, I hope you all enjoy the blasphemous tale of Priest! Dottore x Demon! Darling _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Tw:: yandere, violence, death, religious abuse, dubcon, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 2.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Despite your status as a wandering demon, you have no place in human cognizance. Rather, you conceal yourself from mortal eyes in favor of close observations and whispered temptations. Humans, from your perspective, are interesting creatures—they are ambitious, easily influenced by spiritual beings, capable of both good and evil.

♡ And what better example than the one who summoned you on a starry night? Such rituals are not uncommon amongst heretics, but most only succeed in invoking the contempt of their fellow humans. And few would invoke your name, much less commit sacrilege within the walls of the Church.

♡ You sense danger immediately upon your appearance. Within the summoning circle, you take note of your sigil perfectly illustrated in blood against marble. Beyond it, what alarms you is not your sacred surroundings nor the fresh corpse mixed with your offerings of books and fruit. It is the figure standing over you, cloaked in moonlight, gazing at you with eyes the color of hellfire.

“My ritual is a success. Welcome to my humble church, o noble demon…or would you rather be addressed by your epithet? ______, Fallen Seraph, the Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge.”

♡ A glimpse into his soul is all it takes to strike fear into your heart. Within Hell, there are rumors of a small village in Sumeru. Its people are nothing of note, a congregation of simpletons whose lives revolve around the beliefs of their Church. The lone exception is the main priest, Father Zandik, better known as Il Dottore.

♡ The stories, passed through human voices, speak of a child ostracized for his unconventional beliefs and his interest in the macabre. Branded a madman, he was placed in the care of the Church elders who corrected his ways of thinking. Once he became of age, Zandik was given the choice to move out of the rectory or to remain as a priest; he chose the latter of his own volition.

♡ Since his ordination, Zandik has proved himself to be an exceptional priest. He educates the masses, reviews theological texts, performs exorcisms, and provides religious counsel for the doubtful. He even serves as the town’s doctor, fully gaining the acceptance of his community.

♡ The rumors don’t stop there. For Il Dottore earned his title by performing miracles. It is he who guides the people into religious ecstasy, he who cures the sick from mysterious curses, he who blesses the weak into “enhanced humans.” There are already whispers that once Dottore’s mortality catches up with him, he will surely be canonized as the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles.

♡ But spiritual beings such as yourself know the truth. That Dottore is neither a kind priest nor a devout believer, that his days in the Church only magnified his heretical inclinations. Disillusioned with God, Zandik decided to turn His religious sanctuary into his own laboratory, one where he could fulfill his lust for knowledge through a mask of holiness.

♡ He manipulates the people with false teachings. He triggers religious ecstasy with drugged incense. He singles out devotees to “test their faith” during the quiet hours of the Church. And what the town perceives as curses and miracles are actually scientific experiments in which Dottore plays god.

♡ It’s too late to escape. No matter your divine powers, nothing prepares you for Dottore’s traps. The incantations, the barrier of the summoning circle, an aura so holy yet sinister that it couldn’t possibly come from ordinary religious objects—all you can do is fall to your knees and beg for his mercy, all the while he watches you with a confident smile.

♡ His intentions are like that of any human: He summoned you to form a contract. In exchange for his soul, he demands your knowledge, your resources, your full servitude for so long as he roams the mortal plane. Your hesitation only triggers another wave of scorching pain, followed by panic as Dottore grips your horn and forces you to face him.

“Make no mistake, ______. The mere fact of your divinity does not make you indestructible. In exchange for your cooperation, you will bear witness to experiments of the same magnitude as God’s creations. What say you?”

♡ You have no other choice. And that is how, in the sanctity of the Church, you make a deal with the human named Zandik. Once the pact has been forged, Dottore admires the bright sigil on his chest, plucks a few feathers from your wings, and disables the summoning circle so you can leave. Thus begins your personal hell.

♡ It is easy for you to answer Dottore’s questions about the divine. The horror lies in assisting him in experiments, responding to his summons no matter the inconvenience, allowing him to extract your blood, tears, and feathers. No, what’s most humiliating is when he uses your body for his “research,” bending you over the altar and bringing you to physical ecstasy against your will.

♡ At this point, you don’t know who to pray to. One night, Dottore shows you a secret room in his laboratory. As soon as he lights the lamps, your eyes take in numerous bodies and skeletons of a different classification from his usual victims. The extra bones jutting from the scapulas, the amputated wings, the halos pinned to the walls, the holy aura you’d felt from his religious objects…instantly, Dottore’s powers make sense.

“This is my first specimen. She was my guardian angel…no, I jest. She was a mere messenger who implored me to repent for my sins. From her words, I deduced it had been within Heaven’s capacity to save me during my youth—and yet God only sent an angel to me after my first act of blasphemy.”

The angels…how many has he killed? Not even during your fall from Heaven did you feel such primal fear for your life. But you cannot scream—you have long been trained to resist fight and flight. All you can do is listen to Dottore’s explanation, watch as he approaches a pure white skeleton and wraps his hands around its fractured hyoid bone.

He gives you a calm smile. “Luckily, her body provided me with indispensable resources for my experiments and my procurement of her brethren. I believe her name was Sohreh.”

♡ Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Dottore points at the far corner of the room to reveal a space dedicated to demons. Four dead bodies, their causes of death vividly described. Horns, wings, and other body parts amputated in exchange for lives spared after exorcisms. And when Dottore returns to your side, tracing the wound from where he broke off your horn, you can only tremble and acquiesce to a checkup. It grows back fully by the end of the year.

♡ He has his moments of vulnerability, however. Perhaps it is due to your nature as a demon, a creature which represents evil, that Dottore does not hide his heart from you. Once, after his usual confessions—he always makes up trivial sins—he remains in the confessional until his fellow priest has left. Then he goes to the altar and summons you.

♡ What catches you off-guard is not his lack of greetings. Rather, it’s the way he pulls you close to his body, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. There, in the heart of the Church, he whispers to you every sin he has ever committed. Despite his normal tone of voice, his words have never betrayed a language so guiltless, so sincere, so human.

♡ He asks how much of his madness is to blame on the influence of demons, or if he had been born wicked. He asks if humans were truly given the mental faculties to withstand temptation regardless of their circumstances. He asks if the same can be said for spiritual beings, questioning why former angels like you were also created with the capacity to sin. He even asks if praying for a demon can offer them any hope of salvation.

♡ It takes you a while to answer his questions. It’s just like him to put your emotions in disarray, to make you feel pity for the very cause of your current suffering. Against your nature, you wonder if there is still a chance for Zandik, if he can somehow repent or find a way to save himself from your contract and all of his sins. Even if it is too late, He has always been more forgiving to humans than angels.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

“Do you know why I became a demon, Zandik?”

Your question is what prompts Zandik to pull away from you, though his touch lingers. His gaze, as always, is unfathomable; you can never discern what hides within those pools of crimson.

“No, I do not. Few demonological texts allude to your existence, and only the Lesser Key of Deshret cites your previous status as an angel of the highest ranking. I have made theories in relation to your epithets but I respect all possibilities. Now what would you, as the primary source, reveal to me?”

Now it is your turn to confess.

“Seraphim are the closest to God but for that reason, we are the most distant from His creations. Everything we know of the world is derived only from what He tells us, not our own insights. And so I defied His Word and ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, committing the same sin which condemned all of humanity.”

The tip of your upper wing brushes against Zandik’s face, while your middle wings encircle his body in a loose hug. As for your lower wings…they are nothing but twin scars covered in short feathers. After your descent, it seemed like a rational decision to chop them off, broken as they were. It helped that your wings had just outgrown their original purpose.

For once, you barely flinch at the sensation of his touch against your scars. Many times, Zandik has inquired about the loss of your lower wings and even asked if he could have them. They still remain in Hell, tucked away in a corner of your home, eyes forever closed.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond. “Do you ever regret your decision?”

You shrug. “It was difficult at first, naturally. Many of my eyes were blinded—yes, that is why I rarely open the ones on my wings—but those which still function have seen so many wonderful sights up-close. Neither must I cover my face with my remaining wings. And despite being what your kind and my former brethren would dub a monster…I’m happier now.”

“I see, I see.” His curiosity appears far from sated, however, a sentiment you can empathize with. “As I thought, God is incomprehensible. For Him to deny even His greatest creation of salvation…it confirms that there are limits to the forgiveness of that which humans call a ‘loving god.’ Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me.”

And just as quickly as he initiated his confession, Zandik steps out of your grasp and dismisses you. But you make no haste, silently watching him after you “leave.”

His expression is thoughtful. A gloved hand touches his chest, right above your sigil.

Such an interesting creature.

Honestly, you don’t know what to make of your feelings for this human. Much as you despise his cruel treatment towards you, he never fails to capture your interest with his experiments and philosophies. Whenever he speaks of God, you wonder if a small part of him still desires to be saved. But that will never be.

Zandik preaches salvation with the knowledge that he will never receive it. For the Church never taught him how to love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

♡ Il Dottore never became the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles. Neither did he have a funeral mass befitting of a priest, nor a peaceful death from natural causes. Instead, he died young, laicized, once again denounced as a heretic by his community.

♡ You don’t know how his crimes were exposed, and why now. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for him, a blessing for his victims, or both. Either way, Dottore paid for his sins on a sunny day, burned at the stake before a disdainful crowd. Not long after his heart stopped beating, his belongings were thrown into the fire—research, tools, anything which carried his memory.

♡ You never left his side. After his last rites, led by an elderly bishop who condemned Zandik as he did in the past, you sat next to him and offered a final conversation. He didn’t express any fear nor sadness in regards to his imminent death, merely stating it a pity that his achievements could never be appreciated in his town.

♡ …He did ask if there is any chance of meeting again in Hell, but you reminded him that the punishment of sinners is out of your jurisdiction. Plus, it’s better that way—you have no desire to avenge yourself, and you’d rather not witness Zandik’s suffering for all eternity. You can only imagine the severity of his punishment, what more if he is assigned to one of the demons he exorcized.

♡ During his execution, you stood at the front of the crowd. You kept your eyes trained on him, for so long as his scarlet orbs remained open, whispering the prayers for the dead on his behalf. While a part of you felt liberated, another was mournful. You hope your last words to Zandik gave him solace in his final moments.

“Rest now, Zandik. God may never forgive your sins, but I shall.”

♡ And thus ends the life of Il Dottore. In the following days, the Church is purged of its holy, sinister aura, mainly because they discarded the religious objects tainted with angel remains. You continue your usual obligations as a wandering demon, but the humans you observe pale in comparison to your companion of many years.

♡ Not long after, you return to Hell for your other divine duties. As soon as you appear in your abode, however, something feels off. The sinister aura, the offering of books and fruit, your lower wings gone from their original place… The answer comes in the form of a hand grabbing you by the horn, pulling you backwards, twisting your body to meet a familiar gaze the color of hearth-fire. Only, this time, those eyes are brimming with pure joy, paired with a genuine smile.

♡ Apparently, Dottore’s soul did end up in Hell but not in the way you expected. In a proud voice, he explains that the Devil gave him a special fate. Whether it was due to vacant positions or everyone’s fear of the infamous “Demon-Killer,” you’ll never know. What Dottore does confirm is that as the demon bound to him via contract, you have to take responsibility and act as his companion in Hell.

“Rather than subject me to eternal suffering, the Devil believed that my talents would prove useful for the punishments of my fellow sinners. How wonderful is it for my achievements to be recognized in Hell? …Oh? I didn’t predict such a physical reaction from you. All of your eyes are wide open, and you seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

♡ You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. To think your personal hell has been extended to eternity—are your sins enough to warrant such a fate?! But after confirming your misfortune, all you can do is sigh and tend to Zandik. He looks exactly the same, with the exception of a few burn scars on his body. And judging by the familiar black feathers on his person, he seems eager to discard his former religious attire along with his mask of faith.

♡ And when Zandik unfastens his scorched cassock, he takes your hand and places it on his unburned chest, right above your sigil. It glows vibrantly, brighter than any light you laid eyes on in Heaven. And beneath the flesh, you can feel his heart beating in sync with yours.

“Tell me, ______, do I still appear human to you?”

“You already know my answer to that question. But fine, I’ll admit it: Yes, you always have.”

♡ 

More Church AU here!! Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pantalone ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.

At long last, I am free from Priesttore…thank you to everyone. To my readers, to my fellow Dottore simps, to my mutuals who indulged my tortured DMs after midnight, to the artist whose fan art inspired this idea to begin with. May you all have a lovely day╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @mochinon-yah @diodellet @lcveaesop @oofasleep @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @boundinparchment @harmonysanreads @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-wishes @yanmaresu @nicebonescomrades @nimandu @lesanyanyas @moarar

[chadobi]

Hi I just finished reading your 2012 raph one-shot and really like so much so can I really request for 2012 donnie with a fem reader who likes to sketch him where she has a crush on him but donnie doesn't know and when he saw her sketchbook on the couch and looks through it seeing lots of sketches of him only.

Omg, this is such a sweet idea! I hope you’re happy with how I decided to write it!

In the Margins

2012 Donatello x Fem!Reader

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

The kind where the hum of Donatello’s lab equipment melded with the low chatter of his brothers in the background, where the city above throbbed in neon pulses but the lair below remained your sanctuary. The kind of night you liked best-when you could sit back with your sketchbook and draw in peace, the lines flowing from pencil to page as your mind wandered.

And like most nights lately, your wandering mind ended up on the same subject.

Donatello.

You weren’t sure when it had started. Maybe it was the first time he’d fixed your walkie in less than five minutes, muttering equations and awkward compliments under his breath. Maybe it was the way his eyes sparkled behind his goggles when he talked about something he loved. Or maybe-just maybe-it was how he always looked at everyone else like they were amazing, and didn’t realize he was, too.So… you drew him.

Over and over.

His hands adjusting a motherboard. His face lit up by a computer screen. His soft, tired smile when he thought no one was looking.

Sketch after sketch, filling your pages.

But tonight, you were tired.

Sleep tugged at your eyelids faster than you expected, and without realizing, you’d dozed off curled up on the lair’s couch—your sketchbook slipping quietly onto the cushions beside you.

————-

Donatello wasn’t trying to snoop.

He was just looking for his tablet. Raph had a habit of sitting on it when he wasn’t paying attention, and you were sprawled over the couch like you’d fought a whole Foot Clan platoon in your sleep. Cute, though. Not that he’d say that out loud.

“(Y/N)?” he whispered, noticing the soft rise and fall of your chest. Out cold.

He spotted something dark beside you.

Is that… her sketchbook?

Donnie hesitated. It was closed, but slightly cracked open, a smudge of pencil dust still clinging to the edge. He should’ve just tucked it beside you and left.

But curiosity… well, that was his fatal flaw.

He reached for it.

And opened to the first page.

His breath caught.

It was him.

A full-body sketch, mid-action, staff twirling. Impossibly detailed-right down to the subtle folds of his bandages and the slight scuff marks on his knee pad. His expression was determined, heroic. He barely recognized himself.

Huh… maybe she just likes action poses.

He flipped to another.

And another.

And another.

All of them… him.

Some were scribbled, unfinished. Others were shaded to perfection. A few had faint notes in the margins-things like “accidentally adorable,” “concentration face,” and (once) “I think I’m in love with you, you idiot.”

Donatello stared at that last one for a long time.

She… likes me?

Heat rose to his cheeks, his whole body frozen in place as the weight of the realization crashed over him. He’d never considered-never dared to assume-that you of all people would think of him like that. He wasn’t Leo, all noble and confident. He wasn’t Raph, strong and fearless. He wasn’t Mikey, charming and warm.

He was just Donatello.

But here you were, drawing him like he was more.

A soft murmur broke his trance.

You stirred awake, groggy. “Mmh… Donnie?”

His head snapped up.

Busted.

Your eyes darted from his face to the sketchbook in his lap and widened in horror.

“Oh no.”

You bolted upright, grabbing the book, cheeks burning so hot you thought they might catch fire. “I-I didn’t mean for you to see that! I wasn’t gonna show anyone-please forget it, I know it’s weird, just-just-pretend you never saw-”

“(Y/N),” Donnie said, voice quiet.

You froze.

He stood slowly, still holding one of the loose sketches that had fallen into his lap. The one you’d drawn of him looking down, soft-eyed, smiling. Not at a screen or a gadget-but something just out of frame.

You, you’d imagined.

“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see it.”

You winced. “Great.”

“I’m glad I saw it.”

That… wasn’t what you expected.

Your eyes shot up to meet his, heart thudding. He looked nervous-but there was a softness in his expression you’d never seen before. His fingers crinkled the edge of the sketch.

“I had no idea,” he admitted. “You’ve always been so kind to me, but I just thought you were… being you. I didn’t think someone like you would ever…” He trailed off, too flustered to finish.

“Like you?” you whispered.

He nodded.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a breath. “I’ve liked you for months, Donnie.”

He looked like he’d short-circuited.

You took a shaky breath. “I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same. So I kept it to myself. Drawing helped.”

He stepped closer, slowly, like he was afraid you’d vanish. “You… think about me like that?”

“I think about you all the time.” Your voice cracked. “You’re smart, and brave, and you always put everyone before yourself. You talk like you’re just the guy in the back with the gadgets, but Donnie… I see so much more than that.”

His eyes shimmered.

And then, tentatively, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to, he touched your hand.

“I always thought no one noticed me,” he said. “But you did.”

Your fingers curled into his. His hand was large, a little rough from lab work, but so careful.

You smiled, shy but sure. “Guess I’ve been noticing you for a while.”

He smiled back-and in that moment, it was like the whole lair melted away.

[novaursa]

Would it be possible to write something for a Tyrion x Stark fic? The Lannisters are staying at Winterfell, Tyrion and Ned's daughter form a friendship founded on a shared love of literature. One of the first times they meet he finds her reading a book on Southern law in the library just because. When he asks about why she's not reading Northern law she simply states that she's read several already. After Ned is executed, she and her sisters are held captive by the Lannisters and Tyrion tries to use his influence to protect her. Tywin marries her to Tyrion to stop the Tyrells from laying a claim to the North through her.

If this interests you at all. Thanks

The Last Stark Lady

Requests are closed

- Summary: A story where the lion and the wolf find common ground.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Tyrion Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: The plot has been purposely altered from the books to fit the narrative of this short story.

The Lannisters arrive with all the pomp and swagger of the South, their crimson banners blazing against the pale Northern sky like fresh blood spilled across snow. The courtyard of Winterfell thrums with activity as the procession winds through the gates—guards in gilded armor, proud horses tossing their heads, and noble ladies in silks that shimmer like firelight. At the front rides the King with Robert’s easy grin, beside Eddard Stark, tall and quiet as a shadow in the midst of the southern grandeur. But it is the lion-banners that catch your attention most—more pointedly, the golden-haired twins and the imp who rides a squat pony and surveys his surroundings with quick, darting eyes and the twitch of a clever smile.

You linger at the edge of the crowd, quiet, unreadable, your hands folded before you in the proper way your lady mother taught. Your siblings are scattered nearby—Arya wriggling impatiently, Bran watching from Catelyn's side with bright curiosity—but you have eyes only for the peculiar figure of Tyrion Lannister. There’s something different about him, something apart. It isn't just his stature or his mismatched stride, but the way he looks around with interest instead of arrogance. When he meets your eyes for the briefest flicker of a second, his smirk does not mock—it intrigues.

It is not until two days later, with the court settled and the feasting begun, that you find him again—not in a hall or a yard, but in the quiet sanctuary of Winterfell’s library. The great stone chamber is dimly lit by sunlight struggling through narrow windows. Dust motes swim in the golden beams, caught like whispers in the air. You sit alone beneath one of those windows, curled into a carved wooden chair, a thick book resting on your lap. The spine is cracked, the vellum pages worn from generations of hands, but you turn them gently, reverently, as though each word matters.

“Southern law?” comes a voice like dry wine and sharp wit. “How bold. Or is it heretical to say so in these parts?”

You glance up slowly, already knowing who it is. Tyrion Lannister stands in the doorway, short and solid, leaning heavily on the carved lion-headed cane he favors. His tunic is dark green velvet with lion clasps of gold at his shoulders. He grins, head tilted like a fox sniffing the breeze. “Most Northern ladies prefer embroidery to legal statutes.”

You raise a brow. “I prefer things that make sense.”

He chuckles, the sound low and oddly pleasant. “And yet you choose Southern law? Surely you jest.”

“I’ve read three books on Northern law already,” you say simply, turning the page without looking up again. “This one is older. Less poetic. More precise.”

Tyrion walks further in, his boots soft against the flagstones. “You read for leisure, I gather? Not because your father insists upon it?”

You mark your place with a strip of cloth and close the book slowly, looking up to meet his gaze with an appraising calm. “Lord Father values learning, but he never forced it upon me. I’ve a mind for words, not blades.” You gesture to the chair beside you. “If you’d like to sit, ser.”

“I’m no knight,” he says, but he sits anyway, resting his cane against the side of the chair. He peers at the cover of the book. “Tales of the King’s Peace. Dull as dirt. But you’re still reading it, which makes you more interesting than most of the court.”

You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve read it?”

“Once, under duress,” he says, with a dry smile. “A maester at Casterly Rock hoped it might cure my ‘frivolity.’ It did not.”

You stifle a smile. “A shame. You might have made a good judge.”

He laughs again, more genuinely this time. “Gods forbid. No, I’d rather argue before the court than preside over it. You strike me more as the judge. Reserved. Clever. Quiet enough to see more than most.”

You flush faintly, surprised by the sharpness of his insight. “And you see that after two minutes?”

He leans forward, steepling his fingers. “I observe. It’s how I survive.”

You look at him then—truly look—and find in his eyes the quicksilver flicker of thought, the restless intelligence that mirrors something in yourself. You recognize, then, not the drunken imp of rumor, but a man carved out of quick wit and hidden steel. And in return, he sees a Stark girl who does not need to speak loudly to wield power.

After a moment, you speak again. “There’s a volume on Oldtown’s municipal structure in the back row. The maesters rarely lend it out.”

Tyrion brightens. “You’re hoarding the good ones already, I see.”

“I might be persuaded to share.”

From that moment, something shifts. You begin to find each other more often—quiet corners of the castle, the gaps between courtly obligations, the dim hush of the library, or stolen walks near the godswood where the southern heat does not reach. You speak of books, of history, of riddles and governance. He tells you of Casterly Rock and quotes Valyrian poets over wine; you recite lines from the Old Tongue and challenge his logic with Northern proverbs. There are no titles between you in those moments, only minds meeting across an invisible bridge.

And he makes you laugh—openly, unguardedly. That, more than anything, surprises you.

In the depth of winter’s stronghold, you did not expect to find warmth in a Lannister. But here he is. And already, you suspect you’ll miss him when he leaves.

The days after your father's death bled into one another like ink spilled on parchment—dark, endless, and impossible to erase. There was no day or night in the Red Keep anymore, only a long, bitter twilight, interrupted by the cries of your younger sister or the shuffle of silent maids too frightened to speak your name. They did not call you “Lady Stark” now. You were simply the North girl, and though your chamber overlooked the city and its golden sprawl, you were caged just as surely as the ravens in the rookery. Winterfell was far behind you now. So too was your father, and every sliver of innocence you had clung to in your girlhood.

Sansa wept every night, whispering apologies into her pillow, and Arya—Arya was gone. Vanished like smoke. You prayed she had escaped, though dread gripped your chest tighter with each passing moon. The court moved on as though nothing had changed—banquets, hunting feasts, whispered plots beneath marble arches. Queen Cersei smiled like a blade, and her son, who now sat on the Iron Throne, wore your father’s death like a crown.

You had expected the worst from the Lannisters. You had not expected Tyrion.

He came to you not long after the bells tolled for your father, not with condolences—he was too sharp for that, too honest—but with quiet understanding. You were seated by the narrow window of your chambers, staring at the sprawl of King’s Landing, your fingers twisting a length of your mother’s embroidery thread. When the door opened, you did not rise. You did not flinch.

“I came to see how you fare,” he said, his voice measured, careful.

You turned slowly to regard him, your eyes hollowed by grief, your mouth silent.

He sighed. “You look as though you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then we shall fix that.” He crossed the room and placed a small basket on the table beside you. Warm bread. Soft cheese. A bottle of Arbor red that glinted like garnet in the light. You stared at it blankly.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” you said quietly, at last. “You’ve never been.”

“No,” Tyrion replied with a rueful smile. “That’s why they hate me too.”

He stayed with you that night, not out of obligation but because neither of you could stomach being alone. He spoke of books, of politics, of irony so dark it nearly made you laugh. Nearly. And in return, you allowed your grief to crack just enough to speak. You told him of the godswood at Winterfell, the sound of snow falling through pines, the rasp of your father’s voice when he read aloud by the fire. He listened with an attentiveness that softened something in you, something fragile you had thought long buried.

So it continued, over the moons that passed. Tyrion visited when he could, brought books when the maesters would not, and shielded you where possible from the worst of the court’s cruelties. But his influence was not endless, and you both knew that even his wit would not hold Cersei or her mad boy-king at bay forever.

When the letters came from Highgarden—delicately worded, sweet as honey but poison beneath—everything shifted. The Tyrells were seeking a match. Not for Margaery, not yet, but for you. The last true Stark daughter of age. A claim to the North, if taken by Southern hands.

Tywin Lannister did not hesitate.

You were summoned before him in the Tower of the Hand, the air thick with incense and the rustle of parchment. He sat behind the great carved desk like a god of judgment, his pale eyes hard as polished emerald. Tyrion stood nearby, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

“You are to marry my son,” Lord Tywin said, without flourish.

The words struck like frost, sharp and sudden. You stood still as stone, your hands folded tightly before you.

“And if I refuse?” you asked.

Tywin’s mouth curved downward. “Then the Tyrells will take you, and through you, the North. I will not allow that.”

You looked to Tyrion then, expecting defiance, perhaps protest. But he only watched you, silent, shoulders tense. Not eager, not pleased—but trapped.

“I did not ask for this,” he said quietly, when the chamber had emptied and the weight of your fate hung between you.

“I know.” You turned to him, breath unsteady. “Neither did I.”

And yet, two nights later, beneath the flicker of a thousand candles and the judgment of a dozen false gods, you were wed. The gown they gave you was white and silver, embroidered with direwolves and lined with sable, as though someone thought it would make you feel less like a prisoner. Your hair was braided in the Northern fashion, though your tears never fell. You kept them locked behind your ribs.

Tyrion’s hands were gentle when he took yours. His voice steady as he spoke the vows. He did not kiss you afterward, only looked into your eyes and murmured, “If you wish me to sleep elsewhere tonight, I will.”

And you nodded. Grateful. Confused. Heartbroken.

You lay awake long after, in a bed too large and too cold, staring at the shadows cast on the ceiling. You were a Stark. You were a wife. You were a pawn.

But in Tyrion, you had a strange sort of ally. Perhaps even—someday—a friend.

[tanuki-kimono]

Cw: We are going to talk here about periods, and sex education in the past. Read this note according to your own sensibilities :)

How women dealt with periods during Edo period, article by shunga enthousiast Shungirl who made a paper pad following instructions found in makura bunko 枕文庫 - ie ancient sex books illustrated with erotic ukiyoe.

One of such makura bunko is 渓斎英泉 Keisai Eisen's 閨中紀聞-枕文庫, first published in 1822. It details Chinese remedies recipes for menstrual pains and irregularities, give tips about sex, and information about menstruations and pregnancy. From a modern point of view, some beliefs are outdated, but it was then such a bestseller it went through several reeditions.

Several words were apparently in use during Edo era to designates menstrual period: keisui 経水, gekkei 月経, tsukiyaku 月水, etc.

When girls went throught their first period, their females relatives or nannies would taught them how to deal with them. One method was to use paper as sanitary products (please note people without easy access to paper probably dealt with periods differently).

__________ 御馬 paper pads

Sanitary pads, such as the one recreated above by Shungirl, were then called mima 御馬 (probably as a pun on true "mima" which were then fine horses own by noblemen, or attached to sanctuaries as mounts for gods etc) or simply ouma お馬 ("honorable" horse).

Ouma were made from inexpensive recycled paper called Asakusagami 浅草紙. Sheets were folded 8 times, tied with twisted paper strings (koyori 紙縒), and then wrapped with another layer of folded paper. It was secured once again with paper strings.

Part of the strings could be left long so to tie around the waist, or/and pad was hold into place by wearing fundoshi 褌 loincloth (which would also help prevent leaking on inner tights).

Asakusagami quality was low (it was also used as toilet paper) so paper pads had to be changed often, meaning you had to fold quite a lot of them to go through your period!

Shungirl folded the pad above following instructions found in the book 実娯教絵抄, which provided several other "models":

__________ 詰め紙 paper tampons

Another method for dealing with periods were tampon-like paper bundles which were inserted into the vagina, the 詰め紙 (tsumeshi? I am not sure of the reading).

This method may have first appeared in red-light districts (?). Beside its use for periods, prostitutes also used those tampons as method of contraception (OP has an interesting article on this subject).

By the end of Edo period and into Meiji, paper tampons were widely used even by women who were not prostitutes - despite voices branding this method as unsanitary.

__________ About girls' coming of age rites

Menarche (first period) was an important milestone for girls, and was celebrated as such via specific rites (shochō o iwau 初潮を祝). Those differed a lot from places to places, and also depended on social status.

Celebrations would concern close family, but often spread to wider community who could received for example a festive meal (sekihan 赤飯) for the occasion (some Edo era senryû poems stress how mortifying this publicity could be!).

Interestingly, some traditions were also pretty sweet: in some places, mothers would sew 3 stiches into their daughter's underskirt (koshimaki 腰巻き) as a good luck charm, hoping their periods would last only 3 days <3

Those rites were part of coming of age traditions (seijoshiki 成女式) which marked the start of a young woman adulthood. Another example is the blackening of teeth (ohaguro お歯黒) which usually started around 16-17 years old.

Celebrating menarche publicly was a way of advertising that the girl was no longer a child and would "soon" be a bride. Yet, if menarche often took place around 13-14 years old, in reality it was somehow unusual to have girls married so soon!

Before marriage, especially in non-noble/samurai families, young women often started their sexual life via flings or yobai 夜這い ("night crawling" ie pseudo-secret nighttime encounters) before any wedding actually took place.

[myafterlifeisbetterthenyours]

Stolas has an S/O that's obsessed with his scent

His Scent~

You met the prince when both of you were young, Stolas was, well, a nerd. Book worm, rather, if you felt more polite.

And despite his best attempts to interact with other nobles or even other children, it became painfully obvious to the boy nobody really liked him.

A deeply painful realisation for the owls sensitive soul.

This is where you come in, you being the son of an Imp servant, would too lack any real friends, though you were raised as an Imp, so you never really expected much.

This would be how you found the young prince hiding behind the palace.

It was a nook the servants usually used when they wanted soem fresh air, or simply to hide from their work.

You of course, did the whole formal act, asking if he was alright, if he needed anything.

But when it became obvious he was sad, somberly telling you he was fine, but given his statr you didn't really believe him.

Seeing him in such a state, you'd open up to him, asking him if he was alright.

Stolas was hesitant at first, not sure if he could trust you, but when you genuinely opened up to him, he'd warm up to you, the two of you quickly talking back and forth.

It'd be through your talks, you taking e genuine interest in his books that a genuine friendship would develop, the two of you growing close.

You'd end up meeting In that spot often.

You being his only friend, and with the spot being isolated enough to not draw attention, it became your little sanctuary, the two of you spending countless hours there building a deep friendship with one and other.

But it'd be one day, the Owl having received both a verbal and physical lashing from his father, that you'd find him in tears.

You finding him in such a state did the only thing you could. You hugged him.

You'd hold him close and it seemed almost instantly you both realised 2 very important things.

1. Stolas was incredibly touch starved.

The man feeling so very strange, yet so delightful as you held him close. Your warmth and firm body making him feel incredible in your arms.

And 2. You loved his smell.

You didn't know if it was soap, or his clothes, or just his general musk, but you were instantly hooked.

You held the man for hours, the owl holding you back, adoring the contact, relishing every second of it.

This quickly became routine, the two of you meeting in the back of the palace, changing your meeting spot to the middle of the palaces hedge maze, the two of you free to get nice and close.

Literally.

Stolas would lay back on a blanket, the man holding you too his chest. You curling up against him, nuzzling his fluffy chest, adoring his stuffy yet deep scent.

You were hooked. His scent like a drug, your mind going numb as you nuzzled his chest fluff, the chest tuft like a drug for you, as you lay against him, breathing deep.

You'd spend a good bit of time with the Owl, like, not just with your nose in his fluff, the two of you spending lots of time together.

You'd play games, read or just spent time together. Enjoying each other's company.

You'd often spend time around his book, reading it together or the avian would just read it to you, you learning a great deal from the man and his books.

But despite this, you spent most of your time craving his scent, usually curled up against him, breathing in that musk, or wishing you could do as much, keeping close to the owl.

You'd become unreasonably close.

You being Stolas' only and closest friend, he'd become deeply dependent on your, care and your intimate contact, loving the way you'd hug him, expecting nothing in return.

You, adoring his scent, became something of a scent junkie. You taking any opportunity to breath in that distinct avian musk, his feathered form creating a unique and distinct scent you couldnt get enough of.

You spent countless hours together, just curled up. You nuzzling his fluff as he read to you, the both of you happy with the arrangement.

But despite your bliss, your relationship's defining moment would be when your mother caught you with the Prince.

She wasn't demon royalty, something you both thanked Lucifer for.

Though that didn't stop her from chewing you both out, though she targeted you specifically, being her son and ya know, not demon royalty.

She chewed you out, berating you as she demanded you never have such inappropriate contact with a Goetia ever again.

After this the two of you would spend several months apart, even as you both desperately craved each other's embrace, you couldn't risk getting caught, and with your increased duties, you both had work to do.

No chance to sneak off.

In the time you spent apart, you quickly became a servant, working your very hardest to become a trusted and valued servant.

With you working your ass off, you'd eventually end up in Stolas' vicinity.

He was eager to greet you, hoping to rekindle the relationship you once had, the man missing you dreadfully during your separation.

Yet as you walked past the man, you stonewalled him, walking past him like he was nothing.

Stolas' hope dampened, the man going back to the depressed state he was in before. His mood always dampened, believing you never wanted to be near him again.

Yet after a few weeks, Stolas finally giving up on you, falling into a deep depression, believing his only friend had abandoned him, was shocked as one day, as he walked down the halls of his palace, he'd suddenly find himself yanked into a nearby closet.

You'd hug the man close, holding him for several minutes, nuzzling his fuzzy chest, practically huffing his scent.

Stolas, recovering from the shock of the sudden turn of events, smiled. Tears forming in his eyes as he held you close, the two of you holding each other for several minutes as Stolas shed tears, so very happy to hold you again.

You'd talk for some time, speaking softly as you apologised for ignoring him, but you had to play your part, not wanting to blow it before working your way to a position of standing amongst the staff. You taking the occasional sniff of the owl as you explained it to him.

Stolas meanwhile just held you close, relishing your embrace, telling you he didn't care. He was just happy to have you back, missing you dreadfully.

You'd talk, quickly agreeing not to act on your mutual impulses in public. Both of you thinking clearly.

It'd quickly become a part of your daily routine, you always snatching him into a nearby closet, stolas loving the surprise, giggling madly as you held him, you huffing his chest, the man happily holding you close as you both stood there, relishing each other.

This was a common occurrence, and the only thing that kept him sane as he endured the monotony of Royal life.

It became even stranger as you grew, Stolas becoming a lanky, yet powerful man, you still remaining the itty bitty Imp you were as kids, the man now more than triple your height.

Stolas came to love this size difference, never stating as much in plain words and yet he adored the difference, the avian relishing the power dynamic.

It was funny.

Once youd been enough to pin him to the ground, yet now. Now he held you so easily, the man holding your form like e would a stack of books, and yet holding you was even easier.

But ehat he really found funny was that you still believed you held the power.

You never outright said it, but it was clear you believed you were in charge, you usually being the one to drag him into a closet or private room.

It'd be not long after Octavias birth, you taking your natural place as his right hand as Stolas ascended to head of the household, though your position mostly worked as a cover to worship the man's form when in private, an arrangement he was mostly satisfied with.

Stolas, maturing, grew more confident, his form becoming more dominant, the man deciding he wanted your relationship to become more than it was.

It'd be one day, you attempting to pull the man into a private room that he'd finally take command.

He'd resist your pull, you freezing before looking towards him, concerned you'd been caught.

But instead, you found your face forced into his chest fluff, holding you there as youd stare up at him, eyes widening as Stolas simply smirked at you, the avian gripped the base of your skill, fingers gripped between your horns as you breathed in his musk.

With a smirk he'd hold you there for several minutes, out in the open, relishing the look of shock, then realisation in your eyes as he felt an odd sense of submission, finally feeling the mans power over you.

He was in control.

In Command.

The man claming and relishing this new and odd power dynamic.

Leaning in, he kissed your forehead, you already hooked on his scent as he cooed, telling you he'd handle it.

It'd be as you finally pulled back, Stolas holding you tight. And after panting hard you'd look to him, the owl smiling smugly, leaning in to tell you bluntly.

"Your mine. And you'll do as I say. Understand?" He spoke softly, yet with a commanding edge, a tone used by royalty, staring down at you.

Seeing the man's crimson gaze staring at you, you'd gulp, nodding your head, submitting to the man. Only for the man to shove your face back into his fluff, relishing the newfound power he held over you. Loving your reaction. Your... submission. The man feeling this power for the first time in his life, yet finding it, delightfully Sinful.

This marked a distinct shift in your relationship, the man taking charge from that moment forwards.

You found your relationship change over night, the man taking a dominant stance from that moment forwards. Taking command on your dynamic.

It was... odd. Yet you adored the affection he showed. His power almost as addictive as his scent.

The man became the dominant partner in your relationship. As he always would, yet lacking the confidence to embrace his role.

It became a power trip for the man.

He was so used to you being in control of your meetings, when and where about them that when he took charge, it took a minute or two to get used to being in charge.

It didn't take long though, the man relishing his new found power over you, adoring the way you submitted to him, Stolas especially loving the way you loved his scent.

It was almost funny how quickly the demon came to dominate you, the owl wearing a near sadistic smile as he'd hold you down, face smashed into your chest, or his pits, knowing you loved it, that only making it even better for the man.

Stolas, while it woukd take time, with Octavia being born and thr boost of his confidence and ego from dominating you, along with his love for you, the man would divorce his wife as he went through a slight power trip, taking you as his lover.

He'd spend days holding you close, holding you to his musky, avian form. Holding you to his musty feathered chest. He'd forgo perfumes, preferring to expose you to his natural scents, loving how docile you became.

It was quite the power trip for the owl, the man relishing having you close, and seeing the power he held over you, the man felt like a lord. A king in his own right, his love for dominating you only eclipsed by his love for you.

You of course, adored him, loving the owl with every fibre of your being, ensuring you treated him like a king, A God, adoring every inch of the man you could, something Stolas relished every second of.

It'd take some time, especially with the divorce in progress, yet after winning, mostly with your moral support and gaining majority custody of his daughter, the man became even more drunk with power over you.

You became a pet, yet in the very best ways. The man adoring you as much as you did to him.

The man loved you, loved being with you, and how youd be with him.

The owl relished the way you'd submit to him, his favourite ability being to grab you and shove you into his chest, making you huff his scent till you were drunk on him, the owl utterly dominating you.

It was an absolutely unbalanced relationship, Stolas holding all the power, thr man loving the fact, but put simply, so did you.

Stolas was your S/O and master, and you loved every second of it, breathing in the man's element yet sinfully delightful scent.

[earthlybeam]

The idea is off @sophiadatomato inspired by this post Here 🤣❤️‍🔥🫶✨

Yes, his glorious forehead—smooth, unblemished, a masterpiece of elven perfection—had haunted our thoughts for far too long. 😉🤌To gaze upon it is a privilege, but to taste it? A divine, forbidden indulgence. 🫶👅

Elrond version below.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Rivendell was steeped in its usual tranquility, the air filled only with the soft rustle of parchment and the faint, rhythmic scratching of quills against scrolls. The halls, bathed in the gentle glow of candlelight, seemed untouched by time, a sanctuary of knowledge and quiet contemplation.

Elrond’s study, however, was another matter entirely. His desk, a broad expanse of polished wood, was barely visible beneath the precarious towers of books, their spines worn with age, their pages brimming with wisdom. Loose sheets of parchment lay scattered like fallen leaves, some curling at the edges as if whispering secrets to one another. Despite the apparent chaos, Elrond moved through it all with practiced ease.

He retrieved tomes from high shelves with fluid precision, his long fingers tracing over the spines as he selected each volume with a scholar’s instinct. The rustling of pages accompanied his measured steps, his brow slightly furrowed in thought. Though his expression remained composed, there was an unmistakable gravity to the set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows betraying the weight of whatever matter occupied his mind.

And yet, none of it held your attention. Not the books, nor the intricate patterns of Elrond’s robes, nor even the ancient knowledge that surrounded you like an unseen current. No, your mind was ensnared by something else entirely—something far more ridiculous, far more unshakable.

Elrond’s forehead. It was unfair, really. So regal, so smooth, framed by the elegant braids of his dark hair, its high, noble curve catching the candlelight just so, casting the faintest glow over his sharp features. It was the kind of forehead that belonged in paintings, immortalized in delicate brushstrokes, revered in poetry—impossibly dignified, impossibly perfect. And you wanted to lick it.

The thought had been haunting you for some time now. At first, it had seemed absurd, a fleeting whimsy that you had dismissed with a shake of your head. But like a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished, the impulse had persisted, lingering in the back of your mind, growing stronger with each passing day. It was maddening, an itch that refused to be ignored. Today, you had decided. Now or never. You took a steadying breath, forcing composure into your voice. “My lord Elrond.”

He did not look up immediately, merely hummed in acknowledgment as he slid a book back onto the shelf with careful deliberation. “I need to tell you something.” That, at least, made him pause. Slowly, he turned to face you, a single dark brow arching slightly in quiet curiosity. “Oh?” You took a step forward, closing the space between you. “But you must lean down,” you insisted, your voice hushed as though what you had to say was of dire importance. Elrond hesitated, his keen eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he considered you. Then, with his usual patience, he inclined his head, granting you audience.

Not enough. “Closer,” you murmured. His other brow joined the first, lifted in silent inquiry, but after a beat, he relented. Ever the gracious lord, he bent further, his face now mere inches from yours, the sharp planes of his features softened in the dim candlelight. His piercing grey eyes studied you, searching for whatever secret weighed so heavily upon you.

Perfect. You moved swiftly. Before reason could betray you, before hesitation could creep in, you reached up and cradled his face in both hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His breath hitched—just slightly, a flicker of surprise in his otherwise unshakable composure. But before he could react, before you could talk yourself out of it—

You leaned in and dragged your tongue, slow and deliberate, across the smooth expanse of his forehead. Time stopped. The taste was unexpected—subtle, yet distinct. A hint of something herbal, perhaps from the elven oils he used, mingled with the scent of parchment and ink. It was the taste of wisdom, patience, and just the faintest trace of disbelief.

Elrond did not move. He remained utterly still, as though by sheer force of will he could undo what had just transpired. His posture remained impeccable, his expression schooled into neutrality—yet there was something almost imperceptible in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, as though his body itself refused to believe what his mind already knew.

You pulled back slowly, studying him with a measured gaze. He blinked once. Then again. His lips parted slightly, though no words came forth, as if his formidable intellect—honed over millennia of wisdom, diplomacy, and battle—was struggling to assemble the events of the past few seconds into something that made even a modicum of sense. There was silence. A long, unbearable silence.

At last, Elrond straightened with slow, deliberate grace. Every movement was precise, controlled, the fluid elegance of someone who refused to let even a single flicker of uncomposed reaction betray him. And yet—his fingers twitched at his side, barely perceptible, as though resisting the inexplicable urge to touch his own forehead. To confirm that what he suspected had, in fact, actually occurred.

Surely not. Surely he had imagined it. A hallucination brought on by fatigue, perhaps. A trick of the mind. And yet—the unmistakable sensation lingered. Warm. Unnervingly deliberate. An act of sheer audacity against all reason, against all understanding of decorum. Why? Why had you done this? At last, he exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath carefully measured, his composure an unshaken pillar of elven dignity. But you saw it.

That flicker. That near-invisible moment of raw, unguarded bewilderment in his otherwise unreadable expression. A crack in the marble. “That,” he said finally, his voice smooth as ever, deliberate, steady, as though speaking too quickly might shatter whatever fragile logic remained in the wake of this absurdity, “was an unexpected course of action.”

You nodded, solemn as though your reasoning was entirely self-evident. “Your forehead looked very lickable.” Elrond’s eyes closed. Briefly. Perhaps in contemplation. Perhaps in the desperate attempt to summon patience. Perhaps in prayer to whatever forces in Arda could grant him the strength to process this moment and move past it with dignity intact.

“…I see.” He should reprimand you. He knew this. He should speak of decorum, of elven grace, of the reverence and dignity of his station. Perhaps a speech on boundaries, respect, the sanctity of personal space. A lecture so well-structured, so wise, that it would make even the most foolish reconsider their choices. And yet… he did not. Because this was not the strangest thing he had endured.

It was merely another absurdity to add to the long, weary list of trials he had faced over centuries. Battles, betrayals, the fall of kingdoms, the endless tide of mortal foolishness. And now—this. A new, deeply perplexing addition to his ever-growing catalog of experiences. A quiet, resigned sigh escaped him, one that spoke not of anger, nor true indignation, but the weary acceptance of one who had long ago ceased to be surprised by the whims of others.

Elrond exhaled once more, slow and measured, his gaze shifting slightly as if searching the far corners of his mind for some long-forgotten wisdom to make sense of this moment. None arrived. At last, he spoke again, his voice carrying the same composed cadence, though now laced with something unreadable—something that might have been reluctant amusement, or perhaps just profound resignation.

“I confess,” he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly, “that in all my years, through all my studies, and in all the vast and boundless histories of Elves and Men alike… I have never encountered the notion of one’s forehead being so—” He hesitated, as if the very words defied logic. “—lickable.”

His gaze returned to yours, piercing and unreadable, his expression once more schooled into careful neutrality. But there it was, that almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a reaction that never fully surfaced. “I must wonder,” he continued, his tone contemplative now, as though genuinely entertaining the absurdity, “was this impulse sudden? Or have you been harboring such… inclinations for some time?”

His fingers lifted, finally, in what seemed to be unconscious motion, hovering near his temple before he caught himself and let his hand drop back to his side. But it was too late—you saw the moment of hesitation, the unspoken awareness of the sensation you had left behind. You met his gaze without shame. “Some time.”

Elrond inhaled deeply, then let it out in a slow, deliberate sigh, his eyes closing briefly before reopening with the steady patience of a being who had lived too long to be surprised, yet somehow still was. “I see,” he said again, though this time there was the faintest shift in his tone. Something wry. Something… dangerous. And then, after a pause— “Should I be concerned for the rest of my face?”

You smiled—slow, teasing. “Oh no, my lord. I’m after you, Peredhel. Not just your face, but all of you.” The words hung in the air, playful and absurd, yet carrying a weight neither of you immediately acknowledged. Elrond’s brow lifted—marginally, but enough to be noticeable. He was rarely caught off guard, and yet here you were, managing it twice in mere minutes. His fingers twitched again, but this time, they clasped neatly behind his back, his ever-disciplined stance unshaken.

For a long, excruciating moment, he said nothing. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across the elegant planes of his face, the smooth, now thoroughly desecrated forehead, the high cheekbones that were no doubt next on your list of potential transgressions. Then, with maddening patience, he spoke. “I must wonder,” he said, his voice deceptively smooth, “if you say this merely to test my restraint, or if I should begin drafting a formal response to such an… ambitious declaration.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Who’s to say?” Elrond exhaled through his nose, the slow, measured kind that one might mistake for patience, but you knew better. It was the sigh of a man who had seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, faced the wrath of Sauron himself, and yet was now forced to contend with this.

At last, he nodded, as if settling something within himself. “Very well,” he said, his tone perfectly even. “In that case… I shall remain vigilant.” And with that, he turned gracefully, retrieving a book from the nearest pile as though this conversation had been nothing more than an unfortunate distraction. But you didn’t miss it. The way his lips pressed together just a little too tightly. The way his shoulders tensed for the briefest moment before schooling themselves back into perfect composure.

Nor did you miss the way, just as he flipped the page, his free hand lifted—seemingly without thinking—to brush across his forehead. As if confirming, one last time, that yes, you had truly done that. Without another word, he turned back to his desk, reclaiming his place among his books, his scrolls, his maps. The scratching of his quill resumed, steady, unbroken—an island of reason in a sea of nonsense.

[uhhlifeig]

Room of Requirement - Nov. 2 - word count: 239 - @wolfstarmicrofic

The Room of Requirement felt warm, quiet, and peaceful- like a sanctuary. 

Remus reclined on a stack of plush, oversized pillows, a book in his hands, while Sirius sprawled beside him, practically on his lap.

“Are you sure you’re reading?” the dog animagus teased, nudging his boyfriend. “Because it’s been the same page for the last ten minutes.”

Remus smirked, closing the book. “Maybe it’s just a really interesting page. Or maybe I was just trying to not listen to you.”

Sirius gasped dramatically. “I’m hurt, Moony! Ignoring me while I was pouring out my heart-”

“Oh, pouring your heart out, were you?” the werewolf laughed, shoving the noiret lightly. “Tell me, then. What were you saying?”

Sirius huffed playfully, then nestled closer. “It’s just nice,” he murmured, “being here with you. Just us.”

“You know,” the dog animagus continued quietly, “if we could stay here forever, I think I’d be alright with that.”

Remus’s thumb brushed over Sirius’s knuckles. “As long as you didn’t drive me mad first.”

“Me? Drive you mad?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes but pressing closer. “Lupin, I am the picture of calm and respectability.”

The younger boy snorted. “Right. Which is why I caught you trying to charm Mrs. Norris just last week.”

“Now that,” Sirius said, “was for a noble cause. If she’d agreed to be our ally, we could have run Hogwarts in a day.”

“Oh, absolutely. We’d rule this place.”

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #11 – Deadhouse Gates by Steven Erikson

Introduction

One of my reading goals for 2025 is to get through the entire Malazan series at a rate of one a month or so (a commitment I made thinking Gardens of the Moon was representative and not the shortest in the set, but I digress). I went into Deadhouse Gates knowing almost nothing about the plot, but having had it talked up to me relentlessly as the point where the series hits its stride and gets really properly good. On one level I can absolutely see this – Erikson’s craft absolutely improved immensely between writing Gardens and Gates, and the characterization work is (on the whole) so much better the returning characters barely even seem like the same people. But – while it’s certainly an excellent book overall – it had some weaknesses and irritating ticks that had me wishing it was more like Gardens at several points.

The novel is set on the (sub-)continent of Seven Cities, a rich and ancient land lately conquered by the Malazan Empire, and now a restive project afflicted with moments prophecies and on the very edge of rebellion. With a decadent and incompetent governor uninterested in preparations or an organized response, the rebellion will see colonists and officials slaughtered wholesale across the land, with only the capital city of Aren itself able to hold out and await the relief of an imperial punitive expedition from the metropole. By cosmic coincidence, just as things come to a head the wastelands in the continents heart are overrun with shapeshifters of all kind – mages and skinchangers driven rabid with lust for power, seeking the mythical Path of Hands and it’s promise of Ascension and dominion over all their kind as a new god of beasts.

Amid the anarchy and bloodshed, the book follows five different points of view, each on their own variably ill-fated journey across the continent. By far the most detailed – and the one acting as a spine for the whole book – is the imperial historian Duiker, acting as witness and chronicler to the epic death-march of the 7th Army and the tens of thousands of refugees it protects across the continent, to hoped-for sanctuary beneath Aren’s walls. He’s a window rather than a protagonist, allowing the reader a close and personal view of the imperial general Coltaine and the 7th ‘s struggles and valour fighting the impossible odds arrayed against them.

Around the edges of that narrative (and, to my mind, in the main far more interesting) are our other points of view – a disgraced noble heiress-turned-penal-slave and her fellow escapees from a brutal imperial mine, an itinerant warrior walking the earth alongside his immortal friend in his quest for his lost memories, an outlawed legionary and assassin on his way back to the capital to kill the Empress for her crimes, and a similarly outlawed sapper and his ragtag band of travelers caught up in the plots and whims of gods they want absolutely nothing to do with.

Across just under a thousand pages, they give first-hand views of the rebellion’s initial stages and hints of what seem likely to be the actual plot of this whole ten-volume saga. And suffer. Mostly the suffering, really.

History and Worldbuilding

The very first thing anyone ever talks about with Malazan is the setting, and the real sense of depth and history that Erikson brings to it. Which is pretty much entirely deserved – this is a series where the setting and metaphysics came first, and the actual plot is at least kind of mostly just an excuse to explore and share it with people. Whether you find this interesting or charming or think it sounds like the most tedious reading experience imaginable is probably the first filter on whether you will actually enjoy this book (and the series as a whole) or not.

Now, that was always the promise of the series, but this is an area where Deadhouse Gates lives up to it far better than Gardens did. Erikson is, I’m told, an archaeologist and anthropologist by training and of but you can tell. Not always for the better with the anthropology bit, but the sheer enthusiasm with which the book regards broken shards of pottery and the impact of prehistoric tells on geography is really incredibly charming.

The book manages the effect a lot of fantasy tries for but very few succeed at – a sense of real deep, mythic history, of layers of ruined cities and dead gods whose memory still weighs upon and affects the world of the living and whose tragedies and dramas can be seen in the shape of the world wherever you might look. Very nearly every single one of the book’s most affecting passages and pieces of imagery are from a point of view exploring (or at least wondering through) some ancient ruin of a fallen or forgotten civilization, or else being haunted by their ghosts and the ways the present now rhymes with the past.

Far more than Gardens, Gates really does sell the feeling of a vast, wondrous, terrible world – full of unseen actors and only barely glimpsed conflicts that nonetheless shape the field of play our actual protagonists are acting upon. This is probably best expressed with the whole shapeshifter highlander that’s happening slightly off to the side of the plot for 90% of the book but still causes absolutely no end of problems for all the most interacting characters, as well as the sheer number of bizarre and near-lethal encounters with strange and ancient creatures the different traveling parties have by apparently random chance.

The less commendable expression of this is the sheer number of dei (and diaboli) ex machina Erikson keeps throwing into the plot whenever he’s not quite sure where to go or how to get a specific beat he wants to. The sudden appearance of a never-before-mentioned magical courier company crashing through dimensions to give Coltaine and (separately) Fiddler’s party exactly the resupply they needed to lift their spirits on behalf of interested parties on a literal different continent who had apparently somehow been following the drama of this remote death march with baited breath very nearly made me throw the book down in exasperation (and it’s hardly unique here).

Nuance and Characterization

All that said, by far the biggest improvement between Gardens and Gates is the quality of character-writing. Not necessarily in terms of giving distinct internal monologues (there are more than a few passages of Kalam’s narration you could put in Duiker’s mouth and no one one would blink), but the arcs and internal conflicts of every point of view character are far, far better written and more compelling than in the previous installment (not least because the book is far less likely to outright explain what that arc or internal conflict is in pseudo-objective monologue). Most (with a few very notable exceptions I’ll get to later) of the major supporting characters are similarly improved, seeming far more like people and less like the plot mechanisms or broad fantasy archetypes a decent chunk of Gardens secondary cast tended to default to.

The love and quality are admittedly a bit unevenly distributed, though. Felisin is by far the most psychologically interesting and nuanced character we spend any time in the head of – basically entirely because of her complete and total lack of self-knowledge as she tries (badly) to cope with all the horrible, life-ruining trauma. The fact that her sections lacked any sort of moral authority figure – there’s no character whose ever signposted as being uniquely enlightened or perfectly informed or even just usually right, everyone is a massive asshole in one way or another – too.

Though if Felisin’s is the best narrative running through the book, Mappo and Icorium get an easy second place. Again, in large part off the strength of their characterization – their relationship is really compelling! Their friendship feels real and sincere, and the genuine tragedy underlying it all both works and adds real poignancy (though frankly, having the destroyed village used to motivate Mappo be a false flag feels like an immense and unneeded cop-out here). It also helps that the pair of them are so thoroughly part of the setting’s deep history and still affected by and chained to the world’s ancient past in a way none of the others are – in a way they like the most purely Malazan characters, the arc that mostly perfectly expresses the series’ strengths.

As for the others – Fiddler is generally inoffensive as a point of view to the plot, though deeply generic and uninteresting as a character in his own right. But he gets partial credit for all the screen-time Pust gets, whose just a delightful cartoon character on the page and the only genuine comic relief the book has to break up the grim monotony (Apsular is also a good character with interesting ties to the wider setting. Crokus feels like the thinly sketched generic kid hero you kill off at the end of chapter one in a satire or deconstruction). Kalam is a decent action-adventure hero, and much more engaging for the fact that he’s genuinely makes mistakes and falls for tricks compared to a lot of the series’ legendary badasses, but crippled by a) a complete lack of internal reckoning or rumination over the fact that he literally kicked off the rebellion he spends most of the book wading through the atrocities of and b) an incredibly unsatisfying and bathetic where his book-long revenge quest is entirely resolved by five minutes of unconvincing platitudes from the women he was trying to kill.

Duiker, meanwhile – Well, as a character he was great. The two best passages in the whole book are him philosophizing. The issue is-

The Chain of Dogs

I have a rather limited tolerance for straight-faced heroic military chronicles, and the spine of this book was a story that for most of its length felt like it was making it a mission to hit every tired cliche in the genre I can think of. Or okay, that’s harsh. It isn’t all bad – the lead-up to the rebellion was full of intrigue and promise, the side-plot with the Senk god was very good, the ending was (if a bit clumsy and extremely bluntly done) compelling tragedy. As for everything else – well, let’s say there were a lot of time where resisting the urge to skim down to the next POV was a downright heroic effort.

The biggest issue is Coltaine. He, far more than Duiker, is the actual protagonist of the plot thread, the character whose efforts and struggles determine the plot and who virtues define the whole tragedy it ends up being. Which is unfortunate, because he only barely escapes being a complete cliche right out of central casting. For basically the entire book, he’s nothing but a caricature – the grim, taciturn military genius, the stoic badass who wins the undying loyalty of his troops speeches or grandstanding because he’s just the good, the strategic savant whose victory against impossible odds is assured unless he is undercut by treachery or incompetence from those around him. His plans always work, his gut calls always turn out for the best, his harsh sacrifices are always in the end perfectly justified.

God but he is one of the most boring characters I’ve ever had to sit through however many hundreds of pages trying to convince me of how impressive he is. The only historical figures that come close are the ones only remembered through their own propaganda. Which would be not great but fine if he was a secondary character or a plot device, but again he really is the functional protagonist of the entire narrative. Did we really need two different chapter-long battle scenes where Duiker is sure they’re all doomed but Coltaine’s clever plan that was never communicated to any of his subordinates works perfectly and the legendary valor of the Malazan army defeats impossible odds? Did they have to both be river crossings?

Which also does a lot to drain the tension and interest out of the politics and interpersonal drama that is the actually interesting part of war – with basically no exceptions of any consequence, Coltaine is right and whoever is arguing against him (especially if they aren’t also a hard-bitten professional soldier) is wrong. For a story ostensibly about the heroic effort to protect this chain of refugees, the only actual refugee characters who get names and lines are a trio of nobles – of whom one dies early and the other two are portrayed as some of the most thoroughly contemptible characters in the whole story. You could have replaced the entire refugee host with an equally large and ungainly herd of sacred cattle and lost remarkably little.

The High Fist comes off even worse, of course – as the single and ultimate cause of every fuckup the Malazan forces make through the entire book, really. It undermines the whole trap and destruction of the army at the very end of the book when it seems less due to any particularly clever stratagems on the rebels part and more because he’s a blithering idiot who can be relied upon to make the single worst decision in literally every situation. I kept waiting for the book to give him some bit of interiority, some hidden depths or even self-serving justifications for his actions – and it just never arrived.

And then there’s the matter of the opposition.

Conflict and Culture

I give D&D-inspired fantasy a lot of leeway for having some, let’s say unfortunate subtext. It’s buried deep into the bones of the genre and digging out is not a project that will at all fit a lot of stories. But a) this is a thousand-page-long tome that’s incredibly interested in invented culture and sociology and b) my god every bit of the book’s description of Seven Cities and the rebellion feels like its from a 19th century London tabloid competing to have the most lurid and exaggerated ‘true tales of the outrages in the colonies’. Seven Cities is obviously and deliberately patterned off west/south Asia (the rebel messiah is almost literally named Sheik, there are nearly as many talwars as potsherds), but it feels less inspired by any actual culture or history than by colonial propaganda and 1001 Arabian Nights. (The Wickans are not nearly as bad – they do feel like a real culture with texture and internal divisions and tradition. But everything about them is just entirely in thrall to what Brett Devereaux calls the Fremen Mirage – more based off the mythology of the terrifying and masterful nomadic warrior-civilization than any particular historical referent.)

It is not that I have any objection to depicting the brutality and atrocities of (especially civil) warfare but like c’mon – the book literally contrives to have fanatical child soldiers forcing the 7th to slaughter them to protect the refugees. Functionally every rebel we see at any point is either a bloodthirsty religious zealot or a child-raping murderous bandit pretending to be one. Their only halfway competent general in a traitorous Malazan commander who ‘went native’ - and in any event in battle they’re all bloodthirsty savages whose only hope of victory is sheer weight of numbers of shocking brutality and treachery. I’d say they might as well all be orcs, but I legitimately think orcs in LOTR might have been depicted with more nuance and more moments of humanization.

And it’s not like there’s any nuance here – the book is quite explicit that with one exception the Malzann conquest of the continent was humane and restrained. Which entirely tracks with the functionally-inhumane discipline the 7th Army shows throughout the book. On one hand an endless horde of decadent, treacherous city-dwellers and bloodthirsty horse nomads, on the other the least predatory- or -atrocity inclined premodern army in the history of creation. For a book that everyone talks about the grimness and moral ambiguity of, it seems incredibly and exhaustingly one-sided – like Duiker has already gone through and edited out all the awful shit Malzan soldiers did to captives and the refugees under their charge to make the story sufficiently edifying for posterity.

What Gardens had, and Gates very much does not,is a conflict with humanized, compelling characters on both sides, a sense of the horror and brutality war inflicts – the quirky, likeable and heroic band of misfits stopped from leveling half a city and slaughtering thousands to enable an easy occupation by nothing but chance and circumstance. Maybe I’m coming in with my expectations set too high, but the series is always talked about in the same breath as A Song of Ice and Fire – it’s disappointing to see it so totally lacking Martin’s signature strength (though I suppose given all the foreshadowing I’ll just need to wait for the next book and a punitive expedition full of less inexplicably paladin-like Malazan soldiers for that).

Length and Breadth

I wouldn’t even mention a lot of the above if it was a shorter book, honestly. But it’s literally almost a thousand pages, you cannot possibly say there wasn’t space for these things (see also: it was I think literally 700 pages in when two women with names spoke to each other for the first time).

At a certain point, the book’s sheer length becomes a core part of the experience of reading it. I’m really fairly sure that a sufficiently mean editor could have cut this down to the same length as Gardens without dramatically changing the plot – but that’s kind of missing the point. The sheer weight of the thing – the amount of time you spending in characters heads, and just marinating in the world – is a key part of the appeal in its own right.

It’s an appeal I do absolutely get, too. The lengthy tangents about (literal) ancient history and abstract metaphysics or theology, the loving descriptions of monsters that show up for two or three scenes at most, the whole episodes where some weird magical shit intrudes on the plot and the protagonists just have to deal with it for a bit – these are by far some of the best parts of the books, and not ones that could possibly be justified through any strict economizing of word count.

Still, though. The book is basically a cube. A hardcover edition would be a worryingly practical murder weapon.

Death, Legacy and Vengeance

For my money the best passage in the book is not actually the one monologue from Duiker about children dying that everyone always quotes (though it is very good, to be fair) – it’s one a bit later on, as he (if I remember right) considers the ancient Jaghut graves they are passing and hopes that when he dies, he is unmourned and forgotten. It’s a fascinating sentiment to hear from a man who so thoroughly identifies with his role as a historian, first of all, but it’s also the purest expression of what is for me easily the most interesting theme running through the book.

Seven Cities is oppressed by the past, and so are very nearly everyone we spend any time with at all. The Seventh Army marches past the memorials of a myriad-old genocide against the Jaghut and feels the touch of its ghosts and half-buried collateral damage (which is entirely unrelated to the much more recent slaughter they rouse the victims of to fight for them), Mappo and Icorium’s whole friendship is (at least at the outset) instrumental, a way to keep Icorium ignorant of what he’s done and unable to do it again, Felisin Kalan and Fiddler all spend most of the book suffering for the sake of machinations that predate and will outlast them, and seeking blood vengeance for the sake of what they’ve lost. And there’s an undercurrent running through the entire story that every atrocity inflicted by the rebels is a bloody debt that the coming punitive expedition will repay ten times of, and the cycle will only ever grow more and more dire.

And through it all there’s the sense that it’s the remembering that’s the problem. That if Icorium gave up his obsessive search for his path (and through it his father) he really could be happy. That all the souls still trapped in the mortal world to bear witness to some ancient tragedy are suffering for no real reason. A tragic sense that forgetting all the vicious prophecies and vendettas and starting with a clean slate is the only way to possibly fix things

It’s hardly the story’s biggest or most consistent theme – it’s outright contradicted more than once – but for a book that dwells on the past with such loving detail, it’s probably the one that struck me most.

In Summation

I’d apologize for how incredibly long and meandering this review is, but given the subject it really just seems appropriate. Deadhouse Gates is a mammoth of a book, big enough to include more both good and bad than I could hope to recount in detail. Despite finding the most prominent and largest plot thread more than a little tiresome, and wishing dearly for a bit for nuance and complexity in the presentation of the overarching conflict, on balance I definitely enjoyed it. The character work is far better than Gardens, and the worldbuilding (and presentation thereof) is an absolute delight. I am now incredibly invested in where Felisin and Mappo & Icorium’s stories go from here.

Recommended if you find any appeal in sprawling multi-POV dark/epic fantasy Tomes (much have a high tolerance for both exposition and extended battle scenes).

[azureumm]

Zaros x Earis: A Series of Unfortunate Encounters (5.5k words)

Here, have this angsty Zaros and Earis fic, cuz I love my husband dearly but I also cannot be happy so....

CW: Character death (not Zaros or Earis dw), intrusive thoughts and thoughts of self harm/su!cide, grief, lots of verbal fighting, possibly ooc Zaros (I dunno, I tried to write him as accurately as possible), no happy ending or no ending really, because I'm not sure if I will continue this lol.

AN: This has not been proofread by anyone and english isn't my native language, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out. (Just be kind pls >.<) Started writing this at like 1AM and safe to say, I did not get much sleep....

Also if anyone is interested the song I played on repeat while writing this was Zjerm by Shkodra Elektronike (Eurovision got the best of me </3) The words are not very on par with the plot but it has the vibe I'd give Zaros and Earis tbh.

***

Silence that was interrupted by the loud patter of fresh, relentless rain outside the castle windows filled the old library. The same library you had immersed yourself in all your years growing up. It always smelled of oak and old parchment, the scent of books and the carefully crafted shelves they sat in. It was untouched by most besides you for the most part.

Up on the second floor behind the last dark oak shelf, stacked full of old folk tales no one bothered to look for, lost to the relevance of modern tradition and gods, was a window. No one came to the library often, let alone this lone corner of it, so over the years you had made it your sanctuary.

It served as a place of refuge from the clutter, insubstantial chatter and gossip of the rest of the nobles. You always sat there, behind the shelf on a chair you had carried up there years ago, as you had gotten tired of sitting on the hard floor for so long.

Usually, it was the perfect place where you could drift away into your thoughts. Sometimes you weren't sure if they even were yours, as you were certain you didn't actually want to open the old, dusted window and leap out into the unforgiving ground all the way down. But yet, the thoughts came and went, and you spent your days gazing out the window or buried yourself into the old folk tales, turning off your mind and leaving the rest of the world shut out. However, today was different.

You had never enjoyed rain, having lived all your life inside the confined walls of the glamorous palace, the smell of fresh earth meeting the water from the open skies was a smell you hadn't gotten used to. You didn't meddle in the garden, didn't need to get familiar with dirt beneath your nails, nor the smell of it.

But today, all you were longing to do was to walk out into the harsh, pouring rain and walk off far away, somewhere into the distance that led nowhere. And no book, no amount of trying to disconnect the brain from the flesh was enough to help.

The flags were hung at half mast today, a sign of mourning and grief. The whole castle was quieter than ever, even the city outside seemed to be holding its breath, looking more like a ghost town than the lively home you once knew. Home was a loose description, as it was more like a house you were promised to command. But that didn't matter, none of it mattered any longer, because the Queen was dead and with her, she had taken your mother.

***

You had know of her illness. An old hag from overseas had come to visit multiple times, never bearing good news. How you hated the visits. The Queen never let anyone but the old, wrinkled woman into her chambers those days she was there. You tried listening in, but they spoke so quietly and the doors of your mother's chambers were just too thick to get a clear understanding of what they were saying.

The Queen never shared the news willingly, but when you asked, she said it had to do with her memories. You weren't sure what she meant, and what it would mean. But when you returned home after the third trial away from home with Zaros, you were met with your maid, silent as you had never seen her. Without saying a word, she led you to your mother's chamber where the old hag leaned over her, giving her a cup of something so potent, that the whole room smelled of Zaros's bag full of herbal medicine he had packed.

The Queen laid in her bed, drinking the strange smelling liquid. When she looked your way, she didn't smile, didn't even greet you. She turned to the old woman and whispered something you weren't sure you heard right and the woman whispered back the words "Your daughter, your grace."

You couldn't believe it, in fact, you couldn't even begin to process the meaning behind it all. All you could feel was anger. How could your own mother just forget you? How had she been fine just a month ago before you went away and suddenly be bedridden and sick to the point of not recognizing her own child?

Later, when it was already too late to swallow back your anger, the foreign woman held your hand in her wrinkled and calloused hands, saying words of equally foreign prayer and condolences. You found out whatever had plagued your mother had taken over her mind so much and had weakened her body in the matter of months. She had been burning up for those last days, her memories being eaten away by an unknown, unruly decease and no doctor could help. All of it was futile and all you could do was watch her be placed in the ground next to your brother you never knew.

The trials were of course put on hold, and in those days, when everything had blurred together in the shock and uncertainty of it all, you had heard nothing of anything. You had avoided everyone and anything that would make you feel something, make you remember that this was real. You kept your carefully crafted mask of proper royal appearance tightly over everything else that was pushing you down. But it changed nothing, the queen was still dead and the mourning process had begun, rendering everything else paused until it was polite to start it back up again.

But you weren't sure you could. Sitting here ,in what was once your sanctuary, you found yourself and your thoughts uncontrollable. It felt like every ounce of your own power had been drained from your limbs, the reigns of control stripped from you. All you could do was sit back and watch as your life fell apart around you, your feelings festering right beneath the surface of the complete silence above.

***

Zaros had tried to talk to you. Somewhere in the hallways, between the people at the funeral ceremony, somewhere you couldn't really recall. You didn't remember his words or his voice, but you did remember the need to get away. Not just from him but everyone. So you didn't know his whereabouts, didn't bother looking, didn't care to even care.

You sat in your corner day after day, your chambers resembling your mother's too much. Sometimes you slept in that hard wooden chair, not wanting to move. Your maid brought food but after a while she started leaving it on the first floor table in the middle of the library as per your request. You didn't want to see anyone, hear anyone speak or pity you.

As you stared out the window into the dark clouds gathering and pouring rain upon the earth, you didn't notice the creak of the door or the footsteps approaching. Only when you heard the velvety voice that usually spat insult after insult did you realize Zaros had found your corner of silence.

"Your maid told me where you've been staying." He said, his voice lacking the usual bite or irony. You looked at him briefly and then back out the window, contemplating if you should say anything at all.

"Have you slept at all?" He questioned, his hand resting against the side of the old shelf, his stance lacking the usual confidence and poise that he carried himself with.

"Take a wild guess." You murmured as you continued to focus on the droplets dripping down the glass panes of the window.

There was a moment of silence. It was deafening, and it seemed like both you and Zaros were holding your breath, unsure what to say.

"She was a great-" He started and you turned your head towards him sharply, giving him a glare that said more than a thousand words could.

"Don't you dare, Zaros. You do not get to tell me what my mother was or wasn't." Your words were filled with anger and something resembling disbelief, "You did not know her."

Zaros shifted slightly, his shoulders tensing. He, like the rest of the residents, was wearing black. His usual, detailed tunic switched out for a simple, beaded one, making his hair look unusually light with the background it provided.

"You're right, I did not know her as your mother. Just as a very respectable and strong woman." He said his words anyway, as he always did, speaking without holding back. Gods, you prayed for a day Zaros would learn to hold his tongue.

"Why have you come here? Has a week been enough for your polite mourning and respect to fall?" You asked him, not even sure what you were saying or what the meaning behind your words was. You were just angry, "Did you think enough time has passed so you can torment me with your unwarranted life lessons again?"

Zaros's expression shifted to one of frustration and confusion. He stood up straight, removing his hand from the shelf.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" He asks, sounding almost offended, "Is it really that hard to believe that I've come here to check on how you're fairing with all of this?"

"Yes, actually, it is," You respond curtly, "It's hard to believe much right now so why don't you piss off."

Zaros closed his eyes momentarily, running his hand over his face in mild frustration and sighed. Then, he looked at you again, his tone softer again, "Look, Earis, I understand your disdain for company at this time, especially mine, but everyone is worried," He paused mid-sentence, thinking his words over, "I'm worried. About you and your absence."

A small, cold laugh escaped your lips before you could think it through, "I have a whole three weeks left of mourning to do before we get back to our usual schedule. I think you and the others will survive that long without my presence." You said, words sharp and foreign even to you.

"Earis." He said, stepping closer to where you were sitting.

"What, Zaros?!" You snapped, feeling cornered, whatever was bubbling down beneath threatening to escape, "What do you want from me? I've had enough of the condolences and prayers, I don't need more, certainly not from a leech like you." You stand up, your words falling from your tongue before you can process them, your eyes welling up tears you couldn't bear to let loose.

Zaros's eyes harden at the cruel words but he stays standing still and calm, not moving an inch, "You can run from what has occurred as much as you want, my Earis, but it will catch up eventually."

"Why do you always feel like you have the right to lecture me about everything?" You ask him, voice raised, words trembling ever so slightly as you step closer, "I never asked for you to teach me how to live, never asked you to figure me out, why must you insist on continuing this?!" You push his chest, making him waver slightly, "Why must you do this, why are you always finding ways to crawl under my skin, can't you see I wish to be alone?" You push harder, your eyes blurring slightly as your voice gets louder and more unsteady.

Zaros doesn't mutter a word as you repeatedly try to achieve something between a push and a hit to his chest, before he reaches out to hold your wrists softly.

"Screw you, screw this, I'm done, I'm..." Hot, salty tears well over the already hot skin of your face, your breathing uncontrollable. You try to pull your hands back, to push Zaros again but they stay in place. You're unsure of what you're doing. You feel his gaze on you, piercing and invasive, making you feel small as you break out into sobs.

"Please leave." You manage to say as your hands fall onto his shoulders, "Please, just go." You plead with him, but your hands grip onto the thick fabric of his black tunic as your head leans forward, your forehead touching his chest.

Zaros's hands are still wrapped around your wrists, holding you in place as you crumble beneath his presence, his words, his gaze. It's all too much, the feelings you've been pushing down are breaking through every layer of defense you've built, and you hate that all it took to crumble and crush them was for him to say something.

Your sobs fill the empty library, the sound of rain outside reminding yourself of your own tears as they fall and land on the floor beneath you that doesn't feel all that stable anymore . You feel Zaros's hands free your wrists and they snake around your body, one hand resting on the back of your head as he pulls you in. And you let him. Just this once, you think, and then you let yourself come apart at the seams, putting your arms around his torso as your head leans against his shoulder.

He doesn't say a word, his silence more comfort than anything anyone could say. His hand runs over your disheveled hair, a slow, caring motion that leaves you feeling sick and safe at the same time. The absurdity of Zaros being the one to give you comfort seems laughable but right this moment, you cannot bring yourself to laugh, so you just cry until there is no more strength left in you to do so.

***

Days drag and fly by simultaneously. You don't sit in the corner of the library any longer, no longer feeling like it is the sanctuary you once made for yourself. Instead, you find yourself wandering through the empty, dark halls of the castle late at night. You roam them as if you're a spirit haunting the cold stone build with indifference. You think of nothing as you do, just walking and stopping to look out the windows at the moonlit garden or the city where thousands of small lights are visible from torches or windows of some houses.

Sometimes you make your way to the balcony and look over the city even closer. When you're there, you recall the countless bitter conversations you've had with Zaros there. And the sweeter conversations with your mother on Iva's love of the Ninth, during the couple of hours she could make for you. You don't recall what you've discussed with her, you just remember her smile and tired eyes as she listens and nods to your words, and in return talks only about what her duties have entailed for the day.

You shiver from the cold breeze that catches your hair. And maybe the memories too. The balcony door moves behind you, shuffling steps approaching.

You look back and see the same person as always, probably the only person you're willing to see at this time and place now.

"Thought you were a ghost for a second," Zaros says as he walks up next to you, placing his hands on the marble railings.

You give his comment a small smile, looking out at the city, "You're not looking too lively yourself."

Zaros chuckles momentarily, shaking his head, his long, blond hair moving in the steady stream of air. The leaves of trees bellow rustle from it too, a quiet and steady ambiance settling over you.

Things have felt more quiet since the encounter in the library. The two of you meet more often, mostly at night or by the fireplace in the library. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don't, letting the silence envelop you both into a strange bubble of comfort.

Tonight, Zaros seems to be in a chattier mood. And you're not opposed to talking either. In fact, you've come to enjoy the chats you share, even the brief check-ins he sometimes provides.

"The city lights at night make me think of fireflies from this distance." He nods towards the city bellow, "Reminds me that there are more people that are restless and unable to find proper solitude in sleep at night."

You hum in response, "Maybe they just like to sleep with a light by their side." You offer up a theory, a small hint of irony coming through your words. He smiles and looks to you, "Right, cannot forget about the poor souls scared of the dark. They keep the city alive, after all."

You study his face, the moonlight washing over him, casting shadows over one side of his face. His hair isn't made like it usually is during the day. It's long and smooth, only slightly frizzed up from the wind and the damp night air.

"Maybe we should try it out. Sleeping with a light by the bed. Maybe those people have uncovered the secret to warding off sleepless nights." You say, continuing the mindless conversation.

He chuckles again, the sound deep and genuine, "That might be it. But I think there are more guaranteed ways of fighting restlessness." He responds.

"What, are you going to knock me out?"

He laughs and shakes his head, "No..." He pauses before adding more to the idea, "Maybe as a last resort."

You feign offense at his words but your smile doesn't leave your face.

After a while, he speaks again, "If it's sleep you're after, there are some teas that can do the trick. My mother used to make me herbal teas when I couldn't sleep as a child. They tasted absolutely vile, but they sent me right to sleep," Zaros looks back at the city as he recalls the memory.

"Might be a bit too much to handle for a noble with distinguished tastes, such as yourself." He throws you a playful jab, and you scoff, "My tastes are normal, it's you here who has a strange palette."

"I disagree. I prefer to think of it as a willingness to try anything even once. My appreciation for different cultural foods is a carefully crafted one." He remarks, his usual, knowing tone returning, "It's appreciation for all the different cultures the world has to offer. I think it's so beautiful that all the different realms have such unique and historical dishes to offer."

You turn away, looking back out into the city, thinking over his words quietly.

"I'm assuming you haven't had many chances to experience them. From what you've told me of your travels." He adds, more softly this time.

You look further to the horizon beyond the city, where it's dark and only the silhouette of the distant trees can be made out, "Yes, I guess not."

You feel his eyes on you as he continues, "Well, I recommend you try some time."

"You know I can't." Your voice comes out harsher than intended. The conversation dies down.

"Soon enough they'll put the flags back up, people will stop pretending like her death affected them and we'll go back to finishing the trials. Whatever you're thinking of is a distant delusion." You move back from the railings of the balcony, slowly making your way back inside. Zaros follows after a moment of contemplation.

"Rulers aren't forbidden to leave the castle. It's not a delusion, just a suggestion." He follows you down the hallway, "Isn't that what you always wanted? Always spoke about? What happened to your 'delusions' of travel? What of your wish to see Argenfell?" He questioned and your thoughts began to race again.

You continued to walk down the hallway, not responding and Zaros only continued to push, "You still haven't seen the Mirror Mountain, have you? Why give up so easily?"

"Because that was then. Then is not now, this is all that I know!" You turn around and stop to face him, "Stop bringing up irrelevant things. I was a child who knew nothing of duty and responsibility then. The queen is dead, if I lose the trials, I have nothing left, don't you understand that? What travel, Zaros? Where could I possibly travel to that is far enough to get away from the shame of losing my lineage and the shame of being a disgrace to my own dead mother? Even the Mirror Mountain won't hide me from it."

Heavy, thick silence fills the hallway when you're done. Zaros stares at you, slightly startled, but he quickly regains his composure, walking towards you, "What shame, Earis? The trials haven't even concluded yet, and you're already thinking of your imagined loss."

"Because I'm not concluding the trials" You say after a moment, more quiet now, almost a whisper. A long quiet pause lingers again, Zaros's tense stance melting into something more akin to disbelief or a realization.

"What do you mean, you're not concluding them, Earis?" He asks, his words confused but said with vigor, demanding an answer.

"I'm not going to do it. I'm stepping down." The admission hangs in the air, your head spinning as you say the words out loud. Zaros laughs, but it's cold and breathy, disbelief painted all over his face.

"So what will you do then, hm? You're stepping down from the throne and you're not going to travel, so what? What exactly is the plan here?" He asks, frustrated and confused.

You stare at him, not knowing what answer to give. You haven't thought about it much. You had made the decision in your head the day your mother died but you weren't sure what it meant for you. A part of you wanted to just run off somewhere, change who you are and live off in a field or a forest. But you weren't accustomed to that, that's now how you were taught and raised.

So you shrugged, "There is no plan. I just refuse to... I don't know."

"Don't know what?" He steps closer as you take a few steps back, turning away and slowly walking forward. The hallway seems uneven, like your mind is twisting and turning your vision, "You're serious?" Zaros follows you once more.

"I have nothing left here." You say bluntly, feeling a headache coming on. You wonder why couldn't Zaros just keep this as another night of mindless words and thoughts.

"What about me?" He suddenly asks, stopping somewhere behind you. You freeze up too, not looking back.

Turning your head to the side, you glance at the cold wall of the hallway, not daring to look back at him, fearing you'll find something you don't think you want to know. Something you don't wish to know.

"What about you?" You ask, voice quiet and tired.

He stays in place, not moving, his hands clenching at his sides before he opens them up to redirect his emotions, "You can't outrun yourself, Earis. As you said, no matter where you go, your knowledge will always stay. You can't just disappear."

Your voice stays quiet and filled with defeat "Can't you just be happy that you're going to win?" You turn your head back to face the empty hallway in front of you, mind reeling with uncertainty, "Why are you so insistent of trying to make me continue this?"

He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. Zaros runs a hand through his hair, trying to think of a solid reason he's doing this. You stepping down means his victory and triumph, it means he's the ruler of Serulla. But something within him twists at the thought of your words.

"Goodnight, Zaros." You said with no further waiting and walked forward, leaving him standing in the dark hallway.

***

Just one more week left of polite mourning. One more week until things return to normal pace, normal clutter, normal noise once more.

You sat by your desk, a candle dimly lit as you filled page after page with your thoughts. Some were simple complaints of the weather, and some ran deeper, as if you were wounding the parchment you wrote on like the events of your years had wounded you.

Your thoughts were once again interrupted by yet another unasked intrusion, a knock on your door, heavy but not hurried. You contemplated whether or not you wanted to open it, not wanting to see your maid and her endlessly worried expression. After a long pause, the knock came again and you sighed, putting down your pen and making your way to the door.

When you opened it, you were not met with the face of your maid, instead greeted by the same blond man that had seemingly made it his life mission to harass what little peace you had remaining.

"Good evening, my Earis." He greeted more politely than you were expecting.

"Good evenings, Sarl Zaros." You returned the polite tone, watching his face for any reactions but none came, "What do you need from me at this hour?"

"May I come inside?" He queried and you noticed he held a small, leather bound notebook in his hand. You stepped aside slightly, letting him enter your dimly lit room. As you closed the door, you turned to him.

"So, what is this? Another lecture then?" You asked with cold irony.

He shook his head, a weak smile painting his lips, "No, no..." He looked down at the notebook he was holding, "I don't lecture you. I simply point out the things you don't see in yourself. Like a mirror you refuse to look at."

You scoffed at his words, crossing your arms defensively, "If I needed self-reflection and advice I'd go to my shrink. You can stop doing that."

Zaros looked up at you, his eyebrow raising slightly, "Shrink?"

"Yes, yes, the Earis of Serulla has a shrink, everyone. Cat's out of the bag, now what do you want?" You walked past him to your desk and closed your journal, remembering that it was still open.

He stared momentarily, then shook his head once more, "I'm not here for that. I... wrote something for you." He seems almost hesitant in admitting his intentions.

You look back, momentarily taken aback, "Wrote what?" You question, turning around and leaning back against your desk, hands crossed across your chest.

"It's a travel guide. Or an escape plan. Call it as you wish but..." He turns the small book in his hand, "I've written down all the places I've been to that I think you'd enjoy. The final destination is Argenfell, if that's somewhere you wish to stay. It's a lovely place, I think it would suit your tastes just fine. I've written down native herbs and plants to each place that are useful too, in case you're in need of aid on your travels."

You stand, leaned against the desk and your hands slowly fall to your sides.

"A travel guide?" You laugh slightly, but it doesn't seem very humorous, "What are you on about?"

Zaros expression doesn't change, he seems more determined than you've seen him in a long time. He steps forward, "I'm serious, Earis. If you're serious about not competing for the throne, you need a plan of action, no? If... you're serious, you should at the least explore what the world has to offer. There is so much uncovered beauty and surprise that you haven't seen from your walls."

You frown slightly at the reminder of your life-long confines of living in the castle but you don't interrupt.

"I've just written down a route I'd go if I had the opportunity right now. You deserve to see the world and to meet people who don't cater their opinions to yours when seeing your royal crest." Zaros continues his rambling and you feel the air get heavy with your own overwhelming, unknown feelings. Maybe it's gratitude, maybe it's shock of being so seen after years of just being heard. Zaros always has a way to make you crumble and yet, you've never gotten used to it.

"Why?" Is all you manage to ask.

He looks at you as if looking at an old friend or a hurt child, "I care for you. I can't bear the thought of you roaming the world like you roam the halls at night, like a ghost with no life and no purpose."

"Care for me?" You let out a chuckle once more, standing up from the edge of the desk, "What are you playing at?"

He frowns now, the hand holding the book clenching it harder at his side, "Why must you always think everyone has a secret agenda against you? Is it so hard to believe I care for you?"

"Yes, Zaros, quite easy to believe that, actually." You step forward, approaching him, "Ever since coming here, all you've done is spit word after word of displeasure at every single thing I say or do, as if you know me."

"I do know you-" He fires back, but you cut him off, "You knew me, Zaros. That is not the same as knowing me now."

"It's not my fault hard truths are hard to swallow for you, my Earis. I've never insulted you, nor have I said any of my observations unfairly, I'm simply the only one who dares to point them out loud." He stands few feet away from you, his voice morphing into the usual tone you recognize best.

"Then what about the letter, Zaros??" You snap, bringing up the same old tired question and something within him visibly switches. Like a wave, anger and sadness washes over him and he steps closer, his voice raised, "You and that goddamn letter, what must I do to make you realize I never wrote it?!"

He stares into your eyes, searching for any sign of change in your demeanor, "How can you possibly think so little of me that you truly cannot believe that I never, ever would say that?" His voice breaks ever so slightly and you see his eyes shift from anger to sadness, "I would've... I would've never done that to you, not then, not now, I could never hate you or ever think of using you. We swore, back at the academy to be honest, you know this, so why have I been the only one keeping the promise?"

His words come flowing out of his mouth like a fountain, and you cannot get a word in. Your expression shifts into surprise, never having seen Zaros like this, "I cared for you even then, more than I've ever cared for anyone else. I-" He cuts himself off, stepping back and swiftly turning around as he runs a hand over his face.

You stand behind him, stunned and unsure what to do, your own thoughts and words sizzling at the tip of your tongue.

"It really wasn't you?" Is all you manage to ask, your voice softer and quieter than intended.

"Of course not!" He turns back facing you, his eyes slightly watery, "I truly thought when we said we'd be in each other's lives forever, that you meant it. But then you left without ever giving me the chance to defend myself."

"What was I supposed to do, Zaros?! Do you realize how hurtful it is to be betrayed by someone you considered that close?" You ask, your own voice not hiding the emotions and before you can take it back, you realize the mistake in your words.

Zaros lets out a shaky breath of disbelief, "Oh, Earis, I know very well how it feels to be betrayed like that." He looks at the book in his hands, "I really... I really thought I lo-"

"Don't," You whisper trying to stop his words, as if hearing them will break down the last defenses you had left, "Please, just... don't."

Zaros let out a cold chuckle, looking straight at you now, "As I said, my Earis, you cannot outrun yourself. But if you attempt to, it's better to have a plan." He walks up to you, taking your hand and you feel a shiver run through you as he does. He places the small leather-bound book into your hand and his eyes search your face for something he seemingly doesn't find.

"I will not bother you any longer, if that's how you wish for this to be." He whispered and then stepped away, making his way to the door. As he opened it, he looked back slightly, looking as if he wanted to add something, but then he stopped himself, and exited your chambers.

As soon as he left, all your held back emotions overcame you, and you broke into a sob, finding the chair by your desk. Tears poured from your eyes and you could feel your surroundings spin along with your thoughts. You held the small book in your hands as if it was the last anchor you could find now. It was all too much to bear and you didn't know what to do with it all anymore, so you just sobbed, hoping your doors of your room were just as thick as the doors of your mother's chambers, so they'd muffle the pathetic cries and tears you shed over something you couldn't even put a name to.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Historical Fiction Book Bracket: Round 1B

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

A Master of Djinn by P. Djèlí Clark

Cairo, 1912: Though Fatma el-Sha’arawi is the youngest woman working for the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments and Supernatural Entities, she’s certainly not a rookie, especially after preventing the destruction of the universe last summer.

So when someone murders a secret brotherhood dedicated to one of the most famous men in history, al-Jahiz, Agent Fatma is called onto the case. Al-Jahiz transformed the world 50 years ago when he opened up the veil between the magical and mundane realms, before vanishing into the unknown. This murderer claims to be al-Jahiz, returned to condemn the modern age for its social oppressions. His dangerous magical abilities instigate unrest in the streets of Cairo that threaten to spill over onto the global stage.

Alongside her Ministry colleagues and her clever girlfriend Siti, Agent Fatma must unravel the mystery behind this imposter to restore peace to the city—or face the possibility he could be exactly who he seems…

Setting: Cairo, 1912 (fantasy/steampunk alternate history)

Historical fiction, fantasy, alternate history, steampunk, mystery, 1910s, adult

A Rose by Any Other Name by Mary McMyne

Endorsement from submitter: "An imagining of the Dark Lady from Shakespeare's sonnets. Magic and rebellion and multiple queer characters"

My name has only been whispered, heretofore…

England, 1591. Rose Rushe’s passion for life runs deep—she loves mead and music, meddles with astrology, and laughs at her mother’s warnings to guard her reputation. When Rose’s father dies and a noble accuses her and her dear friend Cecely of witchcraft, they flee to the household of respected alchemists in London. But as their bond deepens, their sanctuary begins to feel more like a cage. To escape, they turn to the occult, secretly casting charms and selling astrological advice in the hopes of building a life together. This thriving underground business leads Rose to fair young noble Henry and playwright Will Shakespeare, and so begins a brief, tempestuous, and powerful romance—one filled with secret longings and deep betrayals.

In this world of dazzling masques and decadent feasts, where the stars decide futures, Rose will write her own fate instead.

From the author of The Book of Gothel comes the lush, magical story behind Shakespeare's sonnets, as told by one of his most famous subjects—the incendiary and mysterious Dark Lady.

Setting: England, 1591

Historical fiction, fantasy, retelling, Elizabethan, 1590s, adult

[ilikemicrowaves]

Some more designs

This time with Tailwind, Kestrel, and Hailstorm. Chameleon isn't featured like I said he would be because I decided I would be making a separate post on not just him but his shapes as well.

Tailwind

We don't really know much about Tailwind themself, other than what personality we see written in their writing and bits about themself they've given us, like how they don't know what's pretty or not, they don't care for fashion, and they're a swordsmith. As well as their feelings towards their brother, Canyon. Despite believing they are just a dragon who so happens to be related to Tailwind, in Canyon's final moments, Tailwind gifted him throwing daggers and armor in the arena. I like to head canon that Tailwind is a greatly intelligent individual, but not in like math or anything, just with socializing. They avoid it at all costs, but they know the ins and outs of it and how to stay off someones bad side ( example: Queen Firestorm ). I hc them as a nonbinary aromantic lesbian who uses strictly they/them only. The goggles on their head is not to strain their eyes during work, and the mask is to not inhale any metal debrie in the air while they work. Nothing in their design for symbolism, just a lighter shade than their brother. Though, if you think of smth in their design that has symbolism, I'd love to hear.

Kestrel

Die, stay dead, forever / hj. I hated Kestrel as a dragon, but I love her as a character. There's a lot you can do with her ( if she wasn't yk, dead, but that's we have fanfiction for ). If she hadn't died, imagine how Escaping Peril would have been like, or Peril's character by herself. I still don't think Kestrel and Peril would have gotten along if they got to have their "mother-daughter" time. Kestrel would be too pushy with things, maybe even want to use Peril to scare people a little to get what she wanted. But maybe not, because it seemed she did have a soft side, deep, deep, DEEP down for Peril and the DoD. Peril would not be comfortable with her pushinus and would want to avoid her for it, and if Kestrel did start using her to scare dragons, Peril would be getting reminded of Scarlet. For her design, I made her color pallette using the brown colors off both Sky and Peril. In the gn, she's just this plain red, but in the books, she's the color of rust. I liked the idea of rust, but I love brown skywings. I think when I design Soar, he'll have rust colors, so it's obvious we're their Offspring get their bronze and brown colors.

Hailstorm / Pyrite / Sapphire

I love Hailstorm and Pyrite a lot. ( I wanna share my hc about them here. They are plural, genderfluid, bigender, and abrosexual. ) They're so fascinating, two dragons in one. ( technically not ). After the events of the books, I like to think that after Hailstorm moved back into the tribe, they didn't quite like it. Nothing here sat with them the right way anymore, and it never would. The cold felt cold, the wind had a shiver, and the dragons' true colors really started to show to Hailstorm. And man, Tundra would be insufferable to Hailstorm now. She would never shut up about how Winter ruined everything for the family. They did not want to be Icewing. They wanted fire again. They wanted warmth again. So Hailstorm hits the road to Sanctuary and asks Winter for the Pyrite enchantment. ( of course, with all their memory intact. ). Hailstorm was a noble dragon, and a noble dragon like him did not want to live by Icewing noble standards. The abuse was enough for them. Hailstorm changed his name, but not to Pyrite, because they were no longer Fools gold. They were Sapphire. Let's go back to Hailstorm for a second. When thinking of their new name, they decided to rewrite the enchanted a little. Pyrite could still be conscious alongside Hailstorms conscious. Together, they choose Sapphire. Sapphire represents royalty, faithfulness, sincerity, and truth. All the things both of them wanted. All their memories are together. Together, they are Sapphire, and that's how they wanted it to be. For the bodies, Sapphire picks whatever body they feel more connected to in the moment.

[mirrorballpages]

This was the very first page

"I've always wanted to go to a library," she said as they walked, her voice wistful.

Azriel glanced down at her. "Did they not have them in the human lands?"

"They did," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But not in our village. The larger towns had them, but they were usually off-limits to most of us. Reserved for nobles." Her voice grew quieter, almost hesitant. "Graysen... he had a library in his home, but it was small. Mostly filled with books about war. And..." She trailed off, the shadow of a shudder in her posture. "Killing fae."

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to her hand—bare. The iron-and-pearl ring was gone. His chest tightened, his thoughts racing. Had she taken it off for good? Did it mean...

She noticed his glance and touched her bare finger lightly, her voice soft but firm. "I don’t think a fae should be wearing a ring of iron." Azriel only nodded, careful not to push. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. He wouldn’t press—not when it came to this.

He shifted the conversation smoothly. "The library is unlike any I have ever seen—perhaps the only one larger is the one in the Day Court," he said, watching as her eyes lit up. "It’s run by priestesses who live and work there. You’ll meet Clotho today."

"Feyre told me about her," Elain murmured. "And about the priestesses. That many of them have found refuge there." Her voice turned thoughtful, reverent. "I... I can’t imagine what they’ve been through. But to have a home, a place that protects them... what a beautiful thing."

His throat bobbed. "Rhysand has always ensured that those in need find safety in Velaris. The library was his way of providing sanctuary." What he didn’t say—couldn’t say—was that he had brought many of them there himself. Carried them from the horrors they’d endured and placed them in the quiet haven beneath the mountain. Clotho had always been special to him. She never stared at his scars or recoiled from his shadows. She had her own scars.

The cobbled streets of Velaris soon gave way to the towering mountains of the Night Court, the House of Wind perched high above them like a silent guardian.

Elain tilted her head back, gazing at its grandeur. "How do we get in?" she asked, wide-eyed with awe.

Azriel let a small smile tug at his lips. "There are two ways. The House of Wind, which requires a rather exhausting amount of stairs or flying. Or," he said, lifting his hand, "through a hidden entrance."

The magic responded to him instantly. A shimmering door appeared within the stone walls of a tucked-away home, ancient and warded with protections only Rhys could grant.

Elain’s lips parted slightly, a hint of wonder in her expression. "That’s... incredible."

Azriel gestured forward, his voice softer now. "After you."

She stepped through with cautious excitement, her skirts whispering around her ankles as she entered the dimly lit tunnel beyond. Azriel followed, watching the way the soft glow of the faelights illuminated her face, highlighting the delicate beauty of her features. She didn’t belong underground, in the dark halls of a library—but, Gods, he had never seen anything look more radiant against the shadows.

As they stepped further into the library, Azriel found himself watching Elain more than their surroundings. Her eyes were wide, drinking in the towering shelves that spiraled endlessly into the heart of the mountain, as if Velaris itself had carved out a sacred place for its stories and secrets. The soft glow of faelights bathed the intricate stonework in gold, and the quiet hush that blanketed the air felt almost reverent.

Elain’s lips parted slightly in awe, and he caught the way her fingers reached out, grazing the stone railing that overlooked the vast chasm below. Her expression was so full of wonder that something deep inside him stirred—something he tried to smother. He had been the first to show her Velaris, the Sidra… and now this. The thought filled him with an unexpected warmth.

He allowed himself a small, rare smile as he guided her through the labyrinth of shelves to the central desk, where Clotho stood waiting, her warm, patient presence an anchor in the library’s vastness.

Clotho tilted her head slightly in greeting, the soft rustle of parchment filling the air as her magic stirred. Azriel rarely smiled in public, where people knew him as the brooding, lethal shadowsinger. But here, in this quiet place, with Elain beside him—he couldn’t help it.

"Clotho, this is Elain," he said, his voice softer than usual.

Elain stepped forward, offering Clotho a bright, genuine smile. “It’s so wonderful to meet you. Feyre and Azriel have spoken so highly of you.”

A slip of paper appeared on the desk, the words forming in Clotho’s elegant script: "And I have heard much about you, Elain. Azriel says you are helping with the gardens of Velaris. The world needs healing in many ways, and I am sure you will change lives with your gifts. There are three main sections that might be of interest to you. Let me show you."

Elain’s face lit up with surprise, and Azriel felt a strange sense of pride swell in his chest. He had told Clotho about Elain's work, about her dreams to rebuild the gardens, and seeing the acknowledgment of it written so plainly made it feel... real. Important. He studied Elain’s face, noting the delicate pink that dusted her cheeks, the way she stood just a little taller at Clotho's words.

“Thank you,” Elain said softly, then turned to him, hesitating. “I don’t want to keep you...”

Azriel shook his head. “I enjoy exploring the library. There are so many areas I have yet to see.” A small lie. Clotho raised an amused brow at him, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. He had spent centuries wandering these halls, learning their secrets. But he’d explore them a thousand times over if it meant spending a little longer with Elain.

Elain smiled up at him, and something in his chest constricted. “Wonderful!”

Clotho led them up a spiral staircase to one of the upper floors, her graceful fingers gesturing toward the rows of shelves marked with ivy-shaped sigils. "These first two rows contain studies of plants found only in the Night Court. Each court has its own dedicated section, and rows fourteen through sixteen focus on more technical botanical studies. I have gathered a few books that may serve as a starting point."

With a flick of her hand, a neat stack of books appeared on the nearest table. The scent of old paper and dried herbs filled the air. Elain’s eyes shone as she stepped closer to the table, brushing her fingers over the spines of the books. “Thank you! These are so helpful. I truly appreciate you taking the time to gather them for me,” she said, her voice full of warmth.

Clotho’s smile was subtle but unmistakable. Azriel knew she would like Elain. Everyone did. Being around her was like standing in sunlight, gentle, comforting, and impossible to ignore.

"I'll have the shadows take them back to the Townhouse" he said, and with a wave the shadows curled around them and they disappeared. "I still don't understand how that works," she admitted, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. The way his shadows moved—how they knew him so intimately—was unlike anything she’d ever seen. They were an extension of him, and yet, something more.

Azriel chuckled, the sound low and smooth, and she looked up to find that rare smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure I entirely do either,” he confessed. “Clotho and I have spent many hours trying to understand them, but they’re sometimes a mystery even to me. What we do know is they allow me to bend time and space, to... keep things.” His hazel eyes flickered with amusement. “I suppose you could call it my own personal cabinet.”

Clotho’s pen scratched over parchment, and a piece of paper floated before them: "The shadows exist in a space of their own, beyond this realm. He can store and retrieve from them at will."

Elain’s lips parted slightly. "So that’s where your stacks of paper come from each morning," she mused, glancing up at him.

Azriel inclined his head. "Yes, from my office at the House of Wind."

Elain nodded thoughtfully. “I forgot everyone has a room there... I don’t remember much about being there. I was... in a fog when I arrived.” Her voice drifted, the words tasting heavy on her tongue.

Azriel felt something twist inside him. He remembered those days too well. “I know. You had been through a lot, Elain. But yes, everyone from the Inner Circle has a space there. Even Amren—though I doubt she’s ever used it.”

Elain smiled, though it was faint. “Amren still scares me.”

Azriel chuckled. “She still scares me, and I’ve known her for centuries.”

Clotho’s parchment appeared once more: "She scares me too."

Elain's laughed rang like a bell. He could have lived in that moment forever, in the warmth of her laughter echoing through the cavernous space. But Clotho continued on, leading them to the next section. She gestured to a section lined with thick tomes and ancient scrolls.“This section focuses on healing,” Clotho explained, leading her forward. “Both with plants and magic. You’ll often find healers studying here.”

Elain’s fingers brushed over the bindings, her heart fluttering with a sense of purpose. “I’d love to learn more,” she murmured, eyes scanning the shelves. “Feyre told me about the medicines Madja creates from plants.” She looked to Azriel, excitement glimmering in her gaze. “To be able to heal with what I grow… that would be wonderful.”

Azriel watched her, a quiet admiration in his eyes. “I think Madja would like you,” he said softly. “She’s always searching for new remedies.”

They continued deeper into the mountain, the air cooling with each step down the winding staircase. Elain shivered slightly beside him, and every fiber of his being screamed at him to drape his jacket over her shoulders, to shield her from the cold. But he kept his hands fisted at his sides.

Clotho gestured ahead, her parchment stating: "This is where we house our archives on magic. And in your case... Earthvein."

Azriel watched as Elain’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Earthvein?” she echoed.

He nodded. “I believe The Mother gifted you with more than sight. Earthvein is incredibly rare. It allows you to connect with the earth, to make things grow, to heal the land itself.”

Her lips parted slightly in realization. “With the sweet peas,” she whispered.

Azriel gave her a small smile. “Yes.”

She hesitated, a fear raging in her eyes. “Please don’t tell the others,” she whispered. “I... I can barely handle being a Seer. If Feyre knew I had another power... she’d worry too much.”

Azriel met her gaze steadily. “I promise.”

Clotho nodded as well, sealing the promise in silence. Elain glanced back at the shelves of books and sighed softly. “Thank you.”

"I have a few books you can begin with. Outside of the Spring Court, we have the largest collection of Earthvein archives," Clotho's paper wrote, her graceful handwriting forming quickly. "If the Spring Court were not in its current state, we could request to borrow from their collection. But I fear that might take some time."

Elain hesitated, then suddenly turned to Clotho, a spark of urgency in her voice. “What about Seers? Do you have anything on them?” It was as if the thought had just struck her—realization dawning that answers could be found within these very walls. Azriel stiffened, already knowing the answer. He and Clotho had scoured these shelves for weeks, combing through ancient texts and forgotten scrolls, only to come up empty-handed.

Clotho's parchment lifted once more, the words appearing with practiced ease. “What we have is very limited. Seers are incredibly rare, and the Night Court has not had one in over a two thousand years. If we look outside our archives, the Day Court would be the most likely to hold useful information.”

Azriel's jaw tightened slightly. “But for now,” he said, his voice careful, measured, “we need to keep this information contained.”

Elain glanced up at him, confusion flickering in her expression. “Contained?”

Azriel exchanged a brief look with Clotho before answering. “If other courts found out about your gift... we can’t be certain how they would react.”

Elain’s brows knitted together. “React?”

Azriel exhaled slowly, weighing his words carefully. He and Rhysand had spoken of this possibility in hushed tones before the war—how dangerous it could be if Elain's gifts became known beyond their court. Seers had always been highly sought after, their abilities used to tip the scales of power. Wars had been waged for less. And while he was tasked with reporting any significant visions she had, something inside him whispered that Elain deserved the chance to come to terms with it herself, without pressure.

His voice was soft but firm when he finally spoke. “Having a Seer in their court is something other rulers would fight for. Some would stop at nothing to claim you.”

Elain’s face paled slightly, her lips parting in quiet shock. “I... I don’t want to start a war,” she whispered, guilt and uncertainty pooling in her eyes.

“You won’t,” Azriel assured her, his voice gentle yet resolute. “We’ll find out more about your gift, Elain. I promise.”

Clotho’s parchment floated toward her again. "Do you wish to take any of the books we have?"

“No,” Elain said quickly, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, pressing her hands together as if grounding herself. “The visions… they’ve begun to fade. And I’d rather learn how to stop them than encourage them. At least right now. I’m still... I just don’t think I can face it yet.”

Azriel’s hand, scarred and steady, reached out to rest lightly on her arm. “You don’t have to apologize, Elain. Clotho and I will be here when you’re ready.” Elain met his gaze, relief softening the tightness in her expression. She turned to Clotho, who nodded in quiet understanding.

“Thank you,” Elain whispered. Azriel gestured, and his shadows obediently curled around the books, whisking them away.

She exhaled, a hint of a smile ghosting over her lips. “Thank you, Clotho. For showing me all of this. I have so much to learn… but I suppose now I have hundreds of years to do it.”

Azriel watched the twinkle return to her eyes, that spark of hope that had been absent for too long. He had known the risk in bringing up the Earthvein, in pushing her to confront what lay beneath the surface—but she deserved to know. He couldn’t keep things from her, not when trust had begun to bloom between them like the delicate flowers she nurtured.