#the cave where they… no… i shan’t say it…..

[werebatzsblog]

THE WHAT CAVE????!!??!!!!???!!

[madschiavelique]

Hey hey! First and foremost congrats again on the acoi fic, it is such a delight to read and I'm happy you're getting all the praises and salutations you deserve. Chapter 8 literally made my day last night!

second: would it be a possibility if we had a "night out" chapter, where they're not using academy attire but maybe night occasion outfits? and both vik and reader have a lot of feelings towards seeing each other dressed up. maybe reader could lean towards being slightly alt in her personal style and that surprises everybody, especially vik, bc they only see her looking v serious in academy uniform.

and perhaps the gang has to trick reader into believing they're attending a private and cozy dinner destined to top students, invited and thrown by heimerdinger himself after the finals, as a new ritual to thank them for their efforts (something that implies dress casually nice); but it's actually just a pretext to make reader want to leave her cave room, because she wouldn't if it was just about going out, and at the end it's "just" dinner w friends somewhere nice in piltover, that ends up being extremely fun, although she might struggle to admit it.

idk just leaving some thoughts here, the acoi brainrot is real

brother you’re not ready for what i’ve got prepared for chapter 10 and 11, there basically some of the stuff you mentioned in it that will totally happen hehe 👁️👁️

i shan’t say more just to let you all discover it but i’m cooking

also thank u sm !! all this praise and success feels like im living in a dream like wow so many people are liking what i write ?? hello ?? i’m literally so freaking happy every time you guys send smth in my inbox or comment smth or message me it’s the sweetest thing ever 🫶 thank you all sm

[selfdiagnosedeyemotif]

Chapter Four (Praem), pt. 1:

Praem Saeci and Ekaterina Raszio arrive in the city of Hewpass

Praem Saeci holds the murder weapon fated to kill her companion. Ekaterina Raszio leads her murderer to the scene of the crime.

Very little happens in town save for getting to the crevasse, which isn’t very hard

The mining business is booming here, and a friendly miner is willing to let them into one of the old cave systems

Legend has it, or so they say, that at the end of one of them lies a waterfall hiding a terrible secret

Has anyone seen the waterfall? No, of course not. But it’s the only cave save for the active mining tunnels that no one’s seen the end of

Also the records point to there being traps in there so there’s gotta be SOMETHING

And, what else could one do but go down into the blatantly evil waterfall cave? Praem and Ekaterina are lowered by a mechanical lift into…

The Fourth Dungeon: The Seat of Prophecy

This is my One Cool Dungeon for Praem’s story (Aestia had the Spire of Beginnings AND the Masterless Wood and Tyrri had the Heart of Wild Magic, so I had to give her something)

All of this chapter’s travel banters will take place inside of the dungeon at various points, and imply that it has taken days to plumb the depths

I’m not sure as to what the order will be but I know that Tsisyth’s will be close to the end, since he was a treasure hunter and a spelunker in his younger days

Regardless, there are three sections of the dungeon that trigger cutscenes, all of which showcase Praem’s foresight saving her or Ekaterina’s ass

Every time it happens, though, Praem gets more and more worried about the certainty of her visions

She’s seen the dagger. She’s going towards the waterfall. Her ability has never steered her wrong

Eventually, through traps (which I have not come up with yet) and trials, the team makes their way down into the depths of the cave

Sure enough, flowing from who-knows-where, is a waterfall

Ekaterina breaks into a run upon seeing it. Hasty footsteps upon damp stone.

After the gang catches up, they all puzzle out a way to get past the waterfall

It’s simple enough; there’s a tall, mostly flat boulder leaning up against the wall, as if left there on purpose to cross the chasm into which the waterfall flows

They cross, take a moment to dry off, and then it comes time to examine the efface upon which answers are written

Ekaterina asks Praem if she’s nervous. She knows she is, but the formality is appreciated

Or at least it would be if Praem hadn’t seen what comes next

She doesn’t even notice that Ekaterina still has her sword by her side

The efface reads as follows:

Twenty score years and twenty leagues, There shall they arise from the earth. Eyes of amethyst and mind of iron, A blade of mist fit for my service.

Blood split upon this stone, Shall see their resolve woven into mine. Break the razor and bleed it dry, It shan’t have time to beg for its salvation.

They shall be there when next I wake, A right hand fit for a king. A loyal lieutenant, a valiant servant, By my making, …

[beantothemax]

ALERT! DO NOT READ THIS UNTIL YOU'VE READ PRAEM 3 (which i believe ive sent you but i can resend it if you want)

Chapter Four:

Praem Saeci and Ekaterina Raszio arrive in the city of Hewpass

Praem Saeci holds the murder weapon fated to kill her companion. Ekaterina Raszio leads her murderer to the scene of the crime.

Very little happens in town save for getting to the crevasse, which isn’t very hard

The mining business is booming here, and a friendly miner is willing to let them into one of the old cave systems

Legend has it, or so they say, that at the end of one of them lies a waterfall hiding a terrible secret

Has anyone seen the waterfall? No, of course not. But it’s the only cave save for the active mining tunnels that no one’s seen the end of

Also the records point to there being traps in there so there’s gotta be SOMETHING

And, what else could one do but go down into the blatantly evil waterfall cave? Praem and Ekaterina are lowered by a mechanical lift into…

The Fourth Dungeon: The Seat of Prophecy

This is my One Cool Dungeon for Praem’s story (Aestia had the Spire of Beginnings AND the Masterless Wood and Tyrri had the Heart of Wild Magic, so I had to give her something)

All of this chapter’s travel banters will take place inside of the dungeon at various points, and imply that it has taken days to plumb the depths

I’m not sure as to what the order will be but I know that Tsisyth’s will be close to the end, since he was a treasure hunter and a spelunker in his younger days

Regardless, there are three sections of the dungeon that trigger cutscenes, all of which showcase Praem’s foresight saving her or Ekaterina’s ass

Every time it happens, though, Praem gets more and more worried about the certainty of her visions

She’s seen the dagger. She’s going towards the waterfall. Her ability has never steered her wrong

Eventually, through traps (which I have not come up with yet) and trials, the team makes their way down into the depths of the cave

Sure enough, flowing from who-knows-where, is a waterfall

Ekaterina breaks into a run upon seeing it. Hasty footsteps upon damp stone.

After the gang catches up, they all puzzle out a way to get past the waterfall

It’s simple enough; there’s a tall, mostly flat boulder leaning up against the wall, as if left there on purpose to cross the chasm into which the waterfall flows

They cross, take a moment to dry off, and then it comes time to examine the efface upon which answers are written

Ekaterina asks Praem if she’s nervous. She knows she is, but the formality is appreciated

Or at least it would be if Praem hadn’t seen what comes next

She doesn’t even notice that Ekaterina still has her sword by her side

The efface reads as follows:

Twenty score years and twenty leagues,

There shall they arise from the earth.

Eyes of amethyst and mind of iron,

A blade of mist fit for my service.

Blood split upon this stone,

Shall see their resolve woven into mine.

Break the razor and bleed it dry,

It shan’t have time to beg for its salvation.

They shall be there when next I wake,

A right hand fit for a king.

A loyal lieutenant, a valiant servant,

By my making, …

I read the entire last part out loud to myself as I read it and that made it even more chilling I think. also ekaterina still has her sword being a detail tht is pointed out is. concerning.

also I don’t 100% compressed what last part is trying to convey but I have a terrible feeling I’ll find out sooner rather than later

[smt4flynn]

an original story pilot that I'm going to post on AO3 later at a more reasonable time for an original story I'm going to call 'the cradle of alexandria'

-------------------------------------------

‘It has been an age since the petty fight that broke between the Gods; a civil war that extends too far a reach, that ends, as wars always do, with many an unnecessary death. Humanity shall never be privy to what brings about such a war waged, and the Gods have long since forgotten due to how minuscule the slight is. Yet, though the Gods have since given up and care no longer of the consequences of their war, the humans have not – no, it is fairer to say the humans cannot.

As She, the Goddess Alexandria is slain, a Goddess of whom no one can recall the domain of, Her rage is felt by all who inhabit the Earth. Angered that She shan’t survive the piercing blow from the God Ion, She breathes a curse onto the world: “know now that the follies of the Gods shan’t soon be forgiven. No God shall ever be able to lay foot upon the domain of my Wrath, and I shall encroach upon the land and leave it a husk that can be ruled by not even the weakest of ants.”

And that is how the Cradle of Alexandria births into this world; great is Her anger, that Her corpse becomes the rot that shall infest the world. Great is Her rage, that soon all shall bear the consequences of the Gods that grow fattened and lazy with the decadence of power.

For how is a God to rule, if there is not a land that can be saved to rule?’

A gentle ‘thwack’ follows as Abigail closes his small book with a smack of his hand, the tall knight standing at the mouth of the pestilence that many have deemed the Cradle of Alexandria. Long, blond hair rests over his shoulder, bright violet eyes that are permanently half-lid and dreamy-looking survey over the fleshy cave entrance. He steadies his halberd and leans up against it, palming the book into a small bag that rests on his upper thigh.

Before him is the entrance down to the groaning cave systems of the Cradle of Alexandria; an underground tunnel made of her undying flesh, even if the essence of the Goddess has long since been lost. If the Scriptures are to be believed, then even the Goddess shall be taken to the cycle of worlds, where her essence shall be taken and returned to the world, or she shall be reincarnated the amnesiac babe of humans or Gods, to then henceforth attempt to reclaim her right.

Abigail cannot even recall what her right even is, nor does it matter now that her curse manifests onto the land. The Knight-Commander tilts his head back, free hand coming up to rub thoughtfully at his chin.

Upon her death, those who lived and are not immediately melted by the rot of her grave recall how immediately her flesh melts. Bubbling skin pops to create rivers of meat and blood, the effect acidic enough to burn her saintly robes; out pops her eyes, hanging out by a thin thread of red, while muscles begins to melt from her bones. Her face concaves and the entirety of her ribs are soon bared as her chest melts, her organs sinking into the earth, and her legs bury into the ground as to begin her gradual spread.

At first, the tunnel below is shallow; overtime, however, her pestilence spreads. Now, teeth form neat rows of steps down into what many call her Cradle, almost as if a mockery of civilisation. From her meaty depths crawl out monsters of organs, teeth, and bone. Down within the earth’s womb, her roots grow, for her influence begins its slow spread to destroy the world.

With the Gods damned to not interfere because of the curse of the Goddess, it is the humans who must now suffer.

It is all rather worrying, to put it mildly.

Abigail stares at the mouth of the cave, glancing over to the stairs of teeth that lead down to the depths of her body. But a few weeks ago an adventuring party ventures down into the Cradle, one of some brave enough to see what awaits below, yet not many retreat – not as anything but monsters to be slain.

He glances over to the body of an unfortunate warrior, whose arms are all completely lined with teeth and there are far too many eyes in its head, whose limbs stretch and contort wildly and its abdomen stretches unnaturally. An unfortunate soul that Abigail recognises, briefly, as the warrior who enthusiastically requests permit for his and his party to venture into the Cradle.

The others accompanying him have not been seen since, though his fate is not that unique when Abigail compares it to the others whom he recognises leaving the Cradle. He exhales out deeply and tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut to avoid the harshness of the sun. If it is not for the malicious site of the Cradle, Abigail’s presence within the forests will look almost picturesque; a beautiful youth dressed within the knightly vestments of gold, white, and royal blue. Many corpses surround him, besides the one of the Goddess that fuses gradually with the land, and he bathes in the direct light of the sun even as the atmosphere here is horrid enough to drain away all of the warmth.

He reaches for the pack by his side soon after, bringing out the permit of the young man and his party. Soon, he must notify the family of his death and loss, should he have any, and find any lover(s) he may have as to break the news down.

“Knight-Commander Hugo!” Abigail folds the permit once more. Blood stains the whites of his gloves, making him look dreadfully like a mad surgeon, and he is careful not to stain any important texts before he slips the piece of paper back softly into his pack. “We have surveyed the perimeters and have not found anything. Our rangers and rogues are scouting forward, but we knights have returned for further orders!”

Before him stands Ludo, dressed in raiment similar to his own yet without the badges on his shoulders to denote Abigail’s high rank (clearly); a few strands of his short brown hair sticks to his forehead, sweaty from having been on the run around the perimeters while he, himself, spends his time killing off straggler monsters. For now, they are not enough of a threat to demand the need of an army, though they are all well aware that that will not last. Aquamarine eyes stare into Abigail’s violet, bright with hope and shining patiently, awaiting orders.

Abigail folds an ankle over the other and rests his foot on the tips of his toes, leaning against halberd before he kicks his foot back down to the earth. Once more, white boots are painted a deep scarlet, melding seamlessly with the crimson rot of the Cradle’s corpse. “Call them back,” he says smoothly, “we shan’t find anything nor anyone else, no reason to make them work more than they need to. We will return to the Capitol and report what we have found.”

Ludo hesitates. “Is there... really nothing else, around, Knight-Commander?”

He smiles wryly down at Ludo. “Nothing and no one, Ludo.” he rubs his chin once more then looks over to the mouth of the cave. Once more, despite the morbid image of ribs crowning the hole that leads down to the undulating walls of the Cradle, there is nothing but the smell of a sweet nature’s morning, as though a hysterical contrast against the visuals. “We should return and try not to dwell. Have the mages check how far the Cradle had spread, and reinforce the wards around the city. More of the monsters have bred, and I doubt they have lingered here long.”

“I will notify the lead mage immediately.” Ludo salutes once more before he runs off, Abigail watching him with noted disinterest, glances back over to the Cradle that groans softly with its eternal pain; he picks his halberd back up before marching back to the city so that he may get to the Capitol. He will wait at the opening to the clearing first of course, as protocol demands, before he is to return empty-handed once again.

After all, the Cradle of Alexandria shall continue to claim victims and continue to let its roots grow, until someone is finally able to reach deep enough to see what lays at the bottom of the Cradle, and perhaps bring an end to the plague that is a Goddess’s growing rage.

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

[based on a headcanon by @nemenalya ]

The boy with no name has died. A stiff wind's blown over High Hrothgar and swept him right off the edge of the cliff.

The other students are alerted by the screaming. The boy with no name's only friend in the world, a shy little lad who's been here only a year, stands by the cliff and screams and screams and screams. Since nothing fun ever happens in High Hrothgar the others are quick to gather around the normally-unpopular child. He's screeching something that goes beyond language, pointing frantically at the cliff and wailing bloody grief all the way to Sovngarde, and he keeps on screaming while his cohort gathers curiously around him.

There is a minute, a single minute, where all the students of Hrothgar stand  around, and nobody says a word but for the lad who's screaming. There's a rule on High Hrothgar that speaking is strictly forbidden-- never adhered to, of course, except when Custodian Lundga is around-- but the boy is making such a racket that, after said minute and by unspoken consensus, it is agreed upon that the silence has already been broken. So, excited for a change of pace, they all together immediately start chattering, in loud voices to be heard above the wind and the screaming, of course.

"Why is he shouting?" asks Nhemakhela of Winterhold. "Are you alright?"

"You should slap him!" urges Telmo of the Reach.

"Why should I?"

"Make him shut up."

"My gods!" shouts Hoag of Morrowind, who's gone and lied down on his belly at the place where the rock opens into sky. His head hangs over the edge of the cliff, his thick black hair being tossed moppishly around his head. "Someone's dead down there!"

And at once every student of Hrothgar is on their bellies peeking over the side of the cliff.

"Gods!" cries Nhemakhela. "Is he alive?"

"With his neck at that angle?" asks Telmo.

With a sort of retching sound, Chemua of Morrowind, Hoag's sensitive second-hand, hauls himself off of the ice and staggers away.

"Do we go down?" asks Telmo.

"I call dibs on the corpse."

"Eeew."

"What was his name?"

"He was the mute one, ent got no name."

"Nay, he had a little friend, though. He'd know the name."

"Well? Bhag? What was his name? Bhag, quit screaming! What was his name? Bhag...?"

The conversation ends there, unfortunately, because Lundga Custodian of Hrothgar arrives with a large stick in hand and a mind to crack every noisy Tongue that's broken the mountain's vow of holy silence. Sensible woman, she tells them to leave the body where it is, she has Nhemakhela slap some sense into Bhag, she makes Chemua scoop up the sick off her nice white snow, she sends everyone scurrying off to go meditate on this experience. And she smooths down her fur cloak, sighs into the stiff wind, turns and shares a meaningful look with Paarthurnax, who's flown over to observe the scene with his mild drakeish curiosity.

"Didn't learn his feim," Lundga remarks to the dragon, which earns her a coarse reptilian laugh.

And then life returns to normal on High Hrothgar...

...

His throat is raw to burning, his fingers frozen stiff, but the boy still takes his careful sweet time hiking back to the cave. It's a sorry little hollow, near-uninhabitable as it faces right into the howling wind, which makes it perfect, for nobody but him would ever think to go there. He pauses at a ledge, looks carefully behind him, tip-toes across and around a large granite outcrop, to the entrance of the miserable niche. Pressing hard to the rock-face so as not to slip, he pushes aside the thick curtain of hides hanging over the cave entrance and moves into the warm space beyond.

"Well?" asks Bhag, the moment he enters. "Did it work?"

The boy no longer without a name gives his friend a sort of dazed grin. Not known for his speaking, voice still sore from all the screaming he's just done, he can do little more than nod vigorously.

Bhag-- tall for his age with his blond hair in braids, face ruddy-red from spending hours in the heat of the cave-- breaks into a wide smile. He rushes forwards and embraces the boy whose beaming face is the spitting image of his own. "So it worked!” he cries, with a hearty thump on the back. “What did I tell you, eh?"

"They called me Bhag," the boy says, voice muffled in Bhag's shoulder.

"You are Bhag," replies Bhag with a voice also muffled.

"I'm Bhag."

"Both, we both are. Now we’re both--”

"Bhag?"

The intrusive voice breaks them apart like cleaved rock and they turn to face the cave entrance.

Quite unannounced, Hoag of Morrowind lets himself in through the hide-door and brushes some snow from his chest.

"Bhag," Hoag says again, looking between the two. "And... Bhag. Huh! Now that's one more Bhag than I'd thought."

For a moment neither Bhag, not even the Bhag accustomed to talking, can think of a response to that.

What follows is a whole minute of awkward staring between them and Hoag.

And at the end of that minute Hoag goes, "Bah!", and shuffles over towards their fire to thaw his cold hands.

"How'd you know?" utters the boy now known as Bhag, face flushed red.

"I've seen corpses," replies Hoag. "I know corpses. And that wasn't a corpse of a man, was it?"

Neither Bhag can think of much of a response to that, either. They stand there, guilty, pressed tightly shoulder-to-shoulder, watching as Hoag thaws his hands over the fire. Hoag is much older than them, nearly at the end of his stay at Hrothgar, and despite his short stature he cuts an intimidating figure, what with his harsh face and his thick black caterpillar eyebrows.

"It's okay," whispers Bhag to his friend now also called Bhag. "Steep out there. We ought to kill him-- I'll push him--"

But Hoag, of course, hears, and Hoag barks out a laugh. "Save it," he says. "Nobody saw me come. And I shan't blab this secret of yours."

Neither Bhag can think of much of a response to that, either.

Hoag shifts on his feet. “Is that the thu’um?” he asks. “Makes you look like each other. Never seen anything like that… you made it up?”

“Bhag did,” says the boy now known as Bhag. “He made it.”

Bhag makes a modest snorting sound. “Ah, he made it. Taught me how to understand the words, like.” 

“So, what’s the plan, then?” asks Hoag. “Now you’re both Bhag? Why?”

The boy now known as Bhag looks down at the fire, at Hoag’s dirty fingernails flickering in the orange light. He feels Bhag look at him, and he looks back at Bhag, and, having reached a mutual decision, Bhag speaks on his behalf.

“I don’t like talking,” says Bhag. “And I don’t like people.” 

“I’m different,” Bhag adds. “I’ve always been different from others. Why they sent me up here. I’m a changeling, they said-- like a spirit?” 

“I get tired,” Bhag complains. “Tired of your world that makes no sense. It hurts my head to try and work out why you do the things you do.” 

“So we decided to share,” says Bhag. “Share the burden.” 

 “So we don’t understand them,” says Bhag. “Let them not understand us!” 

“We’re not like you. Not nobles. Nobody’d miss either of us.”

“They’d be sufficed with one.”

Hoag listens to the tale attentively, watching them both close. Both Bhags find it impossible to imagine what he’s thinking. 

“... Well,” says Hoag finally. “Bhag Two-Tongue.”

Bhag snorts out a flattered laugh. 

“Bhag Two-Tongue,” Hoag repeats himself. “I’m leaving here soon. Me and Chemua are going back to Morrowind in a month’s time. Cause it seems to me that we have a problem much the same-- these Cyrod-worshipers, these dragon-faithful, cannot be understood by us.” With that famous cool aloofness that makes him the envy of all the boys, he turns away from the fire. “If you survive this mountain, if you don’t fall to your doom, come find me in Ebonheart. I could use more men with eyes enough to see what a farce this world is.”

And then, cool as frost, he slips out of their warm cave and into the tempest beyond.

“Religious, ent he?” asks Bhag, staring after the elder boy. “What’s all that talk about Cyrod? Well, they say he’s going to be a king one day.” He turns to his companion. “Morrowind, huh. East with the elves. We’d not be the strangest ones there, not with those two for competition... But what do you think?”

And the boy no longer without a name smiles. “Let’s go there.”

[renee-writer]

Loved Her First Chapter 20

A/N This chapter cis a mix of @omgbarbiegurl and It's words. From' She stood in the doorway to' in the empty air' are her brilliant words.

AO3

The men are busy building Faith’s schoolroom. Their women want their children educated and, now that they have a learned woman, the Laird’s own daughter, here to do it, they want a place for it. It keeps the men busy. The women are equally as busy, with chores and child raising. Claire with her doctoring while dealing with early pregnancy, not easy at her age.

Jamie is soon able to lead his daughter to the cave turned schoolhouse. She gasps at seeing it. He kisses her and leaves her to admire it on her own.

Faith stood in the doorway of the cave, taking in her little Schoolhouse.

Her Da, Uncle Ian, Jeremiah, Ian, and Rabbie had all worked hard to bring it up to her, (apparently), picky standards.

There was a large white sheet suspended between two nails buried into the rock to use as a makeshift chalkboard. Her chalk would be the ash from the fireplace Ian and Jeremiah had built against the wall to keep everyone warm.

Slates had been purchased with pencils; split logs hauled into the cave would serve as benches.

Her desk was the best part though.

Her Da had built it with his own two hands, she could see and feel the love that went into it. Was it any wonder she had sobbed over it when he presented it to her.

He had been dismayed, thinking she didn’t like it, but her hugs and kisses had reassured him that she did.

She was going to have 15 students in all; the oldest was Brianna, (who was not happy about taking orders from her sister), and the youngest was the 4-year-old daughter of one of the tenants whose Mother had been very excited for her daughter to get educated.

Faith sighed softly and turned to head where she collided into Ian.

“What in the world?”

“I was just bringing ye some wood.”

“Oh, thank you.”

She moved aside to let him in and sighed softly.

“Getting nervous are ye?”

“How did you know?”

“Ye have a tell.” He set the wood down and turned to her. “When ye get nervous, ye twist your hair out of yer bun.”

He walked over and twirled the strands of hair hanging from her bun around his fingers.

“Ye have no reason to be nervous, the bairns will adore you.”

“I am not worried about them adoring me, I am worried about them obeying me.”

“They will do that as well.”

“Well-”

He blew out a breath. “Faith, ye are a learned woman from the Colonies, they know to heed yer word.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’. Ye are gonna be wonderful, and if this doesn’t pan out, ye will be marrying me in a years’ time, so no need to worry.”

Her eyes narrowed and Ian felt his balls shrink a little.

“What do you mean, ‘no need to worry’?

“Well, I uh just figured ye would no be interested in teaching after we marry. Ye will be busy with our house and bairns.”

“Excuse me? Why would I suddenly be content just to sit around the house, wait for my husband to get home, and get pregnant? I have better things to do, you know.”

“I just assumed that…”

“That I would just roll over and spread my legs after you praise my housekeeping skills?”

“Uh…”

She doesn’t let him finish his sentence, instead, she storms past him out of the cave and to her waiting horse.

She says nothing, just mounts the horse and rides off, leaving Ian with his mouth hanging open.

“What just happened?” He asked to the empty air.

He jumps back on his own mound and hurries after her, “Wait!” He calls out as he catches up to her. A sharp order in Gaelic halts both horses.

“Let me be Ian Murray!”

“Nae, I said something that upset you and I shan’t leave until I straighten it out.” She huffs as he dismounts and lifts her off her horse also, “I dinna ken want it be like in the colonies so please, my heart, tell me what ye expect after we be married?”

She bites her lips as tears tinkle out of her eyes and start to run down her cheek. She has to recall that her expectations and his are going to be different. “I expect to keep working at least until our first is born. I expect to return when are bairns are old enough to join me in the classroom.”

It seems reasonable to him. “Then that is what you shall do.”

She exhales sharply. “Truly?”

“Aye. You are more then just my intended and my Laird’s daughter. You are Faith Fraser, yer own person.”

She throws her arms about him. “Thank you Ian. I love you.”

“I love you.” He hugs her tight.

[yellow-faerie]

I feel like being difficult today, so number 30 of the prompt list, but with third age Maglor and Galadriel

Ooh! This one is interesting - I’ll try my best!

From this prompt list.

30 - “Can you tell me why we’re committing a major crime? Not that I’ll go back on my word or anything, I just want to know.”

Maglor hurries to keep up with his cousin’s long strides.

“Can you tell me why we’re committing a major crime?” She doesn’t answer him. “Not that I’ll go back on my word or anything, I just want to know. Since last time I gave an oath to steal a gem, my family died and-”

“Maglor,” Galadriel says, stopping short and giving Maglor a deadpan look.

“Yes?”

“Please shut up.”

Maglor nods. “Shutting up now.”

They continue onwards, the only sound that of the birds and their feet on the occasional twig.

“But really, Artanis,” Galadriel scowls at the use of her ataressë. “Why are we doing this?”

She sighs irritably. “Because I said so, now come on.”

“Right.” There is something in Maglor’s voice that gives Galadriel pause: for thought of their current quest, not because she cares for her cousin, of course.

“Alright, what’s bothering you?”

“Me?” Maglor looks surprised. “Oh no, nothing that hasn’t been bothering me for years and years now.”

“Out with it.” She stops walking and turns to face him, putting the full force of her power behind her glare. “I shan’t take another step until you tell me.”

Maglor looks rather uncomfortable and tugs at the edge of his sleeve. “I am sure you can make an educated guess.”

“I’m sure I can. But that’s not what I’m going to do.” She crosses her arms and scowls, waiting: Maglor will surely cave sometime.

“I have watched four of my brothers die because of the Silmarilli. I just have...apprehensions about trying another jewel heist.”

Galadriel lets out a disappointed grunt. “Oh, is that all this is about? I thought you had gotten over this.”

Maglor straightens, a familiar glint - of stubbornness and haughtiness and surety that Galadriel hasn’t seen for centuries - catching in his eyes. “Have you ‘gotten over’ Finrod’s death? Or Angrod’s? Or Aegnor’s? Or-”

“I get your point,” She says, cutting him off with gritted teeth. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”

“Then answer my first question - why are we stealing this...this ‘Arkenstone’?”

“It’s causing strife among the peoples in the north. We are going to put it back in the earth where it came from.”

“Why does this fall on-” Maglor cuts off, a look of horror passing over his paling face. “Artanis, we aren’t stealing a Silmaril are we?”

His hand, the one still wrapped in bandages to protect an ages old burn, twitches at his side.

She purses her lips and turns away, her braid swinging. “Why do you think I asked you to come?”

[infinite-xerath]

Runeterra Retcons: Ruination Episode (Ionia)

Ionia Part I

After discussing it heavily with your comrades, you all agree that your next destination should be Ionia. The light of the Wayfinder encompasses you all as it carries you across the sea to the Ionian Sentinel outpost, where you are surprised to find that nothing seems amiss on the shores.

“Looks like the Black Mist hasn’t gotten here yet.”

“Wow, so this is Ionia? It’s beautiful!”

Riven response 1: “I can’t say I’m surprised. Ionia’s always been resistant to invaders…”

Riven response 2: “Yeah… But it wasn’t always like this…”

Gwen: “Oh what an absolutely splendid place! I’ve never been anywhere this majestic before!”

Senna: “They call Ionia the First Lands, and some say it’s the birthplace of magic itself. I guess it’s no surprise that this place is a sort of safe haven against the Harrowing.”

Olaf: “Wait! Look there!”

Olaf points further inland, where you see a great cloud of Black Mist descending onto a vibrant forest.

Vayne: “So much for a safe haven…”

Senna: “No time to stand around and gawk! Let’s move, Sentinels!”

Senna takes the lead as you all charge ahead, ascending the winding mountain path. All around you, wild animals scatter and flee as the Black Mist pours through the forest. The once-vibrant flora withers and distorts around you while the very air seems to linger with malice.

Suddenly, you feel a gnarled tree root spring to life and wrap around your leg, pulling you down. A shrill scream fills the air as you hit the ground and feel yourself being dragged back down the path. Before you vanish completely into the brush, however, Lucian frees your leg with a well-timed shot.

Lucian: “You alright, rookie? That was, uh, quite a scream just now.”

“Thanks, I owe you.”

“That, uh, wasn’t me.”

Lucian response 1: “Don’t mention it. Now let’s keep moving.”

Lucian response 2: “Heh, sure it wasn’t...”

Before you can say anything more, another identical scream cuts through the air. You all turn to see a peculiar figure bounding through the forest. Her upper half resembles that of a young woman, but her lower body is that of a fawn. She holds in her possession a branch with a peculiar bloom attached to it.

???: “Oh dear, oh dear!”

“Is that a person?”

“Is that an animal?”

Vayne: “Whatever it is, it’s heading right for us.”

Sure enough, the strange figure is bounding toward you at an alarming rate, looking back over her shoulder. She turns her head just in time to see the Sentinels and comes skidding to a stop.

???: “Eep!”

“Eep!”

“Woah, that was close!”

“She… Is… Adorable!”

Lillia: “W-Who are you!? Ah, wait, no! Just… Pretend you can’t see them, Lillia! If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.”

Vayne: “Sorry to lay this on you, but that’s not how it works.”

Riven: “Hang on, something else is coming!”

You look up to see the Black Mist descending toward you, carrying with it a swarm of wraiths.

Lillia: “Oh no! They’ve followed me!”

Gwen: “Please, stand behind us, funny fawn person! We will make short work of these fiends!”

Ionia Part II

The Sentinels charge into the fray, cutting and blasting their way through the swarm of wraiths. As they fight, however, you notice more of the local wildlife succumbing to the Black Mist, warping the surrounding forests beyond recognition.

Lillia: “No… Stop! Please stop!”

“Are you OK?”

“Hey, everything’s going to be alright.”

Lillia: “No… Can’t you feel it? The dreams of the trees, the animals… It’s like… One very bad dream is blocking out all the others!”

Lucian: “Rookie, what’s she talking about?”

Senna: “Nevermind, just stay focused! We need push deeper into this forest and find that fetter!”

The Sentinels quickly resume their fight, though Lillia’s ears perk up when she hears Senna’s words.

Lillia: “What? You’re… Going DEEPER into the forest? B-But it’s dangerous!”

Vayne: “Exactly! Where monsters go, so do we!”

Riven: “If the Black Mist is here, that must mean another one of these fetters is too, right? Then we have to find it and get it out of here, or all of Ionia will be in danger! That’s… Not something I want to see again!”

Gwen: “Quite right! Fear not, funny fawn girl! We shan’t let a few wraiths impede us!”

Lillia: “But… Why?”

“We’re Sentinels. Fighting ghosts is what we do!”

“We’re here to save Ionia, and the world, from the Black Mist!”

Lillia: “You… You aren’t afraid?”

“Not in the slightest!”

“Quite a bit, actually, but I can’t turn back now!”

Lillia: “That’s… That’s quite brave of you. …Alright. Everyone, please follow me! I think I know what the ghouls are after!”

Lillia suddenly darts off into the forest, waving her branch to clean a path through the Mist.

Riven: “Should we follow her?”

Senna: “Well… If she can lead us to the fetter, it’s a risk I’m willing to take! Move out, Sentinels!”

Ionia Part III

Lillia guides you through the forest, using the branch in her hands to keep the hostile wildlife at bay. You follow her into a cave, where your only source of light comes from Lillia’s bloom. Though it’s dark and damp, you’re surprised to find that the Black Mist seems to linger about the entrance, refusing to step inside.

Vayne: “Are we sure about this isn’t a trap?”

“We’ve already come all this way…”

“Hey, she’s cute! How can you say no to those big eyes?”

Olaf: “Hmph. If this is a trap, there had better be a worth foe at this tunnel’s end!”

Lillia: “...”

Lucian: “Hey, fawn girl!”

Lillia: “Eep! O-Oh, you mean me?”

Lucian: “Yeah. Are you sure there’s a fetter in here?”

Lillia: “Uh, well… I’m not sure what sort of ‘fetter’ you mean, but I think… I know that the ghouls want what’s up ahead.”

Vayne: “And just how do you know that?”

“Come on guys, have some faith in her.”

“The Mist didn’t want to come in here, so there’s gotta be something special about this place.”

Riven: “Wait, do you see that?”

Up ahead, the path widens out into a grotto illuminated by giant crystals in the cave wall.

“What is this place?”

“It’s breathtaking…”

Riven: “Yeah, Ionia really is beautiful. It’s a shame that some people would destroy that beauty just to take it for themselves…”

Up ahead, you see that the cave floor turns from stone to grass. Somehow, a small meadow has bloomed in the heart of the mountain, illuminated by the glow of the crystals.

Gwen: “Goodness, these gems would make for a marvelous addition to a dress! Oh, but I suppose that would ruin their natural beauty. A shame.”

Lucian: “It’s pretty, alright, but where’s the fetter?”

As if on cue, the light in Senna’s chest starts to glow, as does Gwen’s. Nearby, you see a single flower near the heart of the grotto begin to glow with the same calming light.

Senna: “There it is! That’s the fetter!”

“A rose? How can a rose be a fetter?”

“So Isolde’s soul has been hiding in a flower for centuries?”

Lillia: “This flower is very old. It was brought here long ago from a far-away land. I can see its dreams too, you know. Dreams so pure, full of love and light… Happy memories. It dreams of man and woman who cherished each other more than anything. Isn’t that… Such… A lovely dream?”

You watch in horror as a ghastly crown forms around Lillia’s head. Suddenly, Black Mist fills the cave, engulfing Lillia and transforming her in an instant.

Lillia: “Such a lovely dream, and you all are trying to ruin it! How… How could you!?”

“Lillia, wait! Let’s talk this out!”

“Aw man! Why is it always the cute ones!?”

Vayne: “I knew we couldn’t trust her!”

Vayne takes aim with her crossbow, but before she can fire a single shot, Lillia waves her branch in a wide arc. A mysterious, glittering dust washes over you and the other Sentinels, as does a strange sense of drowsiness.

Olaf: “Argh! What… Is this…?”

Gwen: “Oh my. Suddenly… So… Tired…”

“So… Sleepy.”

“Can’t… Stay… Awake.”

Despite your best efforts, you soon succumb to the effects of Lillia’s dream dust. Soon, you and the other Sentinels fall onto the floor of the cave and descend into a deep slumber…

Ionia Part IV

You find yourself wandering the streets of your hometown, alone. Wherever you go, the people have locked their doors and refuse to open up. You are cold and scared, and those feelings only grow as you notice the ominous Black Mist coursing toward you.

You try to run, but the Mist is faster. You hear inhuman screams behind you, and look back to see vaguely humanoid figures emerging from the haze. You force your legs into overdrive, only to wind up tripping and following on a loose stone. Your cry out in pain as you hit the ground, but your scream is drowned out by the wails of the undead behind you.

Dread hangs over you a like a pall. Death seems inevitable, though you know that death is not the end if these creatures take you. You will become one of them, hunting other poor souls to join the ranks of the undead. You close your eyes and wait, only for the sound of gunfire to fill your ears.

You open your eyes and look up. The wraiths cry out in pain as bolts of light pierce them, driving them back. You find yourself surrounded by figures in strange uniforms, carrying weapons unlike any you’ve every seen.

“W-Who are you?”

“Where did you come from?”

Though their face is hazy, you see one of the figures turn to look at you.

???: “We’re the Sentinels of Light. Don’t worry, we’ll handle the undead. You just find a safe place to hide and wake up.”

“Huh?”

“What do you mean?”

???: “Wake up. Come on, Rookie, nap time is over!”

Your eyes slowly open as you regain consciousness. You see Lucian and Senna standing over you.

Senna: “Good to see you’re still with us.”

“How long was I out?”

“What happened?”

Lucian response 1: “Too damn long. That deer girl made off with fetter while we are all dozin’ off.”

Lucian response 2: “That deer girl put us all to sleep then nabbed the fetter, that’s what.”

Gwen: “And she seemed so nice! What an awful turn things have taken.”

???: “Indeed. The future of the realms hangs in the balance.”

“Uh, who is this?”

“Is that a freaking ninja!?”

Shen: “Apologies if I have startled you, child. I am the Eye of Twilight, but you may call me Shen.”

Vayne: “After Deer Girl put us all to sleep, this ninja’s the one who came to wake us up. I don’t like being in debt, but I guess we owe you now.”

Shen: “You owe me nothing. I acted as needed to maintain balance, nothing more.”

Riven: “Apparently, he’s part of the Kinkou. I’ve heard of them. They’re a group devoted to maintaining order in Ionia, though from what I understand, they didn’t do much when Noxus invaded these shores.”

Shen: “The Kinkou protect the balance between the material and immaterial realms. Mortal wars are not our concern… But this Harrowing threatens to consume Ionia itself.”

Shen gestures outside and, to your horror, you see that the Black Mist has nearly complete covered the forest. The once-vibrant colors of the trees are now faded and lifeless and the sounds of nature are replaced by the cries of wraiths.

“It’s awful…”

“How did this happen so fast?”

Shen: “The spirit of Ionia is tainted, and the land is a reflection of that spirit. What’s more, azakana will feed on the negativity brought forth by this, granting demons more power than ever.”

Senna: “This is what’ll happen to the entire world if we don’t stop Viego. That’s why we need to find that fetter, and quickly!”

Gwen: “But… That Not-so-Funny Faun took it! How are we supposed to find her amidst all of that?”

Vayne: “Hate to say it, but she’s right. If we have to fight through all of that, then Deer Girl will be long-gone by the time we catch her trail.”

Shen: “Fear not, for the Eye of Twilight sees all, even through the darkest shadows. The Dream Faun makes for the coast, though I sense an even greater darkness approaching. You, who are sword to defend the light, will you accompany me to confront this darkness?”

Gwen: “A greater darkness? You couldn’t possibly mean...”

Lucian: “Viego! We gotta get the beach, now!”

Riven: “But how are we going to get there through all this Mist?”

Shen: “Fret not, for I walk the space between world. Gather close to me.”

Though uncertain of his meaning, you and the other Sentinels do as asked, stepping close to Shen as he makes unusual gestures with his hands. Suddenly, you are all engulfed in violet light as Shen whisks you through the spirit realm.

Ionia Part V

You feel formless. Weightless. All around you are sights and colors your mind can scarcely comprehend. Some set your mind at ease, while others terrify you. This sensation lasts for only a moment before you reemerge in the physical realm, surrounded once more by your comrades.

“Hey, long-distance teleporting is my thing!”

“That… Was awesome!”

“That was… Bizarre!”

Riven: “Ugh… I think I’ll stick to the Wayfinder from now on, thanks.”

Shen: “Gather yourselves! The Dream Fawn is just ahead!”

Sure enough, you see Lillia standing on the beach, staring out at the ocean. She clutches the fetter tightly in one hand and her branch in the other.

Lucian: “She doesn’t know we’re here. I say we take her by surprise and-”

Olaf: “RETRIBUTION AWAITS!”

Suddenly, Olaf rushes ahead, screaming at the top of his lungs. Lillia leaps in surprise and turns around to see the berserker rushing at her. Instinctively, she launches a seed from her branch that rolls along the sand, growing large in size as it travels.

“Olaf, look out!”

“Don’t let it hit you!”

Olaf utterly ignores your warning and runs into the seed head-on. To your amazement, he just keeps running even as the seed explodes into dream dust.

Lillia: “W-What!? T-That’s not possible!”

Lucian: “That’s a berserker for ya. Once they get riled up, nobody can stop them.”

Olaf is just about to reach Lillia when, suddenly, the tide behind her swells to life and comes ashore. Olaf is swept back in a massive wave of darkened away, though Lillia somehow remains completely dry.

Lucian: “The ocean, on the other hand…”

Shen: “The Spirit of Ionia is tainted. The trees, the air, the waters… They now bend to HIS will.”

You look ahead to see a familiar figure emerging from the Black Mist, the sea itself parting to make way for him.

“Viego!”

“The Ruined King!”

Olaf: “Pfft! Pah! So, he’s the one who bested the Barbarian King? I thought he would be… Bigger.”

Viego: “Ah, what a pleasant surprise! I travel all this way to find that my prize is already waiting for me.”

Lillia: “Y-Yes, sir. I am here to help your dream bloom.”

Shen: “Stop! You have desecrated the balance, and now you shall pay for your transgressions!”

Viego: “Balance? Fool. Without her, there is no balance. She is the light to my darkness, the joy to my anguish. If you would stand against me, then YOU are the one who shall pay the price!”

Shen and Viego dash across the beach toward each other, their blades ringing out as they clash.

Senna: “Let’s back him up, Sentinels!”

You and the other Sentinels quickly rush to aid Shen, but find yourself impeded by the corrupted Spirit of Ionia. Fierce bursts of wind repeatedly knock you off your feat while rocks along the beach form together into twisted constructs.

Riven: “Ngh…”

“Are you alright?”

“Riven, what’s wrong?”

Riven: “Fighting on the beaches of Ionia, pushing back against the will of the land itself… This whole scenario is bringing back a lot of unhappy memories.”

Senna: “Shake it off, Riven! We need to push past this!”

The Sentinels continue to struggle against the will of the land, but only Shen seems undeterred by it. The Eye of Twlight engages the Ruined King in a fierce battle, both of them vanishing and reappearing all over the beach.

“I can barely keep track of them!”

“This isn’t working!”

Viego: “See how your homeland bends to my will, Ionian! Your allies can lend you no aid. Mine, on the other hand…”

Lillia leaps into the air behind Shen, slamming her branch down on the beach. Shen staggers as Lillia’s dream dust washes over him, falling to one knee as he struggles to stay awake. Meanwhile, Viego turns his attention to your group, his gaze fixing itself upon Senna and Gwen. They fail to notice, too busy fending off the endlessly-regenerating stone constructs on the beach.

“Gwen, look out!”

“Senna, look out!”

Option 1: Viego rushes toward Gwen, but thanks to your warning, she manages to parry the blow and push Viego back her Hallowed Mist.

Option 2: Viego rushes toward Senna, but thanks to your warning, she manages to evade his strike and fire a back in retaliation.

Viego grunts in annoyance and vanishes into the Black Mist once more. To your surprise, he reappears before you, lifting you up by the throat.

Viego: “Such a peculiar child. Your little band is strange enough, but you… You do not even carry a weapon. Still, you seek to defy me, all the same.”

Vayne: “Put the kid down, creep!”

The Sentinels all rush to your aid, but soon find themselves impeded by a wall of sand rising up around you.

Viego: “Many choose to stand against me and my noble quest. Some do it to ‘save’ this cruel world. Others merely resent me, though their hearts are as dark as my own. So tell me, child: why do you oppose me? Justice? Righteousness? Contempt?”

“…”

“What you’re doing is wrong!”

Viego: “Hmph. A predictable response. No matter. Whatever your reasons, you will serve as an example!”

Viego raises his sword to impale you, but another blade suddenly manifests above your head: an ephemeral weapon that lingers in the air. A pulse of spirit magic frees you from Viego’s grasp and destroys the sand barrier. Viego vanishes into the Mist once more, and in his place stands Shen, grasping the shimmering blade.

Shen: “Stand up. Your role is far from over.”

The other Sentinels quickly reconvene around you as you climb to your feet.

Gwen: “Rookie! Goodness, are you alright?”

“I’m alright, thanks to Shen.”

“Still shaking, but otherwise fine.”

Viego: “You think you are safe? None of you shall escape my grasp!”

Suddenly, you notice several giant crabs erupting the sand around you, their eyes flickering with the ghastly light of Ruination.

Senna: “This isn’t working! Sentinels, I’m calling a tactical retreat! We can’t fight Viego AND the damn beach at the same time! Rookie, get us out of here!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you raise the Wayfinder and let its light wash over you just as the crabs begin to close in. In an instant, you and your allies vanish, leaving Viego alone with Lillia on the harrowed beach.

Lillia: “Oh dear. They got away, sir…”

Viego takes the flower from her grasp and sniffs it longingly.

Viego: “No matter. I am one step closer to realizing my dream, little fawn. Come, let us resume our search elsewhere.”

Viego turns and walks away into the Black Mist with Lillia behind him, leaving a Ruined Ionia in his wake.

Back as Sentinel headquarters, you breath a sigh of relief to have narrowly escaped the Ruined King.

Senna and Olaf: “DAMN IT!”

Senna: “We almost had him!”

Olaf: “I almost had my glorious death!”

Riven: So that was the Ruined King… I can’t believe he has that much power.”

Vayne: “He didn’t the last time we faced him. Somehow, that monster’s gotten even stronger.”

Gwen: “Goodness, are you alright, Rookie? That was quite fright!”

“Honestly, I’m still shaking a little.”

“Y-yeah, I’m t-totally fine!”

Shen: “Overcoming fear is the first step to attaining inner balance.”

Everyone: “…”

Senna: “Hang on, how do you get here?”

Shen: “The same way you all did, naturally.”

Shen gestures to the Wayfinder.

“Oh, guess he got caught in the light too. My bad.”

“Huh. I, uh, totally meant to bring you back with us too.”

Shen: “I am here because Balance wills it.”

Riven: “Hang on, are you saying that…”

Shen: “I… Was not strong enough to defeat this imbalance on my own. Ionia has been consumed by darkness, but its spirit has not yet been wholly subsumed. I will do all that I must to preserve it, even allying with your order.”

Vayne: “You want to be a Sentinel? I guess we could do worse, though I don’t know if one ninja will make that much of a difference.”

Gwen: “Oh, another new addition to the team! How wonderful! Please, come with me, and we’ll get you fitted right away!”

You all watch as Shen departs with Gwen, emerging moments later with his new Sentinel attire.

Gwen: “Tadaa! I present to you: Sentinel Shen!”

You can’t help but note that her display lacks the same level of enthusiasm as usual, but opt not to comment on it.

Shen: “It is an honor to fight alongside you.”

Lucian: “Right… Well, let’s get you sworn in, I guess.” (But after that, we’re all gonna need to rethink our plan.)

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

“That’s how the story goes.” For Solavellan?

Solavellan, “The Halla Princess” (AO3)

“Finally, Fen’Harel bit off his own tail, and away he fled,” Rivka recited with all the theatricality the tale warranted, “And ever since, the Dread Wolf thinks twice about playing his tricks when dogs are on guard.”

The elven children in Haven laughed and clapped as she concluded her story. From where they were sitting around her on whichever boxes and barrels they could find, arranged in a circle around the hearth which Varric normally hung around, they began to disperse and head to the various odd jobs which they’d been assigned to around the Inquisition camp.

Rivka watched them leave with a smile on her face as she warmed her palms, before noticing someone in the corner of her vision descend the stairs on her left. It was her fellow elven mage Solas, using his staff in the manner of a hiking pole.

“Forgive me if I’m intruding,” he said, approaching the fire, “But I overheard the end of your tale, and I simply had some questions.”

Gesturing to one of the taller crates, Rivka said, “Ask away, although I’m now suspecting that you’re going to correct me on the details.”

“Not at all,” Solas said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “It merely seemed to me that you were very comfortable telling those stories.”

Feeling herself blush a little, Rivka answered, “Well, that’s logical enough. Back when I was in training to be the First of my clan, one of the duties I had was to take care of those too young to help with tasks, or even those who were between their errands, and since one of my other duties was remembering all the tales I thought I’d substitute in for the hahrens.”

Nodding as he understood, he said. “Your practice does you credit, lethallan. That was a tale well-told.”

Glancing away from the fire to him, Rivka said glibly, “But not well-composed? Perhaps there was something in the Fade that you saw which…”

Laughing, he said, “You think too much and too little of me at once. That was a children’s story, was it not? Every tale needs a villain, after all. But tell me, do you know any that have Fen’harel using his cunning?”

Thinking for a while, Rivka said, “I think I do, but surely you’ve better things to do than sit by a dying fireside and listen to old stories, not when you could see them for yourself?”

“Humour me, Rivka,” Solas said. “Besides, there is scarce little for inconvenient apostate mages to do whilst we wait for Lady Nightingale’s little messengers to return. Unless you’d rather scrounge around for ores and prospective logging sites in today’s chill…?”

Reflexively shivering, Rivka said, “I guess not. Have you heard of the Tale of the Slow Arrow, Solas?”

“I might have, but I’d like to hear your take on it,” he answered.

She began her story, narrating how a great beast was terrorising a village, with its inhabitants begging Fen’Harel to intercede by slaying the beast. Rivka continued by explaining that Fen’Harel’s only answer was to loose an arrow into the sky, letting the beast kill and eat the elders, the men and the women, who cursed his name as they died, and concluded that the arrow fell from the sky, killing the beast in a single stroke, before it was able to eat the children, who despite their grave losses still gave him thanks and offerings.

Turning to her, Solas asked, “What do you think the moral of that story was?”

Rivka shook her head, saying, “I rarely told that one, mainly because the adults didn’t want me telling their children they could die so horribly, so I don’t really know. If Fen’harel’s arrow was so powerful why didn’t he shoot the beast on sight? If he knew the beast would be there why didn’t he tell the adults to hide when it came? We only have fragments of stories, and we’re supposed to make sense of them all.”

“Perhaps Fen’Harel’s arrow was powerful but not himself,” Solas thought aloud, “and perhaps the beast would not have been positioned where it was, were the beast to find the village empty. It might have been that Fen’Harel reckoned that there was to be a cost either way, and saved the children such that the village might have a future.”

“A future where they owed that great debt to the Dread Wolf, doubtless,” Rivka said. “Still, that’s hard to argue with, I suppose.”

“Have you any which have less grim endings, at any rate?” Solas asked. “Happy endings seem to be rare in our times.”

Rivka giggled, saying, “You’re like a child, Solas!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They never let me stop at just the one story, and they always wanted the ones with happy endings, too,” she answered. “But all right, Solas, I’ll tell you one of my favourite ones then.”

“I’m privileged,” he said. “Which one is it?”

Rivka looked into the flames, concentrating. “It’s the one called ‘The Halla Princess’.”

“This sounds good already. A Dalish princess?”

“Well, it’s said to be set in ancient Arlathan,” Rivka said, “Where the elves had their own kingdoms and their own great chiefs, and their sons and daughters would be betrothed to each other just like the humans and dwarves do these days.”

“That seems fair,” he said. “Ancient memories suggest—”

“With all due respect, Solas,” Rivka said, “Do you want to hear the story, or not?”

Raising his palms in surrender, he said, “Very well, I shan’t interrupt with historical context again.”

“Good,” she said, continuing,

“There was a princess born to a great noble house, whose birth was attended by all the creatures of land and sea save for the spider, who cursed the Princess Tasallan to turn into a halla the instant she came in contact with sunlight.

“Her parents were very ingenious in avoiding that very fate, all the way till she came of age and suitors were seeking out brides. Her painting was said to be so beautiful that a handsome prince broke off an engagement with another princess, Boranehn, the instant he saw it. Boranehn was absolutely furious, and sought out the help of the spider to punish him—even though she said he was free to make his choice, she was still offended.

“The opportunity came when she was on the way to his castle, where the spider, clinging on to Princess Tasallan’s carriage, called upon the powers of Forgotten Ones first to destroy her carriage with a mighty storm, then when she was exposed, to part the clouds instantly to expose her to the sun. It worked, and Princess Tasallan was transformed into a halla, running off into the woods whilst the Forgotten Ones made Boranehn look like Tasallan, and she proceeded to the wedding, the prince unawares.

“However, the spider and the Forgotten Ones had made a terrible mistake when they interceded on Boranehn’s behalf, for the sudden storm and sunlight had killed many inhabitants of the woodland, even if none of the elves had lost their lives, and Mythal was incensed. First, she dispelled the magic which Boranehn had used, and Boranehn fled when her deception was revealed to all, but not before spitefully boasting that the prince would never find Tasallan, and he would kill her long before he managed to lift her curse.

“The prince and all his men rode out of his castle, searching the lands of his realm high and low for Tasallan, but they never found her because she was in the form of a halla, one amongst hundreds that roamed his lands, and he eventually collapsed by a stream, utterly exhausted by his search for his bride-to-be. He slept fitfully, and eventually, Tasallan found him, and approached him as he rested under a tree.

“The spider had one last trick to play, clouding the prince’s vision such that it was not Tasallan, and not a halla which he saw when he woke up, but a massive wolf, its teeth bared, ready to pounce and strike down its prey. He readied his bow and loosed an arrow, and the spider laughed to himself as he witnessed the prince committing such an unforgivable transgression by not only killing his bride by accident, but also slaying a halla.

“But even as Ghilan'nain blocked the arrow which would have pierced Tasallan’s heart and reached out to smite the hapless prince for his error, Mythal stayed his hand, explaining that the prince had been led into delusion by the spider, whom she banished into the caves which saw no light. Their power, however, was insufficient to undo the curse which the Forgotten Ones had lain so many years ago, at least not in the daytime, so although the prince gratefully tended for the halla and kept it in his stables, he did not know that Tasallan woke up every night on the stable floor, nor did the stable hands bother to check at night.

“Mythal pleaded with Elgar’nan to intercede on Tasallan’s behalf, but he said he could not act unless the prince himself realised the halla’s true nature. To this end, Mythal clouded the mind of one of the stable boys, making him leave the door unlocked, and Tasallan, finding the gate open, went her way into the palace, where the prince’s guards attempted to chase her out until Elgar’nan stopped the moon in the sky to cover the sun, transforming it back into Tasallan before the prince’s eyes, and the two of them reunited.

“The two of them married and lived happily ever after, but where Boranehn and the spider fled, no one knows to this day, save that the spider’s offspring now lurks in caves, ready to prey on careless wanderers. And that’s how that tale ends.”

With that, Rivka expectantly turned to Solas to see what kind of reaction he’d have, be it bemusement or a barely-restrained correction of some minor point or other in her story. To her surprise, he expressed neither, simply staring out to the frozen lake outside Haven, eyes glistening in the brilliant shine coming off the snow which blanketed the scenery.

“Solas?”, Rivka asked, trying to rouse his attention.

Slowly realising she’d called his name, Solas turned to her, casually wiping his eyes dry. “Hm? Ah, yes. That was a wonderful tale, lethallan.”

“Really”, she retorted, crossing her arms. “It seems you hardly were paying attention right at the end there, if we’re being honest.”

Waving his hand in front of his face defensively, he said, “That is untrue. It…simply dredged up some emotions, old and very powerful, I had experienced of those closest to Mythal, and how they would have appreciated her love and care as your Princess Tasallan had. And Elgar’nan…”

Rivka leaned forward, unfolding her arms and setting them on her knees, asking interestedly, “What of him?”

Solas laughed sharply, saying, “Oh, nothing, really. I’m just astonished that old All-Father was so positively restrained there. Were it up to me I’d have smote the spider from all existence, myself.”

“Creators forbid, Solas,” Rivka said. “Where would we get all that silk otherwise?”

Shrugging, he conceded, “You may well have a point there. I suppose they were good for something after all. I don’t know about you, but I shall retire to my quarters. You’ve given me a great deal to think about with that tale, I must say.”

“Oh?”

“Old memories kept alive by the young…” he said, trailing off, before adding, “Imagine if they were still here to listen to what stories your ilk had to say about them these days. I imagine they’d be quite amused.”

“The way of our people is that we can only hope that they do somehow…somewhere,” Rivka concluded, hooding her eyes and glancing towards the unclouded sun hanging over them all, turning away to gather her things and leave for a warmer choice of locales along with him.

-

@dadrunkwriting

[arielsojourner]

Still wanting to marry this fic Part 4

There is suddenly a plot. I wasn’t planning a plot. WTF? I wasn’t even planning this part (or any other parts, I had other dragon!Jaskier plot bunnies) but then I read the comments to my post and suddenly IDEA. It is wild how that happens! You can thank Ciri for this part. She didn’t want to leave things (or Geralt) alone so here you go! 

 So have another ficlet where dragon!Jaskier attends a music festival and causes a riot. My love of  @nemainofthewater‘s Shining Universe/dragon!Jaskier universe knows no bound  (her fic can be found here, READ IT AND MY OTHER FICLETS FIRST OR THIS WILL MAKE NO SENSE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562836?view_full_work=true ). 

Other ficlets (both connected and unconnected to this plot) are on my Tumblr under the tag #dragon!jaskier.

*

Geralt was climbing the most insane cliff side he’d ever seen over a turbulent sea. Geralt was doing this because if he didn’t Ciri said she would never speak to him again. 

At first in the face of that threat, Geralt had rejoiced. Fine! Don’t speak! He didn’t like a lot of noise when he traveled anyway! But then she’d followed through on her threat. She actually followed through! No one (Jaskier) had ever managed to successfully follow through on that threat! Not in 20 plus years! They (Jaskier) had always given in in under an hour and begun talking and singing again. But Ciri not only followed through she kept it up. For days. She spoke to Roach. She spoke to people on the road. She even spoke to a monster he was trying to kill but she wouldn’t. Speak. To. Geralt.

Not until he apologized to Jaskier.

Which was why he was now climbing this stupid gods be damned cliff. Because his child by surprised would not speak to him, would pretend to be deaf around him, until he hunted down the bard and apologized and the bard accepted his apology.

He never should have told Ciri about Jaskier. He should have held his tongue. He never had a problem holding his tongue around other people (Jaskier) before! But nooooo, she pestered him and prodded him and when she’d confessed she’d seen Jaskier fly off with a dragon of all things, Geralt had given the game away and she had pounced!

(“A dragon? What dragon? Jaskier was with a dragon?”

“Ah-ha! So you do know him! I never said his name was Jaskier!” She crowed. “You lied when you said you didn’t know him! He said he’d known you, had been your companion for 20 years! Tell me about him! Why is he with a dragon? How could you have traveled with him for so long when he’s so young? Is he your son? I thought Witchers couldn’t have children! Is he a mage? He said he was there when my parents got married! He said my father was a hedgehog! He said my mother had powers! What was he talking about? Tell me and don’t lie! I’ll know if you lie!”)

Geralt had caved like he hadn’t caved to anyone (Jaskier) in years. Slowly, in fits and starts, over many days, Ciri had pulled it out of him, one tale at a time. The Devil of Posada. The djinn. Her mother’s betrothal banquet. And finally, finally the mountain and the dragon hunt.

Ciri was very quiet by the end of the tale. She looked at him with  disappointment, some measure of pity, and a healthy dose of “You are a colossal idiot. Why do I love you again?”  If he was being honest with himself he would say he knew that look all too well, though it had been sometime since he had seen it on anyone (Jaskier’s) face.    

“You’re going to apologize,” Ciri said firmly and there was no argument in her voice, she sounded as commanding as her grandmother ever was. “You’re going to find him and you’re going to apologize to one of your oldest and dearest friends for being a-a horses ass and taking out your hurt on him just because he was there.”

“Don’t swear.”

“I’ll swear if I damn well please! You need to do this. You didn’t see his face when I was cruel to him, and said that he was a liar because I believed you instead. He was–he was so hurt that you’d never told me about him, that you pretended you never knew him. He asked if you were happy. He told me that was all that was important to him. That you were happy.”

Geralt turned away at that, unable to look in those earnest blue eyes that were so familiar to someone else’s (Jaskier’s) blue eyes. He felt a deep well of shame inside him that this time he couldn’t just push away or ignore or drown with drink or killing monsters. He had been cruel to someone who was kind to him and there was not much lower or more despicable than that, a person who repaid  caring with disdain and hatred.

“I don’t know where he is,” he finally said. “No one’s seen him for years before the festival. The songs mentioned a dragon kidnapping a bard. I-I asked Yennifer to look for him once, but she couldn’t find him.”

“Well obviously he’s with his father who’s a dragon and his sister who’s a dragon. You just told me Borch was a dragon in human form who rescued a dragon’s egg. So he’s with Borch. They must have adopted him or something like that. Like you did with me. We just need to find Borch and then you’ll find Jaskier. Simple.”

Not simple, Geralt was finding as he clung to the cliff side, inching his way up the sheer face to the opening that was barely visible but that Geralt had to trust was there. If he made it to the top and Jaskier wasn’t there Geralt was not going to be happy.

“Hello there!” a voice called from far above.

He knew that voice. Borch. He’d found the dragon’s home at last.  He risked lifting his chin to look up and saw the large scaled face peering down at him.

“Borch,” Geralt said in relief. “Don’t suppose you could give me a lift?” he asked.

“Sorry, no.”

Geralt gaped for a moment and then banged his forehead once against the cliff. “Fuck.” Ciri had warned him.  She’d told him Jaskier’s “family” was very caring and protective of him. That protection obviously meant protecting Jaskier from Geralt!

Well, he was just going to have to prove Jaskier’s family wrong, wasn’t he! With a grunt, he reached for the next tiny handhold with his finger tips and pulled himself up another few inches. His fingers searched for the next handhold above his head.

“Slow going?” Borch asked.

“This is not as easy as it looks! I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t --urg-- wouldn’t distract me!”

“My apologies,” came the sardonic response.

“Fuck.” It bared repeating as he pulled himself up another few inches, a rain of dirt filling his mouth. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“I do hope you’re language improves on your journey up to our home. I’m not in the habit of letting my children hear such curse words no matter how satisfying they are to say. I’ve just gotten Julian to stop saying and thinking them and you shan’t be talking to him if that is all you have to say.”

With a snarl, Geralt risked a glare up the sheer cliff side to where the dragon rested on the ledge, clawed arms folded as he took his ease in the afternoon light. “I am talking with Jaskier and I’ll use whatever language I fucking want to!”

“It would be a pity, Geralt of Rivia, for you to have made it all this way only to be sent straight back down this cliff again. The choice is yours, however. You are coming uninvited into our home and such language is not permitted in our home or around my children.”

He really didn’t have much of a choice, he realized. Borch could pluck him off the side of the cliff and throw him into the sea. He could reach the top only for the dragon to bat him off the side and even he would probably not survive a fall from this height.

“Fine. I’ll fucking watch my language after I scale the cliff. Happy?”

“I’d be happier if you would go back down but I know too well how stubborn you can be. Take your time,” the dragon called closing his eyes to take a nap in the sun.

“Fuck,” Geralt growled as he struggled for his next hand hold. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Better get it out of his system now, because dragon or no dragon, he was getting up this cliff and talking to Jaskier!

*

I have no idea where this came from. I have no idea what to write next but I hope you enjoyed this extra ficlet you sparked with your comments. :) Again, all hail and thanks goes to the amazing original author. I am just loving her dragon!Jaskier fic. I love ever bit of it to pieces. Go read and comment if you haven’t already! New chapters up daily. She is amazing!

[itsahardrockpunk]

I don’t know what changed between today and yesterday, but I

Maybe it /was/ yesterday, that I waited so long to go to campus and then I drove in the night anyway. That I sang on the way there and recorded on the way back home. That I went in silent and quiet (not particularly true), and put my full self into what I was doing. That at first it was just us three girls and maybe just that did a lot of good for me. That I went and laid on the steps when an airplane was going overhead and that I went back out there and threw clay against the wall. Maybe it was that I kept to myself a little more, didn’t reach so far over to say hello or goodbye or make an impression. That I said a quiet hello and a quieter goodbye, but still raised my head for the latter and crinkled my eyes for the former. That going in and out of the presence wasn’t forced or manipulated.

Being around others today, this morning, was an absolute joy.

Last night I voiced my concerns (to myself) abut how stagnant my art feels right now.

I think I now know why. There’s a reason I’ve been trapping myself in the process. There’s a reason I’ve been teary. The time is slipping right through my fingers, and I thought that I wouldn’t grasp it. Now I know that I can and am willing to put a stopper in the leak and save some morsels for me to kiss later on. I can go to the park after I get home from class and after I go to class. Nothing is stopping me. I may need to go out to visit, and that may hurt me now, but I won’t have to after that. It will be a single weekend and I will have a dozen weekends following it. It will get warmer and I will become stronger with myself and against my setbacks.

I want pictures and momentos and the clay that others have touched is a good start. I shan’t forget about those things and how I feel among them. I drove home today with a Cobi on repeat, and visions of startling the quiet corners against sidewalks and footpaths with the breasty rendition of the “down in the grass where I belong” line bursting forth every three (or so) minutes.

I drove, for the second time (in which we concern a “roundtrip drive” as a “time”), with windows down and song blasting from school to highway, and then from the first light off to the road I live on.

I am very nearly always on the precipice of flowing tears across my t shirt these days. I have felt hopeless for it and wondrous. I have allowed myself to cave where it wasn’t a good idea and I am still floating along. My heels are steady pressed into the ground, my neck shivers and I am awake, I press snooze as much as I used to, and I still get up, take a shower, put on clean underwear, and push dark makeup into my lashline for it.

The wind, an effervescence, the light, a towel slung across my cold shoulders. I am bright and young and I see what lays before me because I hold it all in the palm of my hand. It overflows and sinks straight into the depths of my wrinkles, black as they are—therefore bottomless—creases from my toes to my wrists.

I will still mourn and joy and the quality of it all will shine with whatever shade it likes. I will be awake at 1 am and asleep at six. I will feel that the shape of the heart is the only thing I know. And I will always be certain that I love and beg for it in the same breath, and that everything I say is heavy and fleeting.

Certainties and the things we say can lay no hands on feelings. They are my only truths, and they bind my soul to my self while I try as I might to bind myself to this earth.

I am thinking that my art is not what I thought it was right now. It is not the stagnant pool of looking at what I did there, and how I can do it again here. It is not the process video that I get lost in over and over until we reach the current state of things—where it feels so empty that those dreams could just die and I wouldn’t chase after the hole with a pitcher full of more.

Rather, right now, my art is the photograph of classmates, of the air and space around us. They are the things I have imprinted upon. These imprints have been my undoing and I manuever them into my safeties.

I pray I am not seeking acknowledgement, but rather seeking that which others have sought. Seeking a moment in time in which the ones I love may speak as witness to a realization of what they mean to me. What they so desperately mean to me. That I am heavy and tired and forlorn, and although I may have trapped myself in that /heavy/ too far and too often, they slice my time up and insert their innate magic between these pages. That their impact may be forgotten on most all accounts and maybe even especially by themselves, but I have not forgotten. I have dug my heels in so far against my knees that I must fill the pockets with new flesh, their old flesh. I am here but for a little while and I clasp tightly to their arms and their necks and their faces, and I press my forehead to theirs, and I go to sleep with their arms up and over my head, with their fingers in my hair and mine in theirs.

That I am alive and as much as the leaves crunch under my feet, so, too, do they crinkle in the muffled ways of wet newspaper and the foggy nights we’ve been having. Your words will become muffled and I will cry tears that pain my heart and I will not remember accurately or rightfully, maybe, but I grab on tightly to you and hold you so near that maybe my fears of driving people out and up and away from me will dissipate. Maybe they are genuine fears to be had—but after a couple weeks of mourning losses that never happen, I’ll resurface and see that I still have their hands against mine and their knees knocking on my doors. And when I smile, their eyes crinkle up until I can’t see anything except the way their voice tastes against my back. And I grow and live to adore and

And maybe I can share that.

[asmolbirb]

Pairing: Geralt & Jaskier, gen Word count: ~1k Warnings: angst Notes: as i mentioned in this post, i couldn’t stop thinking of “two minutes” by the amazing devil as jaskier’s reaction to his fight with geralt in rare species, and i finally managed to write a ficlet exploring that idea. i feel like i’m just going to end up writing a fic to every single the amazing devil song because they’re all so emotional and incredible for inspiration lmao. 

anyway, this is super unbeta’d and unedited, so this is still pretty raw both emotionally and creatively. sorry if there are any mistakes! idk if i’m going to toss this on ao3 as well, so please lmk if you’d like me to. 

***

Jaskier drops heavily onto the bench across from Geralt, as though the earth’s pull has increased twofold in an instant and Jaskier is helpless but to follow. He drains his mug in one long pull, grimaces as he thunks it down on the table, and gestures to the barmaid for another. While he waits for her to walk over, he pulls Geralt’s mug out of his hand and drains that as well. 

Soon a third mug is deposited in front of him, and a fourth in front of Geralt when Geralt turns a glare onto the barmaid. He expects Jaskier to bestow the same treatment on this drink as he had on the others, but instead Jaskier cradles the drink with both hands, his fingers interlaced, and stares into it as though it contains the lyrics to Jaskier’s next great masterpiece. 

In all this, not once does Jaskier look at Geralt. 

Geralt takes a long pull from his own drink, both to keep it out of Jaskier’s thieving hands and to avoid looking at the other man. Jaskier’s silence, once so coveted, now chafes. It’s a discomfort Geralt doesn’t want to examine too closely, so he ignores it, and it fades into the great tangle of bad feelings currently taking up residence behind his sternum. 

Finally, without preamble, Jaskier says, “Let’s not do this whole song and dance where you pretend you meant what you said and I pretend the words didn’t sting and we go on acting like we are simply strangers whose paths crossed through happenstance.

“I did mean them, I’m sure you’re planning to say,” Jaskier interjects, approximating a poor rendition of Geralt’s gravelly tone, before Geralt can say— well, exactly that. “To which I say, bollocks! You didn’t mean them. I know this because I know you. You don’t care for blessings or destiny or wishes, and if you had wanted me taken off your hands, you’d have done it yourself long before now.” He pulls one hand away from his mug to count with his fingers. “You could have pushed me into a ravine, maybe, or used me as monster bait, or simply ridden off and left me to plod along, steedless. But you didn’t.”

Geralt resists the urge to look away from Jaskier and settles for thinning his lips instead. Jaskier isn’t entirely wrong; even through the irritation thrumming like icefire beneath his skin, Geralt can admit he has had myriad opportunities to separate himself from Jaskier over the years. There is no logical explanation for why Jaskier is once again sat across from Geralt, rubbing salt into Geralt’s wounds with every word he says.

“So you don’t get to do this,” Jaskier insists, though his tone is still conversational, as though he is commenting on the fair weather or the cut of a woman’s bodice. “You don’t get to act like you’re not equally at fault for every complication that has entered your life — myself included. I may have shoveled the shit, but you’re the one who stood there and let me. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, mighty Witcher, but I have waded in after you every time to pull you out and clean you up again, with no regard for the shit staining my own trousers in the process.”

Jaskier swallows. He lowers his free hand to the tabletop, where his fingers begin drumming a constant tattoo against the surface. Slowly, as though he is tasting his words before releasing them, he continues, “I don’t expect you to apologize. I’m happy to play the fool, even now. That’s my role, isn’t it, in this two-man melodrama that we call our lives? I’ve been thinking, though, about what I said to you after Borch fell, and quite frankly, I am getting too old to deprive myself of the things that please me.”

Geralt stills at that. He had forgotten, between Jaskier’s inscrutably youthful looks and his stubborn insistence on surviving encounters that really ought to kill him, that Jaskier is human, with a lifespan a fraction of Geralt’s own. Jaskier will be dead long before Geralt reaches the midpoint of his own existence, Geralt realizes suddenly. If Jaskier had taken Geralt’s words to heart and disappeared before Geralt finally made the trek back down the mountain, Jaskier may have died with Geralt’s parting sally being the last thing Geralt ever said to him.

The thought makes Geralt’s stomach turn, though whether in vindictive pleasure or bitter remorse, Geralt doesn’t know.

“For example,” Jaskier is saying as Geralt tries fruitlessly to beat back the maelstrom currently swirling in his head. “Sleeping in open fields and shaded woods, the stars forming a glimmering tapestry overhead, without knowing what the next day will bring. A professionally crafted lute slung round my neck, its strings loose and familiar between my fingers, as a merry crowd claps and dances along. And your grumpy face peering at me from across the campfire, and ignoring me from Roach’s back, and telling me about monsters and adventures I could never imagine. 

“If you do not want me, then I will gladly leave you to brood alone while I set out to take the rest in whatever form I can find it. But life is short, Geralt, moreso for me than you, and — Melitele preserve me — I’d like to spend mine divesting you of the shit in which you so often find yourself.” Jaskier smiles ruefully. “Even the shit I’ve shoveled.”

Geralt still has not moved. He feels somewhat like he has taken all of his potions at once, and the world is splintering around him while he fights to regain his balance. 

“If you slip out without a word, I won’t fault you, and you shan’t hear from me again,” Jaskier says after a long moment. “But if you can find it in your heart to grant me one more chance, come find me, dear Witcher, and I’ll follow you without a word. A few harsh insults won’t succeed in banishing me where selkiemore guts and prolonged silence have failed, so let’s leave all that back at the dragon’s cave, yeah? I think I can forgive you, if you forgive me in turn.”

Finally Jaskier puts the mug he has been cradling all this time to his lips, and his throat pulses as he swallows. When he is finished, he sets it down next to the other empty mugs and stands, a smile stretching his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, though a casual observer would not know the difference.

Without ever having looked at Geralt, Jaskier turns to the bar, throws his arms out in invitation, and exclaims, “Who wants to hear a song, eh? The mighty bard Jaskier graces this lovely establishment tonight, eager to delight and enthrall, to make music and merry both!” 

Without ever having said a word, Geralt watches him leave. 

[elenothar]

TOLKIEN GEN WEEK DRABBLE #5 - The Creation of Nargothrond

Written for @tolkiengenweek. The fifth of my vaguely connected seven character studies of Finrod Felagund, who I have far too many feelings about.

DAY FIVE: diversity

Finrod could admit, if only to himself, that the building of Nargothrond had perhaps gripped him in slightly too fervent a fever. Architecture had always been of interest to him – in Tirion that had meant art and decorativeness more than defensibility and sturdiness, but the same fascination nonetheless reared its head now. He liked to think that the Lord Ulmo had sent him to the River Narog and Turgon to wherever Turgon had disappeared to (fewer caves and more air, if Finrod knew his friend at all) because the Vala had understood the pleasure it would bring Finrod to create grand underground halls of beauty and functionality, quite aside from the obvious strategic uses of a hidden elven stronghold in Beleriand.

While Menegroth loomed large in his mind, Finrod knew better than to try to recreate something crafted with the help of a Maia. Instead he had laboured long on the drawing of detailed plans – halls had taken shape under his fingertips, gates and rooms and hidden lookouts.

The same plans which Hervór was now bending over with a critical eye.

“You’ve got a good eye for this,” Hervór announced eventually, sounding grudgingly impressed.

They got along rather well, considering that most dwarf-elf interaction was grudging to some degree (owing, in Finrod’s opinion, equally to the secrecy of the dwarves and the unfortunate elvish tendency to think themselves the superior race in most matters). At least once she’d explained to him, with a surprising degree of patience, that she was in fact a dwarrowdam, not a dwarrow, and would like to be referred to as such. Mortified at the misunderstanding, Finrod had of course obliged, and received a truly fascinating lecture about dwarven genders for his troubles. Apparently, their custom was not to take biology as the main indicator, but let every dwarf child choose which gender spoke most to them once they were old enough to form an opinion on such matters. It sounded like a most efficient system.

She tapped on an outer part of the map of the caves that had been painstakingly assembled over the last few weeks. “The surveyors said this is the least stable area. You might need extra shoring there, particularly if you want to expand the natural caves outward.”

“We will have to,” Finrod murmured, gaze caught on his sketch of the throne room. Unlike his sister, he had not gone into exile intending to become a king. “The caves are too small to provide refuge for a whole people.”

Hervór’s dark eyes glinted under her bushy eyebrows. “Are you expecting trouble, lord?”

That he expected trouble was quite evident from the plans in front of them – and the fact that Finrod had chosen this particular set of caves for his new city in the first place.

“My heart, mind and foresight all warn me such,” Finrod said, a quiet sigh stirring the air. “But even were it not so, is there not a dwarvish saying which urges to rather have one column too many, than one too few?”

She laughs at that, deep and hearty. “We do indeed, though I shan’t ask where you heard it. I do not disapprove, but rather was surprised to find such dwarvish pragmatism in an elf.”

Finrod laughs too then. “The times are indeed strange.”

[larkiwrites]

“Redemption” Chapter 14

AU: Supernatural Title: Redemption Chapter: Fourteen Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader Word Count:  2,278 Pairing: Getting There…. Warnings: Mentions of being restrained, being undressed/re-clothed while unconscious. Violence and swearing. A/N: This chapter flips between (Y/N)’s POV and more of Dean’s POV. Feel free to provide feedback / comments / suggestions / etc. Thanks for sticking around.

Chapter 13  |  Chapter 15  |  Masterlist

The muscles in your arms and upper back screamed at you in pain as you hung from the metal shackles still binding your wrists. The man you had stumbled into had drug you by the restraints back to the cavern’s entrance, allowing the rocks and branches on the forest floor to scrape at the underside of your legs and back. You had tried to escape but he was larger and stronger than you and had effortlessly knocked you off of your feet. Several other men came to assist him when he arrived at the cave with you in tow. He barked orders at the group and they scurried to follow them, taking you from the man and carrying you, kicking and screaming, to a nearby river. A large tree stood at its bank, a sturdy branch extending over the coursing waters. It was from this branch that you now hung; your shackles having been connected to a chain that acted as a pulley. At first you tried to hold tightly to the chain, to keep pressure off of your skin and wrists, but before long you had lost all stamina and now hung limply.

The darkness in the forest had begun to retreat as the twilight just before dawn arrived. You were fucked, and you knew it. There was no escape at this point and while a small portion of you was afraid of dying, the majority just wanted to be done. You were tired. Your life was an utter shit-show from the moment you awoke in that hospital room however many months ago. Hell, as far as you know, it was a shit-show before then, too. At least you could say you tried to get away. You fought every inch of the way, clear up until there was no fight left to give. You could be proud of yourself with that knowledge and hopefully when your body gave out you could move on to whatever comes after this life.

“(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N),” the man that had caught you earlier tutted, shaking his head. You raised your head ever so slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. You returned his stare as confidently as you could. You weren’t afraid of him and even if you didn’t look forward to whatever he had planned, you weren’t going to show him any weakness if you could help it.

“Giving up so soon?” He asked, as if reading your earlier thoughts, “as a companion of the Winchesters, I thought you would be stronger than you are.”

You cocked an eyebrow questioningly before retorting hoarsely, “Yeah, well, I thought you would be taller.”

The man chuckled as he leaned against the tree. He blinked once as you stared him down. A gasp escaped you, before you could try to stop it, when he opened his eyes once more. Fear rushed over you as you found that they had been encompassed in an inky pitch-black color, devoid of any human qualities.

“What, you don’t know what I am?” his voice was icy cold and sent a chill down your spine. You couldn’t respond, still in shock at what stood before you. “How is that possible, hmm? (Y/N), your cohorts are the Winchesters, are they not?”

Your eyes flitted back and forth between his. You still did not answer, not trusting your voice and not wanting to show him just how much the change had affected you. Instead you forced yourself to roll your eyes and look back down to the water beneath you. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he finally did instill fear in you.

“How odd,” he mused, folding his arms over his chest as he continued, “The Winchesters certainly know of my kind. They would recognize me instantly, in fact. It is peculiar that you travel with them yet have no knowledge of us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you lifted your head to meet his gaze once more, “Save it, princess. Go tell your story to someone that gives a shit.”

“Oh, but you do, (Y/N). You see,” he began as he edged ever closer to you, until the river’s current lapped at the toes of his boots, “It was a dear friend of mine that had borrowed you. It was the lovely Winchesters that forced my friend to give you up, and then like salt to a wound- they forced her back to hell, (Y/N). As you can guess, I’m not the biggest fan of the Winchester brothers, and frankly, if my friend can’t occupy you, then we may as well make your meatsuit worth something, shan’t we?”

“Listen, coocoo-for-crazy-puffs, I think perhaps you should take your daily medication and leave me the hell out of it,” Your mind raced at his words. His friend had ‘borrowed’ you and ‘occupied’ you? What the fuck did that even mean?

“Do you really not remember the wonderful times we have had together, (Y/N)? You and I have travelled this country twice over, at least,” he paused to take in your expression. Satisfied with the perplexed look you held, he went on “It started over a year ago, my dear girl. You were waiting for the subway in Chicago.”

Images flooded your mind at the name of the city. Immense buildings, harsh weather, gritty neighborhoods, seas of strangers continually boarding and disembarking the underground rail system. Your eyes widened as he continued.

“You were in tears, you poor thing. I think, if I recall, your significant other had just broken things off with you. This was ideal for my friend, you see. Being emotionally distraught leaves you wide open for possession my dear,” he chuckled as he watched the emotions that crossed your face; confusion, fear, anger. “Do you remember now, (Y/N)?”

It was as if a floodgate had opened. An onslaught of memories came pouring out, threatening to drown you. They weren’t all in order, nor were they coherent, but you remembered the black-eyed man that stood before you. You remembered him standing before you in that subway station so long ago, it seemed like another lifetime. He had acted afraid, had claimed his friend was injured and he needed your help. You had rushed with him to the side of an immobilized human lying on the platform opposite of you. Blood spilled from them freely and you were certain they would die, you weren’t a nurse or a doctor, you had no knowledge on saving someone in their situation. As you had stripped from your jacket, hoping to somehow use it to stop the bleeding, the person had smiled. The smile was unnerving, just as the man before you had smiled when he caught you running in the woods. He hadn’t even tried to help you with his so-called friend, he had stood back and watched, waiting patiently. Within moments black smoke exited the broken body in front of you and before you could put words to what you were seeing, it entered you. You were pushed down and locked away in your own psyche as it took over.

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

“Been there, done that,” he sniggered at you.

Screams erupted from near the cave, drawing the man’s attention away from you. He was gone in an instant and you were left hanging, alone with your thoughts. Whatever had caused an alarm was behind you and you couldn’t turn to see it. Instead you hung limply, remembering the distorted images from the subway. The human died before your eyes as something else inhabited you, took charge of your limbs and forced you to turn and walk away from the scene. Your feet led you, and the black-eyed man from before, to your parent’s home on the outskirts of Chicago. Your hands stole the life out of your mother while your father was at work. Your body was used to attack and kill him next, when he returned home that evening. You and the black-eyed man dragged their lifeless bodies to the basement and just left them there to rot. Tears streamed down your face as your mind recalled the details.

“(Y/N)!” a deep voice called your name as you cried. You couldn’t bring yourself to look, you didn’t care who it was now. It could be the black-eyed man or any of his cronies and it wouldn’t matter. You just wanted them to put you out of your misery, you wanted to be done.

You felt your body being lowered toward the water. So, it will be by drowning, you thought to yourself. I deserve it after what I did, what I’ve done. Your thoughts trailed off as your bare feet entered the frigid river. You hadn’t expected it to be quite so cold, but you supposed it made sense with autumn well under way. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as the cold water rose to your knees.

Someone worked at the chains holding you. You wondered why they wouldn’t simply lower you into the river further? Maybe they were going to tie you to something heavy…something that would drag you down beneath the surface. That would make sense.

“Fuck, (Y/N), sweetheart, I need you to work with me here.”

Your eyes flew open at the sound of the familiar voice. You were seeing things, you must be. There was no way he could have found you, how would he have known where to even begin looking? Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks as your feet sought the rocky bed of the river, seeking out some sort of leverage. You found a rock and were able to tip-toe onto it, using it to push the shackles and chains upward.

“Yes, perfect, almost,” he spoke as the oversized hook that clung to the chains between your wrists was pulled away, letting your arms fall. You fell with them, no longer having the strength to hold yourself up. The man caught you before you could hit the water, easily lifting you in his arms. He climbed from the river and sat you on the soft mossy bank, his left arm still under your neck as his right arm inspected the gouge in your side.

“Dean?” you whimpered; not sure you could believe your eyes. His green orbs came back to yours quickly, his expression full of concern.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me. I’ve got you.”

“S-sam?” you stuttered, a chill running through you. Between the skimpy clothing and the icy water you had been in, you had begun to freeze.

“He’s not far, we’ve got you, you’re ok,” Dean swiftly shed his leather coat from his torso and instead wrapped it about you. “I’m going to pick you up now, ok?”

You nodded in response, trying to hold his coat tightly about you with what little strength you had left in your fingers. The smell of the leather overwhelmed your senses, bringing with it a sudden and immense feeling of comfort and relief. Within moments you succumbed to darkness.

---

*Dean’s POV

Dean held you tightly to him as he stood. Exhaustion had taken you and you now rested unconsciously in his arms. Fire lit up the forest near the cave and screams could be heard in the distance, most of the townspeople having fled the moment the spark had been lit. Dean adjusted you in his grip and began down the riverbank, moving as quickly and steadily as he could.

You were already hanging above the water by the time he and Sam had found you. Anger had rushed over him at the site of your bruised and torn body. With limited options, he had handed his car keys and his lighter to his brother and urged the younger Winchester to go. Sam had snuck up to the hill above the cave’s entrance and had begun setting small fires as quickly as he could. The plan was for him to light up the hillside and then get the hell out of here, back to the motel and the car. He was to pack up whatever he could and bring the car up to the edge of the cornfield, ready and waiting for Dean and (Y/N).

The older hunter silently watched and listened as the demon trudged up your memories, unable to intervene. He couldn’t take a demon on his own and, as much as he wanted to kill that son of a bitch, you and your safety were more important. All hell broke loose, no pun intended, as soon as the flames were spotted by guards near the cave. The demon took off toward the fire and Dean swooped in.

The adrenaline that coursed through Dean’s veins caused the trek down through the woods and cornfield to pass in the blink of an eye. As quickly and gently as he could, he slid you and himself into the back of the Impala, imploring Sam to drive. Sam’s long legs had no problem flooring the pedal and they took off, putting the horrendous town in the rearview mirror as quickly as they could.

“Does she need a hospital?” the younger Winchester asked, glancing back at his brother.

“I’m not sure, Sammy. Her pulse is strong, but she is freezing and seems to have bled quite a bit…” he trailed off as he moved his coat away from (Y/N)’s figure and inspected her wounds. Sam slipped out of his jacket as he drove and handed it over the seat to his brother. Dean took it and wrapped it around (Y/N)’s bare legs, hoping that would be enough for now.

“Bobby’s?” Sam asked as he navigated the car on the open road.

“Yeah, Bobby’s…”

----

-Next Chapter-

[amwritingmeta]

4x06 Deconstruction: This One Goes Out to All of Dean’s Fears

I started working on this after 14x19 and it’s been sat in a document folder needing to be turned into a post ever since. With all the fairly delicious callbacks to this particular ep in 15x07 this seems the opportune time to give it a polish and share. Hope y’all will enjoy!  xx

So, I’ve been meaning to do this ever since I wrote this meta on 4x05, because watching the opening half of S4 is like taking a nose dive into Dean’s character and what he needs to understand about himself in order to let go of old patterns of behaviour and belief systems, grow into his own person and find the answer to what will actually make him happy. 

The trajectory of this nose dive is set up through Castiel arriving on the scene with his way of looking into Dean’s soul and stating uncomfortable truths: You don’t think you deserve to be saved and Good Things Do Happen. 

S4 and Dean’s rebirth (or his rehymination, as he calls it in 4x05) is all about setting him on the path towards adulthood. This is where his coming-of-age story really begins in earnest. The need for him to let go of old patterns of behaviour has been hit on throughout S1-3, but those first seasons act more as a setting up of this fact, letting us follow the behavioural pattern, whereas in S4 we start to get more contrasts to it, including discovering new sides to him, like exactly how much he knows and reads etc.

Now, let’s focus on how Yellow Fever explores Dean’s inner fears and explicitly lets him know that he has to confront them. 

This episode states that this is the work that’s beginning for him, whether he likes it or not. 

(he likes it not) (which is why he rejects the proposition in the episode’s final scene) (and has continued to reject it out of narrative necessity ever since) (but I skip ahead)

I’m late to the party here, so I’m #sorrynotsorry for the repetition, but I’m really eager to finally dig into this episode, since how it comes off the back of 4x05 and how it leads right into the absolute smasher that is 4x07 has felt so weighty to me ever since I deconstructed Monster Movie.

Contemplating the visual and thematic callback in 14x16 to this very episode, established through Felix the snake, as well as the most recent callback we got through that lovely piece of dialogue in 15x07, I feel that the intricately crafted exploration of Dean’s fears in 4x06, and the stated need for him to confront them if he’s to be happy, is more intriguing than ever.

Alright, before we go ahead and dig in, I want to present you with a few thoughts on Dean. Namely, I’d like to list the fears I see this episode exploring and they are:

Fear of Rejection (linked to perception of societal judgement)

Fear of Death (linked to Hell)

Fear of Growth and Internal Transformation (linked to fear of happiness)

Fear of Happiness (linked to losing his mother at a young age)

Fear of Failure (linked to Protect Sammy, and, in turn, linked to all the above)

These fears, and how they interlink in rather amazing ways, inform his behaviour, and it’s his behaviour when confronted with all of these fears that the narrative of 4x06 explores. And to my brain it does so in staggering ways, yeah?

Yeah. Okay. Let’s dig.

Little Pink Bow

We start the episode with Dean, running for his life, terrified. 

I mean, he is literally running from his fears. It’s rather gorgeous. 

The scene also paints the mood for the rest of the episode, where Dean’s skewed perception of the root of his fears are explored in depth. 

As a viewer, you’re brought into the belief that Dean is truly running from Hellhounds because, of course, this belief is effectively established through use of sound as Dean is running away from the noise of barking dogs, teasing the idea that the fear Dean’s displaying has to do with seriously bad memories of getting ripped to shreds and sent to Hell. (remember that we’ve only had glimpses through snippets of nightmares up until now of how much Dean actually remembers of his time there)

The scene itself is shot with urgency and real threat. We feel Dean’s fear. We worry for him. We wonder what the fuck is going on. We don’t want him to get attacked and dragged back to Hell! 

We get an abrupt stop to Dean’s flight when he crashes into the cart of a homeless man, but Dean’s on his feet quick enough and it’s put in dialogue that what you should do is run from your fears. Because if you don’t, they’ll kill you! And then…

…we get the tiniest, friendliest little dog, complete with pink bow as a visual aid underlining exactly how non-threatening it really is meant to be perceived by us.

This reveal of Dean not being about to get dragged back to Hell is funny, obviously, on many levels because we’re relieved that Dean’s terror is unfounded, and then we get hit with the understanding of Dean the Soldier Warrior Man running away from the sweetest little creature ever.

So, though this is sincerely funny thanks to impeccable acting, to me, there’s a bit more to it, and it’s to do with how this scene really sets the tone for the entire episode.

This tone is all to do with the exploration of Dean’s character makeup and what really makes him tick. 

Surface level narrative explores our first impression of what this episode is about: Dean’s fear of dying and going back to Hell. (Run! It’ll kill you!) This episode is about to lay it bare to us how Dean’s struggling with his memories of Hell, with his lingering fear that God has made a serious mistake and that it’ll all get ripped away from him again. 

His feelings of guilt at how he caved and began to torture souls keeping his self-loathing as intact as ever, and that self-loathing keeps him feeling, very much, that he didn’t deserve to be saved. Which feeds his fear that it was all a big mistake. And around and around it goes.

But his persistent self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness are in turn anchored entirely in fears that have been with Dean his whole life. The fears listed above in the intro to this analysis. And, to me, these fears are what that pink bow is about. 

Because subtextually I see Dean running from himself when he tries to escape that little dog. He’s running from fears that are, if he really dared open his eyes and look at them, not nearly as threatening as he thinks they are. If he just dared recognise them for what they are and begin to face them, he’d see that they’re no more dangerous than that little dog is.

Subtextual level narrative explores those fears, the ones intrinsic to Dean’s character, the ones feeding the surface level narrative fear of Hell and that are keeping the guilt and sense of worthlessness and lack of faith in himself very much at the forefront of his self-perception.

S4 is all about pushing Dean to open up to who he truly is. It’s about asking himself what will make him happy. It’s all about identity. And, yes, the series as a whole is about identity, but this season pushes that theme into a whole new focus from previous seasons. 

There’s a shift with Castiel entering the narrative and God reaching down a hand to give Dean a mission. There’s tentative faith beginning to blossom in Dean, which is a hugely important building block for Dean to dare to face his fears, and is also something this episode picks up from 4x05 (It’s kind of like a mission… Like a mission from God…) and builds on.

His Heart Gave Out

So, we get an immediate plant that what we’re about to deal with is matters of the heart. 

This plant is important for the plot of the episode, of course, but symbolically hearts are tied to Dean and it’s been implied since as early as 2x01 (ah @mittensmorgul​ pointed out that it actually starts in 1x12 and of course! how could I neglect the episode that started the faith thread?? tut! thanks for the pointer Laura!) that heart issues could be what kills him, rather than a bullet between the eyes. Right? 

Right. But rather than looking at it as a direct foreshadowing of Dean’s death, it could be seen as a comment on what is keeping him from living, and what’s keeping him from truly living is the fact that he’s unable to open his heart, to have faith, to trust. (and how can you follow your heart if you don’t trust it?) (you can’t is how)

Also very much the reason why Castiel the angel of Heaven and bringer of faith (who’s biggest problem is having too much heart) has stepped onto the scene, but I shan’t digress. 

The fact that the coroner actually takes out the heart of our vic and places it in Dean’s hands gets a rather amazing bookend moment in the scene where Lilith tells Dean he knows why this is happening to him and that he should listen to his heart. *slow eyebrow raise* I’ll get back to that.

Sheriff’s Office

Please note that the cute young deputy is already noticing Dean, and Dean notices him noticing, and Sam is noticing them noticing each other. This is important to note not only because it’s fucking amazing to make note of it, but also because of the Moment that comes later. We all know it, I still gotta call it out, but that’s for later.

Now for the sheriff.

I just want us to make note of a few things regarding the sheriff as well:

The sheriff gave the deputy instructions he didn’t want to be disturbed and now scolds him for doing as told

The sheriff gets the brothers to take their shoes off

The sheriff keeps putting disinfectant on his hands

Conclusion, he’s a control freak, and he’s a control freak because? 

I’d say he’s a control freak out of fear. A man doesn’t use disinfectant like that if he’s not terrified of germs, right? And this character trait lowkey links him to another control freak germaphobe. Yup, that would be Dean.

I’d also like us to note that Dean can’t stay professional and act like an actual adult (because he’s not one) when the sheriff says the word gamecock. The sheriff, being an actual adult, gently corrects the behaviour, leaving Dean looking self-conscious.

Could Be a Hundred Things

We continue the setting up of how Dean’s fears are about to go through some serious deconstruction, and with it the man himself, when Sam and Dean leave the sheriff’s office to have this exchange (edited btw):

Dean: Something scared him to death. Sam: Alright, so what could do that? Dean: What can’t? Ghosts, vampires, chupacabra. It could be a hundred things. Sam: So, we make a list and start crossing things off.

Yeah, remember the list I made of Dean’s fears? Going through that list and exploring Dean’s fears is what the narrative of this episode is setting up to do. Dean is, as the brothers are soon to realise, infected with the same ghost sickness that killed the vic. So here we have foreshadowing, in dialogue, of exactly what this episode means to do: go through the list of Dean’s fears and highlight, with each new situation where one of these fears is explored, exactly what Dean’s issues are and why the biggest one is… his closed off heart.

First fear: rejection.

Because why exactly do those teenagers make Dean need to cross the street? He doesn’t like the look of them, but why? They’re just a group of friends standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight. 

I’d say it’s to do with Dean’s fear of societal judgement, that has kept the conviction and reliance on his toxic masculinity armour so firmly in place for so long. Even firmer in place, I’d argue, than John’s immediate influence. 

John introduced it as a necessity for survival, for keeping your head focused in a fight, for putting emotion aside and getting the job done, but wearing the armour also meant social status and acceptance, even admiration. I think Dean caught onto this at a young age. Because that’s how we all form our personas (how we present ourselves to the world), through societal conditioning. Or through growing aware of this conditioning and telling it to go fuck itself. (good for you if you’re in that place) (Dean’s journey has been all about getting there) 

The fact that Dean’s insecurity stretches to even the possibility of teenagers side-eyeing him is a really great set-up for how this very deep fear is about to get put under an extremely bright light for the rest of the episode, through Luther’s storyline. 

She Smells Fear

Sam and Dean go to see the vic’s neighbour Mark and oh, he really, really likes his reptiles. 

Second fear: growth and internal transformation.

Why do I see this scene as being indicative of this fear? Well, because of how snakes, as we know, symbolise transformation. They symbolise healing. (Ouroboros anyone?) 

Now, of course, surface narratively speaking, Dean doesn’t exactly enjoy having a huge albino python sliterhing onto his lap (though the dirtier connotations that can be made from the visual are all shades hilariously poignant) (also the fact that the Devil was a snake and Dean’s fear of Hell) (all part of the symbology for the surface level fear), but him freaking out at all the reptiles and one spider (also symbolic of transformation), to me, has much more to do with what these creatures all declare for the subtextual reading (the pink bow related one), and their declaration is a continuation of what 4x01 told us.

Dean needs to open himself up to much needed internal growth and transformation.

This is what the first five episodes of the season, landing us here in 4x06, are all about: deconstructing Dean, forcing him to gain new perspectives on himself, on his behavioural patterns, on what has shaped him into the man he’s always seen himself as. 

Look at how, in just a few short episodes, he’s had someone enter his life that has not only brought with him a whole new world view, where God and the Devil exist, and where Heaven, for whatever reason, actually seems to be on his side, but this someone has also brought him back in time to bring him a new understanding of his mother and who she really was, not who she was when filtered through John’s view of her. 

I mean, that’s giving an insight into his lack of faith in himself as well as laying the foundation for beginning to question his self-perception right there. Within the first three episodes of the season. *head explodes*

So, to my mind, this episode is an extension and, in many ways, a deepening of what the season has clearly set itself out to do, yeah?

The fact that Marie is stated in dialogue to smell fear is just delightful. 

Might I also draw your eye to how we, in this scene, are told that the vic was freaking out. About witches. Who is skeeved out by witches? Dean. So there’s a narrative tie there, which I find interesting. (that the witch-freakout for Frank is tied to The Wizard of Oz comment is just icing)

Why is Dean so skeeved out by witches? I would say because witches symbolise something deeply regressed within him, which is his feminine side. His non-performing side. Rowena comes as a Dean mirror, and a very powerful one at that, bringing deep truth and standing in, for her first seasons, as a representative of toxic masculinity traits not simply being allocated to men and underlining how we can all display these traits, regardless of gender.

There’s also the ghosts (the past), the vampires (dual nature of identity and wearing a mask to cope) and chupacabra (happiness, mayhaps?), and how Carl Jung talks about what monsters really represent to us and why they’re so prevailing throughout human mythology. I mean, I studied this at uni so Carl didn’t teach me this, but the fact that it ties in with Carl Jung’s doctrine just gives me a sense of synchronicity. But. This is already getting fucking long, guys. :)

Moving on.

When Mark says that Frank used to tape his butt cheeks together we get another moment of Dean being an absolute child about it, unable to keep a smile down, presumably at the idea of butt cheeks taped together, not the idea of bullying, and again he totally offends the person talking, and he grows sligthly self-conscious about it. 

He really needs some self-perspective, yeah? Yeah.

Scratching the Itch

I mean… Look, I think that Dean has never been able to scratch the proverbial itch because what he’s the most scared of is the idea of daring to believe in a good thing happening, because good things do not last, not in Dean’s experience. You know? 

He’s a big-hearted, soft-to-the-core, loving type of human being, who longs, more than anything, for real love, to be loved for who he truly is. And all of that, including his true identity, is being repressed out of his fear. Of happiness. Because Good Things Don’t Last. 

I’ll talk more about the root of this further down, but I just find the fact that in this episode, the ghost sickness, which is a manifestation of fear, is literally an itch he keeps trying to scratch, and it just gets bigger and worse and is a visual statement of how his internalised fears are pretty much driving him out of his head is a rather poetic choice.

So, we get the information that Frank’s wife committed suicide way back when and that Frank had an airtight alibi and then we get the reveal that Dean appears to be, by all accounts, haunted.

Ghosts as representatives of needing to put the past to rest… Just throwing that in there.

And Dean is driving slow. 

Second fear: death.

And this was already established through the fear of Hellhounds at the beginning of the episode, yeah? But given the deeper issues being addressed here, you could actually argue for Dean’s fear of death not only being linked to a very real fear of Hell, but of a genuine desire to live.

Peeling back the layers of the Blaze of Glory bravado that’s kept him on a self-destructive fast-track for so long and revealing the softer belly underneath. 

I mean, one could argue. Since this episode is all about stripping away the toxic masculinity armour and showing the non-performing side to Dean. Showing us the truth, rather than the lie he’s been telling Sam since he got back from Hell. And on a subtextual level, stripping away the armour that’s keeping him safe from himself and exposing those nerve endings.

Because he should listen to his heart. 

But we’ll get to that.

Eye of the Tiger

I really do appreciate the detail of the cowboy scene on that hotel. Like. Wow. It’s almost insane. To me, this show is all about deconstructing the American ideal of the 50s, right? The ideal that’s informed toxic masculinity patterns since then, as well as the toxic patterns of societal judgement at large. 

It was in the 50s that the Hollywood western shaped the cowboy/sheriff character into becoming a glorifed male hero ideal, moving away from the truth of the rather open-minded wild wild west and into the commersial version of a very white, very straight man’s man who got the job done, no matter what, and sorted shit out wherever he went. Yeah? 

Anyway, I digress. This deconstruction is why cowboys and native americans and the wild west symbology is just so poignant on the show. And here it is. In all its glory. Attached to a hotel that could be said to be low-key linked to happiness.

Because the bluebird is a symbol of happiness.

Fourth fear: happiness.

And, look, Dean’s fear of heights is linked to the hotel, okay? His fear of flying. And flying is linked to? Yeah, you get the idea here. Of course, Castiel. 

Here’s the thing, this is a highly dubious reading, because it’s absolutely not anywhere in the narrative that Bluebird is the chosen name for a hotel suddenly related to a fear of heights related to a fear of flying and being out of control and it tying back to Cas, who is making Dean feel all sorts of not-in-control. Yeah? That’s my reading.

But it’s my reading because there’s more. 

Wait for it.

First, let’s talk a bit more about this scene —>

Dean rejects food. (love Sam’s reaction face like the fuck?) 

Why the fuck does Dean reject the food?

I’d say because food is a superficial band-aid, right? It’s ineffective comfort at this point. A way to eat his emotions, rather than find healthy outlets for them, like, I don’t know, actually connecting to others because that’s just a recipe for disaster, death and loss. But his emotions, right now, will not be suppressed by simple means. They’re completely in control of him and refuse to be put back in their designated boxes. 

So the ghost sickness can be spread like any disease and, of course, attacks the heart. Dean got infected when holding Frank’s heart. 

Sam didn’t get infected and Sam and Bobby’s theory is that the men who got infected all had a history of being dicks. Which is, you know, funny, but tragic, when looking at the surface level fear of Hell. Because Dean became a torturer of souls. So kinda a dick. Very much using fear as his weapon. 

But when it comes to the principal and the bouncer, it’s not verified that they did. Sam and Bobby are just associating using fear as a weapon with the roles of principal and bouncer. Especially when looking at how Dean tries to reject the idea that he, as a hunter, uses fear to scare people, Sam telling him all they do is scare people, and fair enough, but the ghost sickness isn’t infecting Sam.

And it isn’t infecting Sam because, for the subtextual layer of Dean’s fear, this theory is too shallow.

For the subtextual layer of Dean’s fears I’d say that the ghost sickness actually latches onto guilt.

There’s even the aspect to Frank where guilt might actually be the foremost reason for why the ghost sickness infects him as well, since we’ll learn later through Luther’s brother that Frank’s wife wasn’t killed, but was a victim of suicide. We don’t get it extrapolated on what caused her to take her own life, but safe to say her marriage was anything but healthy, and Frank’s outrage and murder of Luther seems to be underpinned by him being wholly unable to process his own guilt,  instead ending up projecting it onto an easy target.

baby gonna cry?

The fear of dying and of going back to Hell is threaded through in this scene, clarifying it further for us that this is what Dean’s terrified of. 

The ticking clock pretty much acting like a visual underlining of Dean feeling like he’s back on borrowed time. It’s inevitable that he has to go back. For all the things he did while there. He can’t have been forgiven. He sure as shit hasn’t forgiven himself. 

Dean breaks the clock. Doesn’t need the reminder of how his head is, as he tells Sam, on the chopping block again. He’d almost forgotten what that feels like.

For a moment. Like a glimmer. There had been the thought that he was serving something bigger. That maybe he was off the hook. Chosen to do great deeds. Aw, Dean. You’re not meant to learn how to have faith in a higher power. You’re meant to learn how to have faith in yourself.

They realise, as Dean coughs up a wood chip, that he’s the biggest clue they have.

Dean doesn’t like it.

Cassity & Sons

Now. Of all the things to call this lumber mill, this haunted structure - housing Luther, our ghost of the hour who is in the narrative to be representative of Dean’s deepest issues, his most repressed fear - of all the things to call it, there’s a Cass in the name. 

It could just be a tounge-in-cheek thing. It could mean nothing. But I like to think it does. Coming off of the absolutely angel riddled narrative of 4x05 as well, I really do think it does.

From the Bluebird of happiness and Dean’s fear of flying/heights, to the structure that is about to be significant in exploring Dean’s deepest fear being owned by a man named Cassity… I feel there’s reason to think there’s a reason for it. 

But, either way, this structure and Luther himself are important for exploring Dean’s deepest fears.

(they’re not playing around with the sign and making sure to linger on it either)

Now. Dean takes one look at this place. A place he has no idea if it’s haunted or not, btw. And states he is not going in there. Sure, nine times out of ten a place like that, given Dean’s previous experience with places like this, turns out to be haunted. Fair enough.

But in a subtextual context, with the structure itself owned and run by Cassity… 

Dean doesn’t want to go in there because of what he’ll have to face. Which is, in essence, the need to face up to the fact that he’s already beginning to open himself up to the idea of change, to wanting change, because of this formidable someone who’s arrived in his life through a rain of sparks as a catalyst for Dean to begin to gain a sense of what faith actually feels like.

Dean doesn’t want to touch all that with a ten-foot pole. 

Because, and this is wholly unconscious, but because touching it means daring to have faith that Good Things Do Happen. And because Dean’s fear of happiness is fed by the conviction that Good Things Don’t Last, and this fear sits at his very core and so – he drinks.

He downs half a bottle of whiskey.

Because he’s gonna need liquid courage to face the idea of opening himself up.

And he mans the flashlight.

Rejecting that gun is interesting, because, of course it’s tied to his fear of injury resulting in death, but it’s also Dean rejecting something that’s always brought him a sense of control before. 

Consider: as he’s brought into situations of facing his fears, his armour falls away and the tools that  that armour relies on, to make him feel in control, don’t actually fill that function anymore.

Regarding Dean relies on that same peeling back of Dean’s layers, yeah? That same deconstruction. The shedding of the toxic masculinity armour to have a peak at what’s really underneath it all.

Dean masks his fear and he masks it really well. He feels he’s on control, all the time, thanks to the mask, thanks to the armour, but the truth is that he is a bundle of fear. Always. He’s just gotten so good at masking it that he’s masking the truth even to himself.

That’s what this episode is all about. Lifting that curtain. Forcing him into a position where all that raw emotion is exposed and he can’t lie to himself anymore. It helps set up the reveal of how he remembers Hell, but it also sets up for Dean’s journey of introspection this season, yeah?

Surface level vs. subtextual level.

EMF

If ghosts are representatives of the past (and needing to learn how to let go) then the fact that Dean is dealing with fears that were established in his childhood, meaning he’s one hundred percent facing his past and what’s shaped him into who he is with every new situation this episode, then that EMF meter wouldn’t work around him, would it?

He’s haunted by his past. Suppressed Hell-guilt, and repressed fears anchored in his childhood. Oh my.

I love Sam in this episode. He’s unfortunately a reactionary character, the straight man, as you’d call it, because this isn’t his journey, but oh what a reactionary character he is. Also —>

Can’t do a post on this episode and not have Dean screaming his head off. *sadism*

Now, I very much enjoy the fact that, once it’s time to do the detecting, Dean takes part in it without hesitation. Autopilot kicks in and he engages with the search for clues without any fear, because there’s nothing scary about it.

But when the ghost (the past) appears, he runs like the damn wind.

Sam is there, though, to take care of it.

And Dean downs the rest of the bottle. Taking us into that epicness of epicnessess that is —>

Drunk and Unabashedly Flirty

I mean, look, okay? This is blatant.

Dean stands there, having a slightly worried expression on when he notices the woman to his right, glancing over at her suspiciously, okay? We get that he’s still scratching at the itch, he’s still alert, even though he is drunk, right?

But what does not faze him? What makes him put on a goofy smile? The very cute (I’d even call him a pretty boy) deputy from earlier, with whom he exchanged looks, so that there’s an already established sense of mutual attraction there. 

Dean: You know what? You’re awesome.

And then Dean just keeps smiling goofily, taking the compliment that’s offered back to him, until Sam comes and pulls him out of there. 

And the fact that this is the one instance in this entire episode after the ghost sickness kicks in that Dean is not displaying even a whisper of fear is what has informed my impression of him being absolutely comfortable with his bisexuality. 

Here he’s dropping the toxic masculinty armour because?

Well, I’d say it’s because he wears that armour because it allows him to suppress/repress whatever fear is threatening to surface. Here, in this episode, we’re checking off a list, and he’s faced his fears at this point, and now only has to acknowledge them and learn how to actually dig deep and deal with them. (which he won’t) (but this episode is exposition for this being what the narrative wants him to do) (this is the big lesson it’s trying to teach Dean moving forward) (listen to your heart)

Luther

The habit of lying without a second thought (including to himself) is being stripped away with the rest of his coping mechanisms and here we get Dean freaking out over the thought of all the possible consequences that lying might actually land on their heads. 

Sam acts the parental figure as Dean regresses out of his control freak patterns and into a state where he’s in need of Sam’s protection, not the other way around. Whenever this happens on the show it’s always nice to see Sam stepping up to the plate without hesitation. It’s just that Sam doesn’t seem to remember his ability to do that and falls back on the codependency easily enough. Understandable, since it’s the core of the narrative motor, but oh, Sam. You’re such a clear leader.

Luther’s brother speaks of Luther’s backstory, and just as the characteristics of Frank and the sheriff make them Dean mirrors, the ghost of the hour is the biggest Dean mirror to me, and reveals a lot to us about Dean’s deepest fears.

Garland: Everybody was scared of Luther. They called him a monster. He was too big, too mean-looking. Just too different. Didn’t matter that he was the kindest man I ever knew. Didn’t matter he’s never hurt no one. A lot of people failed Luther, I was one of them. I was a widower with three young ones and I told myself there was nothing I could do.  Sam: Mr. Garland, do you recognise this woman? Garland: That’s Jessie O’Brian. Her man, Frank, killed Luther.  Sam: How do you know that? Garland: Everybody knows. They just don’t talk about it. Jessie was a receptionist at the mill. She was always real nice to Luther and he had a crush on her. But Frank didn’t like it. Then when Jessie went missing, Frank was sure that Luther had done something to her. Turns out the old gal killed herself, but Frank didn’t know that. They found Luther with a chain wrapped around his neck. He was dragged up and down the stretch outside that plant till he was past dead. 

Frank was the pillar of the community.

Luther was just the town freak. 

Frank was respected.

Luther was judged and dismissed as not even being human, simply because he didn’t look like everybody else. 

Frank is framed as being an abusive, violent dickhead - clearly not the most stabile marriage - and to find an outlet for his grief, Frank picks up a shotgun and then drags a man along a road until he’s dead.

Luther’s almost childlike innocense and kindness leads him to find an outlet for his unrequited feelings of love through drawing portraits of the object of his affections.

Frank is representative of toxic masculinity (performing Dean) while Luther is all about wearing his heart on his sleeve (non-performing Dean). 

And, to me, Luther’s backstory of how wearing his heart on his sleeve gets him nothing but societal judgement, and leads to his death, is telling of Dean’s deepest fear, and why it’s been perpetuated for so long through his experiences of societal judgement, because Dean’s deepest fear is his fear of happiness, and it sits at his core and informs the rest of his fears, which, in turn, inform his behavioural pattern of using coping mechanisms to suppress/repress his true emotions, locking himself away from ever really having to open up to them. 

And what is the root of Dean’s fear of happiness?

Well, here’s how I see it:

Dean’s biggest battle with his past isn’t the idealisation of his father, but why he idealised his father –>

The why stems entirely from Dean’s loss of his mother, because that loss meant having his life ripped to shreds, resulting in Dean losing his trust in that childlike sense of joy, tied to the stability of home, love, family –>

This is the root of his long-held belief that Good Things Don’t Last, which underpins the idea that happiness (and love) equals pain, an idea that’s been perpetuated throughout Dean’s formative years, since every time he’s come close to feeling happy, something’s happened to snatch that sense of stability and safety away –>

Fearing getting hurt by believing he deserves happiness was easily avoided by dressing himself in toxic masculinity armour, modelling himself after the strongest man he could think of: his father

So every time he came close to happiness and let himself believe, only to have things fall apart on him, that armour has gotten just a little thicker

Dean is stuck in an emotional loop that through this season’s first arc of deconstructing Dean with Chuck, but to me especially through the communication rift between Dean and Cas, is being highlighted, just as it was in 4x06. And we got the entrance into this mini-deconstruction thanks to the same occurance that lay the foundation for Dean’s fear of happiness: the loss of his mother.

It’s the brightest of threads, threading through all of the emotional subtext and necessary character progression that the series as a whole has been pushing for since forever for Dean (and through his progression what it’s been pushing Sam’s and Cas’ individual progression towards as well) *gorgeous*

We Are Insane!

This scene is so everything because omg the comedic timing is just!

And I love how, when thinking closer on the topic of a Dean deconstructed, in Yellow Fever, when all there is to him is fear, he rejects the life, and all sides to it, but when he lost his memories in Regarding Dean, and what was left was his innocence, all that was left for us to see was his wonder and excitement.

Meaning that Dean stripped of all of his fears (once he’s faced them and accepted them and integrated them) is a soft, happy, content human being. As long as he actually remembers who he is and exactly how to survive, he’ll be goddamn unstoppable. And he’ll be balanced and happy. 

*please, good gods, please*

Buh-Boom

Dean starts to have some serious hallucinations and any reason for Jared to play a different character or side to Sam is just all good with me (Gadreel is still just… mind-blowingly good). 

So Dean sees Sam with yellow eyes and here comes the final fear.

Fifth fear: failure.

Failing to Protect Sammy means pretty much losing his purpose at the Yellow Fever point in the narrative. It’s changed since S12, because of a big shift in Dean’s perspective, but of course, Protect Sammy is still at the top of the list of Dean’s self-worth check list. What’s he worth if he’s unable to protect Sam? To his mind, still not much. Protect Sammy as identity marker has tripped Dean up his whole life, and here that fact comes into stark relay.

Now if we stay with Dean in the hotel room, we get to witness how his inner fears attack him, and of course the surface level fear is the one that manifests: fear of death and going back to Hell.

Thusly – hellhounds.

They turn out to be the sheriff, who’s come to confront Dean about his investigation, and I love how Dean, no matter his fraught mental state, knocks that gun out of the sheriff’s hand and then has the rather amazing fortitude to tell the sheriff he has to calm down. Only it’s too late. The sheriff suffers a heart attack. 

Dean sits on the bed, scratching. Hears the voice of the Sam hallucination telling him he’s going back, and it’s about damn time too. 

Dean…

…picks up a Bible.

This visual ties right back in with 4x05 again, with the threads of faith beginning to show themselves in Dean’s progression. He’s beginning to want to believe. He looks at that Bible like it’s a life line. He presses his lips to it and hey, I’d say this might be his first moment of giving into prayer as recourse. 

But his prayer doesn’t exactly get him what he wants.

I’d theorise that it’s because he’s not meant to learn to have faith in God, but in himself, and this whole episode is about forcing him into a meltdown, which is what he’s in the middle of now. Zero faith in himself, zero faith that he’s not going back to Hell.

And that’s why Lilith appears.

I do love how Dean actually points the Bible at Lilith stating: You are not real.

He’s using God’s faith in him as a shield. Trying desperately to convince himself. Which is rather lovely given the context of how Lilith is a representation of something deep within him that he’s trying so hard to avoid confronting.

And here comes the reveal of exactly what the fear of Hell is really anchored in, because it’s not anchored in Dean’s memories of his gruesome death at the jaws of the Hellhound that killed him, it’s anchored in his memories of not four months in Hell, but forty years. 

Guilt.

And Dean’s heart starts to give out.

Dean: You’re not real. Lilith: Doesn’t matter. You’re still gonna die, you’re still gonna burn. Dean: Why me? Why’d I get infected? Lilith: Silly goose. You know why, Dean. 

What Lilith says now is, really, what’s informed my entire reading of this episode and I’ve mentioned it several times already. She tells Dean: Listen to your heart.

To me, it’s Dean at this point knowing, deep down, that the only way to keep himself from going back to Hell, the only way he can truly be saved, is all about him beginning to recognise his need to face his fears. 

It’s about him daring to listen to his heart and daring to let his emotions be his guide, rather than shutting them down, bottling them up, without question. 

This is what his journey is all about, yeah? To learn to let go of the past and all the fears that have been informed by what he’s been taught and told, and opening up to who he truly is and who he truly wants to be.

This is what the beginning of the season has set up for and what the rest of the season will continue to explore, slowly, of course, but meticulously, and it doesn’t slow down in S5 and, honestly, each season has added a new aspect of exactly this exploration, gently pushing Dean toward moments of daring to be honest with himself, which to this meta writer culminated in S11, when he finally had it pointed out to him that he’s not just attracted to or kind of enamoured with this angel dude, he is truly pining for him, and it made him unable to keep trying to deny the truth of how he’s fallen deeply in love, no matter the terror that comes with it. (and twice the worrying about getting ganked to boot)

I’d say that this realisation, this final admittance of his true feelings, is what opened Dean’s heart up to looking at what was really driving Amara from a different angle, and made it possible for him to, instead of blowing her to kingdom come using the soul bomb, actually talk to her on a more human level, about the feelings that were driving her actions. But, again, that’s my reading, not narratively stated anywhere so, you know, pinches of salt here.

Adding to all of this is how Dean needed Mary most because the loss of her is the root of Dean’s fear of happiness, and getting to have her back allowed him to gain perspective on so many things, like his idealisation of her (and through that beginning to slowly open his eyes to his idealisation of John as well) (though this didn’t take root until S13), and he got to tell her that he hated her for what she did to them, but that he loved her, he he got to forgive her, because he could finally see her as a human being, and human beings make mistakes, rather than only having her as an idealised memory, the loss of her idealised mothering love marring his ability to trust from a very young age. Especially his ability to trust himself, since he couldn’t save her.

This realisation is also what brought on the whole awkward 11x23 Brologue like… I don’t think you love me back because I couldn’t reach through to you, but hey, you mean a lot to me, bro.

I find it interesting that Sam’s the one to save Dean. Symbolically Sam and Bobby’s intervention saves Dean from being consumed by his fears. I’ve always felt like Sam stepping up and choosing to show Dean that he’s ready for independence, that he needs it, will push their unhealthy patterns to a breaking point, especially since Dean is already aware, he just doesn’t know how to let go when he’s not sure Sam’s ready. But we shall see.

I’ll Kill Anything

Look at where we land. Look at this absolutely stunning bookend and how it wraps the theme of fear and how it informs Dean’s behavioural pattern into a soft, warm statement of You Really Need to Stop This, Dean Winchester.

We start this episode with the visual of Dean running from his fears. The fears that are coming at him wrapped up in a neat pink bow. :P

We end this episode after it’s spent a good forty minutes picking through Dean’s fears, with him facing the two fears that always get to him the most, the ones that perpetuates his reliance on the toxic masculinity armour to help define who he is: his fear of rejection and his fear of failure.

We get the fear of rejection in how he completely overreacts to Sam and Bobby’s gentle teasing about how this line of work can get awfully scary, Dean forcefully reasserting how he’ll hunt, he’ll kill anything, unable to bear the thought that the men who know him best in the world could, for even a moment, think of him as yellow aka a coward (which of course they don’t) or question his killer instinct (which of course they wouldn’t). 

This brief emasculation, however, really bothers Dean in the moment (and Jensen plays it gorgeously) and he squares up to it without hesitation, the armour slamming down and leading right into the softer moment with Sam, when he gets the chance to be honest with his brother, to share some of the burden, but…

…Protect Sammy is still prevalent, and Dean chooses to downplay the ordeal he just went through, and lie through his teeth about the true nature of it, still not opening up to Sam about Hell.

So, back to square one we go, but with all this glorious insight into Dean as a character to warm us by, and here we now are at the end of it all, and I’m so very curious what Dabb - who cowrote this episode with Daniel Loflin btw - will give us. *hopeful for all the good things* *always*