#the emperor is rolling his eyes in the prism

[sycobyte]

ooo the girls are fighting (right in front of the big powerful netherbrain)

[sserpente]

Te Curo

Gortash is dead. Your ally. Your partner in crime. Your lover. Stricken by grief, you seek to speak to the only man who has ever made your cold heart beat just one last time and cast Speak with the Dead on him to say your farewell. Only you aren’t greeted by Gortash’s charming voice but the Black Lord’s himself, ensuring his Chosen suffers for his failure. The pain becomes too much, the anger overwhelming, the agony blinding until something inside you…snaps. You can’t let him have him, you won’t. Luckily, you know just the spell to spite Bane and bring Gortash back to you…

A/N: No because I wish we could pull a Revivify on him.

Words: 2018 Warnings: death and resurrection, Durge!Reader (albeit pretty vague)

“Gortash is dead. But you’ve made me undying,” the fresh corpse spoke with a foreign voice. Its eyes and mouth glowed, drawing you in, stoking the fire of your blinding anger.

“No…no…NO! I won’t let you have him! No!”

Somewhere behind you, somebody called your name. Gale? Astarion? Shadowheart? You couldn’t tell. The voice was an audio-visual blur as if someone had filled your ears with cotton.

“Give him back! You can’t have him! Give. Him. Back!” Grabbing Gortash’s collar, you yanked his dead body against you in a desperate attempt to shake his soul back into him as the green glow faded. Nothing happened.

Anguish as hot as daggers summoned from the deepest pits of the hells buried themselves deep in your stomach, had you curl up. You had survived a tadpole infection, the fury of a devil, even torture; and yet, nothing compared to the pain you suffered now. It was a fist, a black fist perhaps, crushing and twisting your heart in your chest, making you choke and gasp for air. It’s not fair. Give him back. Give him back. Give him back!

You said it, over and over again, while your companions watched, hesitation washing over their exhausted faces.

“Shadowheart. Revive him. Do it. Do it now. Right now!”

The Sharran took a step back, hands raised in defence. “This…this is Gortash we’re talking about. I hate to say it but it’s probably for the best. Do you truly think he would not have betrayed us? We need to press on.”

She’s right, the Emperor added in your head. You clenched your fist, gritted your teeth and clutched your head. I’m sorry for your loss but we have no time to waste.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Your screams were hysterical, maniacal even. But here, inside the Astral Prism, you couldn’t care less. “Astarion…I need my bag. Where is my bag?”

“Bag? I don’t know where your bag is, darling.” He too took a step back at that.

Your chest was heaving, your face stained with tears and grief like you’d never experienced before. Enver Gortash belonged by your side. Enver was…is…the only person you ever loved. No one had the right to take him away from you. No one.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the vampire slip a small bag behind his back. A subtle action you would have rolled your eyes at under any other circumstances. This time, however, you were out for blood.

You let go of Gortash’s corpse with reluctance and rose to your feet. A single shove was all it took to make Astarion lose his balance. He caught himself the very moment you snatched your bag from him with a growl and then turned back around to face your dead lover.

“What is wrong with you?” Shadowheart exclaimed. You ignored her, kneeling down in the rubble as you rummaged through your bag to find the one most valuable item you had stolen from a merchant.

“I won’t let him have you. Come back to me. Come back…”

Gale spoke your name, interrupting your new-found mantra. “This is madness. Shadowheart is right, we can’t afford to stop now.”

“Then go! Leave! No one is asking you to stay,” you spat through gritted teeth, right as your hand closed around the scroll of Revivify. Pulling it out, you tossed your bag to the side and centred yourself. You took a deep breath and eventually, uttered the incantation. “Te curo!”

With your palm pressed against Gortash’s chest and your eyes shut, you willed the magic to flow from the scroll into you and subsequently, into him. For a long, agonising second, nothing happened. Then, with a start, Gortash gasped for air and sat up, coughing as if he’d died drowning. One by one, the burst veins in his brain and on his face healed and faded, his eyes returning to their original colour.

You didn’t breathe. Didn’t think. All you were capable of doing was throwing yourself into his arms before he could mutter a single word.

“What…happened?” His voice was raspier than usual, deeper too. You held him an arm’s length away from you, your hands cupping his cheeks.

“G-Gortash? Is it you?”

“Of course it’s me, who else would it be?” Relieved, you rested your forehead against his. It was only then, it seemed, that the memories of what had gone down at the Morphic Pool returned to him. He paled, his lips pressed together to a thin line.

Determination rippled through him, you could feel the energy, searing hot and angry. And yet, for the first time, there was something else. You’d seen it for the first time when the Netherstones failed, right before the Emperor had pulled you all out. It was fear.

Fear of what was to come. Fear of the consequences of his actions. You took your hand in his and squeezed, the pain of the warm metal of his rings digging into your palms a welcome distraction.

“Let’s go,” you whispered. “We have an Elder Brain to destroy.”

The silence within the sparsely decorated hostel room was pregnant, heavy and thick. You’d woken up with your ears ringing from the battle the day before, the hasty escape after and lastly, the most furious and yet most tender love-making so eager and raw you were still tangled up in your sheets now.

Warm rays of sunlight crept through the windows, their beams illuminating the wooden floor. The other side of the bed was cold, empty. Gortash must have been up already. You scoffed. He’d always been an early bird and oh, he was particular about how he wanted his coffee to be prepared. You’d happily make it for him every day from here on out. He was alive. And you’d come so close to losing him that you were willing to kiss his boots to keep him content. Give up everything you had just to be with him. Fuck. So this was what love felt like.

The fight wasn’t over yet, of course. After the Nautiloids attacked and the githyanki soared through the skies, realisation spread among the Baldurians, especially the Flaming Fist. The realisation that their beloved archduke Lord Enver Gortash must have had a hand in the making of the Absolute, that they had been led on and deceived. But not all hope was lost. He’d survived doubters and assassination attempts before. Elder Ravenguard was dead, after all. He’d reclaim the throne of Baldur’s Gate, and return it to a state of glory. You both would. Patience was a virtue. Gortash knew that better than anyone.

“Enver.” You rarely used his first name. He didn’t want you to. His first name, he’d told you once, reminded him of his parents and the horrors they’d inflicted on him for being different and eventually, for enslaving him to a devil. Right now, however, it felt right.

He had his back turned to you when you climbed out of bed and threw on your laced underdress, facing the open door leading out to the small balcony. He was dressed already, too. Something was missing though.

His long coat was a mess. Ruined. The golden ornaments once adorning the fine leather, Banite symbols, had been ripped off and laid scattered on the floorboards. It had left ugly, irreparable holes in the material. Was that blood on the sleeve? He must have cut himself on the sharp ends while tearing them off. One last, unwilling sacrifice for the Black Lord.

“You mean to turn your back on him.” It wasn’t a question, for it didn’t need an answer.

“Bane hadbecome my purpose long before I escaped from the House of Hope. He whispered in my ear, promised me glory and recognition. I had nothing else, no one else. Bane’s determination was what kept me alive. I gave my life to his cause. And he discarded mine because I failed him. I always believed…” He paused and for a moment you wondered whether he was battling…tears? “I always believed I was strong enough. That, should I die in my attempt to lay Baldur’s Gate at the Black Lord’s feet, I would gladly receive my punishment.” He paused yet again. “I remember. I remember the agony and the pain I endured at his hand before I was resurrected. I feared Bane in life as was my duty and I feared him even more in death. I did everything he asked me to do. I was loyal. More than that…I was devoted. I deserve better than an eternity of suffering.”

A single nod. A single nod was all it had taken for your relief to take hold. When you’d stood on top of the hideous Elder Brain, the Emperor channelling the power of the Netherstones to bring the crown back under control…victory would have been temporary, even with the temptation scouring your veins.

There were other ways to rule. Ways that did not come with the looming threat of turning into an Illithid slave. The brain had to die. It was the only way. You’d feared his reaction, feared the rejection that would follow. It didn’t come. Instead…he’d nodded and surprised you in ways you’d never thought possible.

“I’m the one keeping you alive now,” you finally said. “You don’t need Bane. You never needed him to begin with.”

Gortash turned around at last, the faintest hint of surprise marking his ragged features. There were no tears staining his face, his eyes, however, were bloodshot and tired. The events of last night had taken a toll on him. On everyone. But especially on him who’d cheated death.

“I turned my back on the Lord of Murder himself and lived to tell the tale. You survived an eternity of suffering at the hands of the Black Lord. Together, we will be unstoppable,” you continued.

“I only survived because you brought me back, my dear. I am…weak on my own. Powerless without Bane’s power flowing through my veins.” In other words, because of his failure, he now felt the same way he had felt back in the House of Hope. Defenceless. Meagre. Insignificant. But…he had no reason to.

You tilted your head. Never before had you heard your lover speak such candid and insecure words. Ever since that fateful event inside the Astral Prism, something between you had changed. It was one thing to form an alliance in an attempt to rule over the Sword Coast together…it was another to bring back your beloved from the grave.

“Powerless? Weak?” You smirked. “May I remind you who convinced the Flaming Fist to keep out the many refugees seeking entrance into the city? May I remind you who enslaved an entire people to build an army of Steel Watchers for him? Who gained the nobles’ and patrons’ trust simply by whispering sweet lies into their ears? You have a gift, Enver. You are cunning, manipulative, shrewd and an artificer like I’ve never seen one. You never needed Bane to exercise your dominance and your tyranny. Bane needed you to exercise his. And…” You motioned at the bustling Rivingtonians beneath you. “…look at them now. You could have the people’s favour still. Until we’re ready, we’ll operate from the shadows.”

“Together.” The corners of his lips twitched. You nodded. “In which case I’d like to visit my office at Wyrm’s Rock if it still stands. The engagement ring I had made for you is in my safe.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widening. “E-Engagement ring?”

“Did you think we were going to rule over Baldur’s Gate as friends?” he said, his tone almost mocking.

You shook your head, a dumb grin spreading on your face. “Enver Gortash, I love you.”

His face fell, almost as if he’d never heard anyone utter those words to him before. Well, it was a first for you to say it to someone too.

“We’ll make the trip today. I will have you wed to me before nightfall.”

You smiled. It was his way of reciprocating it. For now, that was good enough for you.

[porcelaininkpot]

XXIII. The Sea

In honour of the birthday of the one and only @porters-fangs , I present a Porter and Treasure fic inspired by the first thing we ever spoke about. Aster I adore you so much and I hope you enjoy reading this <3

Porter and Treasure break into an aquarium for a birthday date.

Word count- 5.1k

The sky of Dahlia lay strewn with the pinpricks of a thousand constellations, the tufts of ivory mist across it’s cascades of celestial fabric were the veil the moon hid behind as she watched the city’s gem stand statuesque at their balcony railing, the tired figure caught between the urban earth and starry sea. 

‘Treasure’ was a moniker they were growing indulgently accustomed to, and they found it amusing how a word that -hitherto- held no meaning to them had suddenly woven it’s way across their veins and into their very soul; they wondered idly if they would ever forsake their actual name for the endearment, the purr of a honeyed, accented, addictive voice echoing across the cavern behind their eyes said yes. 

Tonight however, no amount of turning the word over within their thoughts could distract from the ache of the sheer emptiness that blanketed their home and heart. Halls that once reverberated with laughter and joy had for three days lain achingly silent, as if in solemnity of their owner’s own solitude. Treasure sighed as they told themselves that it was after all, just another night, and let their gaze wander back to the stars, and back to him.

____

‘...what is this?’, The human asked, turning over the orb their vampire had placed into their palm. 

It was at once both corporeal and intangible, a marble of not-quite glass that seemed to hold within it a dried flower. Except upon closer look, it was nothing more than pseudo-flora. Veins of wrinkles upon deep indigo petals revealed themselves to be ravines of stars and light at a turn of the sphere, the liquid-sugar composition of the globe making the starry rivers entrap and reflect whatever light fell onto the thing, casting kaleidoscopes of cosmic-touched prisms across the walls of their very plain kitchen. A beam of scarlet red and silver squinted in mirth as it’s living counterpart spoke,

‘You told me you were loath of not being able to see the night sky in its true glory, my dear. This can pull the fog of pollution from the skies and let you see them as they are, let you see them as I do.’ 

Cursed be Porter Solaire’s charm. They tore their eyes from the wondrous enigma of reality and met his ruby-flecked silver eyes, lilted with that indecipherable look they always donned whenever he was around them, as if he was a child with a crush, or an emperor looking at his throne. 

‘That’s…I…This is too much!’, They stumbled over their words, the right ones stolen away by the divinity of this bubble of magic he had so casually brought before them, as if it was nothing so long as it was for them, as if they deserved even the slightest bit of it. 

Porter let his hand trail up their star dusted face, cupping their cheek. He tilted their head up to look at him and murmured, ‘One of these days, when I shower you in the gifts you deserve, you’ll say ‘This is too little’ instead of that sordid, worth-smothering sentence,’, and leaning in before they could voice further opposition said, ‘Until that day comes, would you please accept my gifts, and perhaps maybe the fact that you are worthy of this cosmos itself?’ 

‘...I’ll settle for just the gifts.’

‘For now.’ 

And an eye-roll sent waves of their iris’ enrapturing hues cascading across the room, and Porter could have fallen to his knees in reverence of this home turned sanctuary right there and then. 

‘So…what? Is there a spell to say? Do we have to perform some sort of ritual?’, they asked, rolling the marble over their fingers, scrutinising it as if by glaring at it hard enough, it would reveal all its little secrets. 

Porter’s voice took on a somber tone, face falling into seriousness as he spoke, ‘Oh yes my Treasure, this particular piece of magic is one of the rarest and most coveted, and requires the most intricate of rituals and spells, and only the most skilled of wielders may perform it, and even then their chances of success are miniscule.’, with those words, he plopped the orb into a pot of boiling water Treasure hadn’t recalled being there, the splash sending puddles flying across their counter as the thousand hues trapped within it exploded in bursts of light, as if they were iresome fireworks with a scorching vendetta against the human’s poor kitchen.

‘Oops’ 

Treasure looked at what had to have been magic butchered at the most grandiose of levels and exclaimed as they scrambled to salvage the mess with their sleeves, ‘Porter! Now what!? All that about rareness and skill and-’, They cut themselves off when they saw the corners of his lips trembling and his shoulders shuddering in barely contained laughter. 

‘It’s a glorified over-magicked teabag, isn't it?’, deadpan voice betraying their empty annoyance. 

Porter burst into bouts of cackling that made it difficult for even them to keep their straight face, so they resorted instead to elbowing him in the ribs before joining in. 

By the time the pair’s laughter had subsided, the orb had melted into a swirling, glimmering cosmos that seemed to stir itself within their pot, the sight was almost hypnotic in the way it’s deep amethyst currents melted into dazzling sapphire meteor showers, and suddenly they felt that their meager teapot was far too plain for something as magical as this. 

Porter’s voice was coated in that indecipherable emotion as he poured twin galaxies into equally far too plain teacups and cooed as he passed them theirs, ‘Bottoms up, Treasure.’ 

And past the taste of nebulas unravelling upon their tongue, and shooting stars dancing down their throat and making their every nerve burst into entirely new solar systems, and past how the sky now loomed over them with a majesty so vivid and clear it was as if they were up there with the constellations themselves, they tasted that indecipherable emotion. 

And it was undeniable as they looked into his devout eyes, 

Love. 

____

Knowing that they were seeing the stars just as he was, and hoping that he may be gazing upon the same ones at the same time they were gave them scarce consolation. So they instead opted to take their vexation out on the railing, subjecting it to an iron, white knuckled grip. 

They were frustrated, they were alone, they hadn’t seen their lover in over three days, and this day was supposed to be…not what it was. 

They wanted nothing more than a quiet night, and nothing more than solitude.

Both of those thoughts were lies, they craved something special today and most of all they craved- 

Him. 

And there he was. 

Standing below their balcony as if to serenade them, looking up at them with moonlight reflecting off his fangs, dastardly mouth curled into a dastardly grin that reached his dastardly eyes. 

In the time it took for them to fix him with a heat-death stare he had already reached their side, and now they got to look at his dastardly face up close. 

‘Where have you been.’ 

‘Oh my Treasure, I’ve missed how adorable you look when you glare at me like you want to bite my face off.’ 

The way the moonlight nestled itself into his hair, and soaked into his skin, softening his already dashing features made them feel very much like they did want to bite his face off - in which way though, they were much less sure about. 

He coaxed their hand off the railing to press a velvet-esque kiss to their knuckles, scouring their eyes as he did, as if searching for the piece of himself he left behind for safekeeping in their heart.

Treasure could only be vexed for so long. They tugged him into them and let themself sink into his skin, burying their face into his moonlight-rimmed neck and breathing in the scent they’ve so dearly missed. Only pulling back once they’d had their fill.

‘I missed you.’, they cooed, letting themselves fall into his scarlet-flaked pools of mercury.

‘I missed you too, my dear. I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long, I’ve been making… arrangements - of a sort.’ 

‘For your king?’, the word spearing the air as if it were a slur, and they felt pangs of regret when his eyes winced as they said it, followed by billows of curiosity as his eyes betrayed his signature look of mischief. 

‘No, actually, these were for something far more…to my taste. For you, actually.’

Treasure’s confusion made them cock their head before they could catch themselves. 

‘For me?’ 

Porter hummed as he answered, ‘Do you remember when I told you about the magical oceans? And about the host of elemental marine life that only makes itself visible to those touched by the same magic they’re woven of?’’

Treasure remembered the trail of his fingers against their skin that night as he told them tales of eels formed solely of seaweed and pollen, they remembered the way he massaged circles into their back and kissed their crown as he told them about manta rays of crystalline, glowing ice, and a menagerie of other animals that their heart pained at not being able to see. The softness of his voice as he whispered to them about creatures so mystic and unworldly they would shatter human comprehension if discovered.

Of all the fantastical beings he told them about, what they yearned for most of all, were the jellyfish woven of immortal flames, with tendrils of psychedelic, fiery, prisms; divine creatures supposedly so ethereal in their kaleidoscopic wonder that when they were in the presence of deep, true emotions, they erupted into colours and hues so unique they couldn't be found anywhere else on the planet. ‘Runaways from Aria’ Porter had called them.

Unworldly animals of enchanting, unparalleled beauty and elegance, adrift in glorious and everlasting transience, those were what Treasure ached to witness for themselves. 

‘What are you getting at?’ 

‘Well, the Verne Aquatic Conservatory has from its conception dedicated itself to the rehabilitation of marine life- animals affected by poachers and pollution. They’re one of the most highly secured establishments of our world, and strictly forbid any and all access to their enclosures.’ 

Treasure had an inkling of where he was going with this, but hummed their understanding and let him continue. 

‘Unfortunately for them, their current lodgings are simply no longer sufficient to hold as many creatures as they’ve undertaken, so they’ve decided to open another branch in Kennedy.’, The wicked glint that gleamed in Porter’s eyes gave away what he would next say before he even said it. 

‘Very unfortunately for them, there just so happened to be a terrible accident a few days ago at the aquariums at Kennedy they were planning on repurposing, and this accident just so happened to occur while the animals were already on their way there, and the enclosures just so happened to be travelling through Dahlia. And it's just quite coincidental really, there’s an aquarium here with just enough space to house them while Kennedy employs its finest earth and fire elementals to re-sculpt all the glass that so tragically decided to separate from itself and begin an acquaintance with the floor.’ 

‘And tonight just so happens to be the only full night they’ll be here before they’re on the move again.’ 

Treasure stared at him in absolute incredulity. 

An accident a few days ago,

And he’d been gone for three days, 

And tonight was the only night they had,

And tonight was also-

Oh.

Oh. 

‘Porter, tell me you didn’t-’ 

‘Oh but I did.’, And the devious grin on his face said that he’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

Treasure appraised their absolutely ridiculous, reckless, handsome, lovable vampire with eyes that betrayed they still couldn’t believe he’d gone to such lengths just for them. 

‘With that being said, my dearest Treasure’, and he slid into a coy bow as he extended an open hand, looking up at them through his fluttering eyelashes, ‘Would you grant me the honour of taking you on a once in a lifetime, private tour of every aspect of magical marine life your heart could ever wish for?’ 

And Treasure may have been a fool in love, but they would be a fool not to accept. 

‘I do, my dearest lover.’, and they took his hand. 

‘Then let us not allow a single second to slip by.’, with that, he scooped them up into his arms, let them kiss him with all the love under the moon, and jumped off the balcony to hit the ground running. 

Treasure would enact revenge for the heart attack that unwarned jump gave them later, for now, their focus laid solely on him and his devilish laughter as he carried them through a blur of city light, stopping only when the pair reached the periphery of what looked to be a derelict, shabby warehouse. Porter let his human down to let them see that It stood alone in a barely guarded clearing surrounded by looming trees, isolated save for a rusty pick-up truck parked just outside bent, broken metal that looked like it had some centuries ago been a shutter door. The place seemed so dead it made certain politicians look childishly youthful and spry by comparison. 

Although by now, Treasure had learnt better than to take anything the magical world had to offer them at face value. 

They wove their fingers through Porter’s and let themselves feel the stars only magic allowed them to see. And straining their eyes as they strengthened their grip on their lover, and felt him grip back in turn, saw the illusion flicker away for just a few moments before returning as they sucked in an exhausted gasp of air. 

‘You genuinely amaze me with everything you do.’, his words were laced in such admiration Treasure had to believe them to be true, ‘It’s no small feat for an unempowered human to be able to look past even a sliver of illusions and wards this strong, and yet I could feel you reaching out and tearing it down. You’re extraordinary, my Treasure.’ 

They felt a deep scarlet feather it’s way up their cheeks, and demurely turned their head away before replying, ‘It wasn't that hard, I had you by my side.’

Porter leaned in to kiss their temple, ‘Then lets undo this illusion together then.’

And they met his gaze as they felt his magic course through their veins, setting every nerve alight as it surged through their body; and they sensed streams of something flowing from them into him. Being able to feel him so intimately, as if their souls were one, and being able to hold his hand and feel their energies combine to be one, stronger force, was perfection. 

Existing with him was perfection.

And just like that, the rust flaked away to reveal pristine obsidian walls, and the desolate shack gave way to the most formidable of structures, growing and teeming and extending out into what they thought was just bare grass, rings of concentric fences and magical barriers coalescing into existence right before their eyes, until they realised that they were actually right up against the building. The eroded old pick-up morphed into a sleek, intimidating, impossibly large truck, the words ‘Shaw Security’ detailed onto its sides. While earlier the place looked devoid of all life, now they saw guards patrolling the perimeter of the structure, four to be exact. Two paced around each side of the aquarium while the other two were stationed at what looked like the back, peculiarly leaving the front gate unattended. 

‘This has to be some sort of trap, right?’, Treasure scrutinised, surely there was no way they’d just leave the front door unsupervised. 

‘Perhaps, but it may just be our stroke of luck. See, actually getting in through the back gate is much more difficult than the front, with three internal wards and quite the hefty physical security system in place, you’d be hard earned to get into any place of substance once you get past the door. The front entrance on the other hand only has one physical security system, a trip-wire, if I’m not mistaken. All of its magical boundaries are external, so there’s no hope of stalking up to it unless we want to waste the night covertly unravelling wards.’, He spoke the words with such attractive, astute, deliberation that Treasure hoped every future date could be a break-in. 

‘So what you’re saying is, if we somehow get in through the back gate and then make our way to the front without actually entering, we can avoid all the wards and get in no problem?’ 

‘Ever crafty, my astute Treasure.’ 

They felt licks of mischief scoring their way up their being, curling their lips into a delicious grin, ‘But how do we get past the guards and barriers?’ 

‘Leave that to me, my dear.’ 

And the two shared a chaste kiss before Porter renewed his grip onto their hand and the pair set off on a devious break-in. 

They felt his magic once again course through them, except now in place of bright, illuminating surges, they felt a low, smoky cloak overwhelm their every sense, and it was as if they themselves became one with the blanket of smoke. They looked over to Porter, who had turned nyxian in appearance, for they were able to stare right through him if they gazed long enough. They realised with exhilaration that they must look the same. 

He gave them a reassuring squeeze before stalking off into the shadows with them in tow, effortlessly ducking and dashing just out of sight, as if he were long acquainted with the shadows. 

Treasure had heard many of their vampire’s recollections of stealth and shadows, but seeing him and navigating them with him was something entirely different. They felt their heartbeat pounding beneath their skin, and weren’t sure they ever wanted the sensation to end. So long as the two held onto each other, his magic was theirs. 

The pair reached the first metal gate, and Treasure faltered for a moment. They knew of people with skills to pass through solid walls, but were certain they’d never be able to do it on their own. 

Another reassuring squeeze.

They weren’t alone.  

They were sleuthing around hand-in-hand with the most perfect man to ever grace this world. 

With him by their side, they could more than do this. 

And do it they did, leaping forward with him and passing through not only that gate, but the remaining few as well, until they were flush against the building. Being here, so close to creatures of such oceanic wonder, they swore they could feel them thrumming and floating just beyond that physical barrier. Their fingers twitched in anticipation, barely able to contain themselves anymore.

‘Are you alright?’, he whispered into their ear, concern lacing his words, ‘We can turn back if you-’

‘Absolutely not. I want to do this, and I want to do it with you.’ 

His shadowy cheeks swelled as he broke into a smile, ‘Almost there then.’ 

They stood right at the corner of the aquarium, metres away from the back gate, and metres away from the guards. Being so close, Treasure’s breath hitched as they got a better look at them. 

One was far taller than the other, and both had an air of seriousness about them, yet upon closer look, they could tell the two were familiar enough with each other to not be rigidly focused. All they had to do to hear their conversation was strain their ears just slightly…

‘-ya sure we can trust Chrissy with manning the front gate? Are ya sure we can trust him being here at all?’, the shorter one asked, to which the taller replied in what had to be the raspiest voice Treasure had ever heard,

‘I mean it’s literally the easiest post there is! I don't see how he could possibly fuck this up. So anyway I said to the big guy…’

They looked over to see Porter at the tail end of an eye-roll. All they had to do was get past these two guards and they’d be so close they could taste the saltwater in the air. And considering they were now talking about Espeon as compared to Vaporeon, they had faith they could actually make it. 

‘I’ll distract them, you phase through the part of the door just behind the short one.’ 

That threw them off, and suddenly their faith in themselves faltered,

‘You aren't coming with me?’

‘We stand a much better chance of getting in if they’re distracted. Don't worry, my Treasure, I’ll make the wall incorporeal just long enough for you to slip in, and I’ll be with you in the vents in a matter of moments.’ 

‘I…’, they trailed off, but one look at their lover’s features, sculpted in determination, steeled their resolve. 

‘I trust you.’ 

And with a silent kiss, he was off, and seconds later, a scream like a startled, oversized, wolf cub rang through the air, coming from just within the woods bordering the aquarium.

‘OH MY FUCKIN HEY CHRISSY’, the short guard yelled at the woods, the raspy-voiced one having quite a start at all the sudden screaming while the former had already taken off into the woods. 

This was their chance. 

They stealthed forward as fast as they could, and mentally screamed Porter’s name as they phased up and through the thick, obsidian wall and made a mental note to thank Chrissy if they ever ran into him later on in life. 

And just like that, they were in. In a rather crammed ventilation system, but in. 

And just like he said, Porter was there beside them in a matter of heartbeats, and Treasure wasted no time in making sure he was actually there by capturing his lips with theirs. 

The next bout of sneaking passed in a blur of exhilaration and climbing, they were in the vents, then with a drop, they weren't. 

Despite having landed into Porter’s arms, they were still stuck aloft within the air, for they dropped out of the vent and onto teeming, stretching rafters that overlooked the expanse from what had to be at least two dozen metres high, the beams criss-crossed and seemed to extend forever across the aquarium ceiling, and even the slightest misstep could send them falling to their death, but oh, what a beautiful death it would be. 

For unfurling beneath them in biomes of aquatic spectacles were enclosures of such diversity and number Treasure felt breathless just scouring over them with their eyes. In the dim light of the closed aquarium, each tank was aglow with shades of glorious, elemental bioluminescence, and the menagerie came together to form the most beautiful of kaleidoscopic collages. The scent of saltwater lay thick in the air, and it brought with it notes of smoke, earth and electricity. Treasure felt every nerve in their body swell and ebb in tune with the life beneath them. 

Porter Solaire gazed upon his lover as they lost themselves in reverence of this morsel of the ocean, even standing as high as they were, where there was no fathomable way their mortal eyes could see each creature in it’s full detail, and the exhibits must have seemed more like languidly flowing blobs, they looked at them with such adoration he saw the seven seas themselves reflected in their eyes. 

He would bottle the seven seas just to see them smile like that again. 

Painfully, he tore himself away from his own reverie to fetch their attention.

‘Would you like to go see them up close?’ 

‘I would like nothing more.’ 

A construct of sloped rafters lay some distance away from them, where the beams creeped down onto the floor like hollow, metal-skeletoned stalactites, getting down would be a simple matter of carrying Treasure across the precarious beams and slowly letting them drop to the floor from there. 

Treasure seemed to have other plans, and those plans included enacting that revenge they swore they’d have.

For instead of walking into his arms and letting him gently carry them down, they leaped across one of the many gaps in the rafters and turned back to stick him with a coy smirk. 

‘Treasure! Be careful, you could fa-’, and they took another cavort, this time fixing him with a bow mirroring his own.

Oh. So they wanted to dance. 

Porter peered at them incredulously, and the devious look in their eyes was all the reminder he needed of the kind of person he had fallen inexorably in love with. 

Very well then, let’s dance. 

And the two flitted across the beams in a tango of thrill and laughter, and gravity itself held its breath as the two danced across the framework holding the expanse up, twirling and leaping and taunting, the forces of nature be damned, they were caught in each other’s gravity.

Many times did Porter come close to catching them, only to have them dodge his advances every time, and Treasure only relented when they had reached a part of the rafters low and just atop the very edge of a sizzling, electric green tank. They beamed up at their lover as his arms finally entrapped their waist in a vice-like, unrelenting grasp, as if they would once again turn into smoke and slip through his fingers for good shall he even think about letting go. 

Porter caught his breath as he caught them, ‘You know, If I let go of you, you’d fall right into that tank of lightning-laced sea bunnies.’ 

‘If you let go, I know you’d jump after me in less than a second, and then we can both give our lives to the lightning-laced sea bunnies.’ 

Porter ducked down to steal another kiss, before turning and dropping down -with his love in his arms- onto the ground just outside the sea bunny enclosure, and it was almost as if the two could feel the sea bunnies sadden at having lost their chance of two new legged tank mates. 

He set his Treasure down as they lost themselves to the swathes of oceanic beauty before them, for now that they were on ground level, and entirely eclipsed by clusters of aquatic wonder that seemed to flow into each other and teem so high above their head they may as well have been at the ocean floor itself. 

All about them life itself cascaded through the space in a thousand hues of pure enchantment, creatures that lived only the pages of fairytales were now swaying and dancing before them as if in pride of their very existence. 

Treasure was sure they had forgotten their breath up in the rafters as they trailed fingers over glass blurred with undulating aquatic flora, a living, breathing ecosystem that moved of its own volition, shifting and grouping and dispersing as if underwater land given life, and it was only when Treasure honed in on the glowing, soft orbs strung across the lithe bodies that formed the bed of gaea did Treasure realise what they were looking at. 

‘Swamp-sunset eels’, Porter whispered behind them, voice laced with the same awe coursing through their body, and it was an apt name, bubbled through their viney seaweed bodies were marbles of pollen that mimicked bottled sunsets. 

Their gaze shifted over to a tank just ahead of them, where slabs of ice were gliding gracefully across water so frigid they felt goosebumps prickling their skin despite standing well away from the enclosure glass. No, not slabs of ice, impossible, wondrous manta rays of crystal glaciers. They created an underwater blizzard as they soared through the water, so pure in their magnificence Treasure could see them prism and refract the light cast onto them by the hundred other tanks that surrounded them. 

Treasure was so enraptured by the sight before them, they barely remembered what they were, and what the nature of these mystical beings was. 

‘Only those touched by the same magic they’re woven of can see them’, they echoed Porter’s words from earlier that night, ‘So how can I…’ 

One look at the vampire beside them was the answer, all this time, he had been reaching out to them with his magic, coaxing them into the world they thought they were entirely alien to, when they accepted him into their heart all that time ago, they accepted the wonder he brought with him. When he gave them a drinkable galaxy so that they may see the stars just as he did, when tonight he extended his shadows to them, and they accepted his darkness so readily, and countless other times, when he had pulled them into his world without them even realising it. 

And in that moment they knew, they were home.

A roaring spectrum of colour reflected off the crystalline rays however, and reminded them of the one thing they had been yearning for most of all, but Porter had his hands above their eyes before they could move. The let him guide them as he walked a slow pace and leaned back into his touch as he spoke, 

‘Treasure, I know you wanted tonight to be special, and I know you’ve been let down by so many others. I know you feel as though you don't deserve the things you absolutely do, so please believe me when I say that you deserve this. When I’m around you, I feel whole, as if the storms within me have quelled, and given way to something complete. In your embrace I am bare, and I never in my life thought I’d feel safe being bare until I felt your touch. You make the shadows bearable.’, They felt him come to a stop. 

‘All this is to say, Happy Birthday, my Treasure.’, and he let his hands fall, and before the two of them erupted a cosmos of the most divine jellyfish Treasure had ever seen. Light flowed from them in prisms of pure, absolute magic that somehow beat in time with their own heart, casting colour richer than the rarest of gems that into liquid crystal across their eyes, encapsulating them and their lover in a cascade of infinitely-hued constellations.  And as their wonder swelled, so did the jellyfish’s emanations of what could only be described as godly ambrosia. Treasure was all at once enraptured in their astral tides, and they could have lost themselves in the sight forever. 

Yet turning away and pulling Porter Solaire into a kiss so passionate it sent blasts of galaxies across the entire aquarium, and the words that followed came to them easier than breathing. 

‘I love you, Porter.’

‘I love you too, my Treasure.’

[slayerdurge]

A Deal with God (Post-Ending Durgetash Fanfic)

Summary:

Ever since she first woke up on that Nautiloid with an empty past and an insistent Urge, she had no interest in resisting it. Why would she? She loved the killing even before she knew who her Father was, and after she knew, she longed to reshape the world into endless piles of corpses in his name. Until she reconnected with Enver Gortash, her old partner, the one with whom she’d made all these plans for world domination in the first place, and the one who she felt very keenly had likely had this kind of corrupting influence on her before. He made her crave something more than annihilation. Made her selfish. Made her a heretic. Made her want to rule. And so she found herself behaving in ways she’d never have expected. She resisted Bhaal, resisted anyone else who dared get in their way, and allied with him and him alone to claim the Netherbrain for themselves… until she watched him die in front of her and knew that she’d have fought Bhaal naked with only her teeth and fists if that was what it took to get him back. But what she really needed was something even more daunting—leverage over Bane.

CHAPTER TWO - THE REUNION

[read on ao3]

Enver re-entered his body screaming.

As The Dark Urge listened in transfixed stillness, his screams gradually changed into a strange and discordant mixture of laughter and sobs, and all she could think was that she’d heard that sound before.

But she couldn’t place it until a series of sensuous fragmented memories crashed into her mind—the damp stone walls of an underground dungeon, the thrust of steel as it penetrated flesh, the tantalizing ferrous scent of fresh blood, an influx of saliva pooling in the bottom of her mouth, and the howling keen emanating from the pile of meat in front of her. Then came the feeling of satisfaction. The knife clattered to the floor, and as she wiped her mouth, she heard the sound change.

This was the sound of a torture victim who’d been offered a moment of reprieve, and the only coherent thought she could form in the mangled, macerated caverns of her brain was that that sound should not be coming out of him.

She couldn’t say exactly how long the sound continued, but eventually she became aware that it had stopped, and that his eyes, which had been alternately twitching and rolling backwards into his head, had refocused. He was looking at her.

She became aware of what she must look like, standing stock-still and staring at him in paralyzed silence, but she could rouse herself to neither speech nor movement. 

Slowly, he sat up, supporting his unsteady balance by spreading his hands flat on the rock’s surface. He looked around, taking in the sizeless expanse of the Astral Prism. His gaze seemed to sharpen. “How long?” he asked.

“How long…” She didn’t immediately understand the question. 

“How long was I dead?” he repeated, over-enunciating each word impatiently. 

The twinge of annoyance that caused within her brought her fully back to herself. “Less than a day,” she said. “Maybe slightly more. I lost track of time during the battle.” She glared at him pointedly. “You’re welcome, by the way. For your life.”

He stood, wobbling slightly but catching himself and righting his posture quickly. He walked towards her, stopping when there was only a few feet of distance between them, and met her gaze evenly. “Thank you,” he said, without a trace of sarcasm. “For my life.”

The Dark Urge found it suddenly difficult to maintain eye contact. 

He wasn’t looking at her anymore either. He was staring at the back of his hand, where the purple Netherstone had been affixed to his gauntlet. He touched the empty space left behind with his other hand, rubbing his thumb almost absentmindedly against the metallic surface. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed?” he said. “You mentioned a battle.”

“With the Netherbrain, yes.”

He looked up sharply. “How did you survive our encounter with it?”

“The Emperor saved me,” she explained. “Pulled me into the Astral Prism at the last moment. Along with your corpse.”

“So that left you with all three Netherstones. But how did you get them to work again?”

“Can you see through illusions?” she asked suddenly.

He tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing her more closely. “Not without the proper tools. I can tell you’re disguised now that you’ve mentioned it, but I can’t see your true form.”

She allowed her illusion to flicker momentarily, showed him the true light lavender color of her skin, the exposed bits of brain matter she disguised as scalp and hair, and the tentacles that blossomed from the front of her mouth. She didn’t drop her disguise entirely, and it soon flickered back into stable form. She planned to assume it consistently. It wouldn't do to have the non-tadpoled citizens of Baldur’s Gate thinking their savior was a monster. And if they were superficial enough that a more palatable face prevented them from realizing she was far more monstrous than any ordinary mind flayer, that was entirely to their own detriment. 

“Ah,” he said. “Then it was ceremorphosis that made the difference?” 

She didn’t speak aloud this time, instead projecting her thoughts directly into his mind. “That and I ate the Prince of the Comet.”

She heard his answer aloud in the form of a light burst of laughter, but his words came to her in her mind. “Well, there goes the chance for Githyanki liberation,” he said telepathically.

“They wouldn’t know liberation if it hit them on their upturned noses. They’d just trade one tyrant for another, like everyone else does.”

She felt his agreement more as a sensation than as a verbalized thought. In that moment, their mental states were so closely aligned that the edges between them had unintentionally blurred. 

“You know, I have Orpheus’s memories now,” she mused silently into their shared thoughtspace. “Perhaps I’ll impersonate him. Give the Gith a worthwhile leader to follow for once.”

This time his answer came as both an emotion and a thought. She felt his amused appreciation, after which he said, “I’d like to see that.”

“You’ll see it all,” she promised him. 

She could feel his reaction to that—a moment of unrestrained enthusiasm. Then his mind refocused. “So Orpheus’s power protected you from the Netherbrain long enough to get close to it again. And then what?”

“We fought. For a long time. I had to weaken it to the point where I could safely use the Netherstones again. With Orpheus’s knowledge and power, my own enhanced illithid abilities, and the help of the army of allies I’d been building, it was enough. The Netherbrain is now under my full control.”

“Well done,” he thought emphatically. He grinned at her, and she could feel the wave of emotions that filled his mind—joy, pride, and, most of all, vindication. His assessment of the victory was primarily focused on the fact that, despite everything, their long-shot plan had actually worked in the end. Then she felt him calm himself and fall back into a strategic mindset. “What became of The Emperor?” he asked.  

“He’s still around. He’s under my thrall, but he doesn’t think of it negatively now, of course. None of them do. Still, I make sure to watch him more closely than any of the others. He’s already escaped enslavement twice. That’s quite a remarkable track record.”

“It may actually be best to be proactive on that front,” he suggested. “Now that you have Orpheus’s powers, you can grant selective protection from the Absolute to enthralled individuals and monitor their thoughts through your direct access to the hive mind network, all while retaining the ability to recall their immunity at any moment. Sometimes the best precaution against rebellion is freedom. Within reason, of course.”

“Interesting! That’s certainly worth considering,” she said, excited by the potential possibilities this tactic opened up, and impressed that, even with all her natural illithid cognitive advantages, he’d still come up with it before her. “I knew bringing you back was the right call.”

“Of course it was,” he replied smugly. “That was never under contention.” 

“What did Lord Bane tell you?” she asked, a sudden suspicion crawling in the back of her mind.

He smiled, but no immediate thoughts were incoming. 

“You must’ve spoken before he sent you back,” she insisted. “You know too much. And you wouldn’t have reorientated yourself so quickly otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he asked, still smiling. She probed at his mind, but he evaded her advances for the moment. 

“I can read your mind at will, Enver,” she reminded him. “You can’t hide from me indefinitely.”

“I don’t need to,” he said, still sounding smug. As he opened the channel of his thoughts again, she saw, to her great irritation and relief, that there wasn’t actually anything he’d been particularly keen to hide. He’d been teasing her. “He told me I’d done well to bring you to him,” he said, “And that I was to grant you the appropriate respect and obedience owed by any Banite to one of their Lord’s Chosen. Which I plan to do, of course. One doesn't become a Chosen of Bane in the first place without a healthy respect for the concept of hierarchy. And you’ll make a fine Banite, Dark Urge. I’ve always thought so.”

Because their minds were linked, she could tell that his words were genuine. His dedication to Bane ran deep, and he'd be her subordinate as long as Bane said he was her subordinate. He would not hold back when it came to helping her bring her plans to fruition. 

Because their minds were linked, she could also sense the unspoken competitive subtone to his words. This mentality was so central to his basic cognitive functioning that there was no need for him to ever verbalize or affirm it, not to her nor anyone else nor even to himself. The unspoken challenge and promise underscored his every thought. This isn’t over. 

Gods, I hope not, she thought, though not to him. I hope this goes on forever.

Another realization came to her, and she felt shocked that she hadn't considered it earlier. “If Bane spoke to you before your resurrection then… that screaming…”

She knew instantly that she was right because he immediately broke out into laughter that she could hear twofold, once in his head and once aloud. She got the other relevant details too. His soul really had been tortured—he’d always known this would be the outcome if he died, and he was no stranger to the experience—but it’d happened earlier, before she’d made her offer to Bane. He’d known that she'd been aware of this fact, guessed how eager she’d been to end his suffering, and decided to have a little fun with her about it. He'd been faking, as a demonstration of how much his pain hurt her too, how much she cared about him. He'd been gloating. And now he was laughing at her, sounding for all the world like a naughty child who’d just seamlessly pulled off a very clever prank. 

“You motherfucker,” she exclaimed vocally, and she lashed out, striking his chest with her fist hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs, but not hard enough to stop his laughter. He was still laughing—choking and coughing at the same time, but still laughing. He grabbed her fist with his left hand, holding it firmly in place against his chest, and wrapped his other arm around her back in a way that made her acutely aware that her robes left her shoulders bare. “I'm going to murder you,” she growled aloud.

“You'd better not,” he warned her, also aloud and interspersed between fits of wheezing. “I'm not sure what you'd have to offer Lord Bane for a second resurrection.” His own joke sent him off into a new peal of laughter.

As she stood there in his arms, glaring at him in anger and disbelief and the most irritating depth of affection she'd ever felt for anyone in her life, she fantasized about all the different ways she could kill him, and she opened her mind to him again so that he could see it too. His laughter finally died down as he paused to watch, drinking in her visions eagerly, hungrily, as she showed him a dozen different ways she could end the life she'd gifted him. It would be easy. He was unarmed, far from his Steel Watch or any allies; he had none of his usual gadgets with him and no intrinsic magical abilities; he didn't even have their god’s favor. She had every advantage. She could take him with a blade or a spell or, if she was feeling ironic, she could command her Netherbrain to end him again like it had the first time. As he watched, she indulged in every vision with such glorious gory detail that she was sure if her Urge were still with her, it would have taken over and brought the visions into reality. But her Urge was gone, and she was in complete control of herself. She kissed him.

She felt his body respond—his mouth opened to welcome her tongue, his arms wrapped tighter around her, pulling her closer into his chest. She felt his mind respond—reeling through a wave of lengthy memories at high speed. She could see him thinking of countless instances when he'd wanted to do this, dozens when he almost had or when he'd thought that perhaps she would, and the handful of rare well-hidden occasions on which they'd actually done this before. The last group was recalled so fondly and in such painstakingly recreated vibrant detail that it was as though she had those memories back now too. She felt his emotions respond—knew his true grief when he thought he'd lost her, his cautious optimism when he thought that he might've gotten her back, and the utter unequivocal sense of triumph he felt in this moment. 

Finally, she pulled back, breathless and dizzy, both from her racing thoughts and from his. She placed her hands on his neck, under the pointed collar of his robes, and leaned her forehead against his. He reached out and stroked her cheek softly with a sharp-tipped gold finger. For the moment, both their minds were still. 

“We really should get back to the city,” he finally said, telepathically once more. “You've got a world to deliver.”

[mediumsizedwildcat]

edit: minors please do not interact. i can't control what you read, if you pop up in my notifications i'll block you

well, this spiraled out of “thought” into “ficlet”

durgetash, after durge quest, endgame, genderneutral (they/them) redemption durge, death, resurrection, sad, happy ending, major spoilers (obviously)

when allying with gortash, you meet him at the brain's location and walk the last bit together. he takes the netherstones from you and tries to command the brain. it retaliates, commands him to die.

what if durge realizes this before the brain commands?

what if-

“no.” free of bhaal, they wrap their arm around gortash's neck, nuzzle their nose against the side of his head. amused by defiance, the netherbrain hesitates.

the memories will never return, but this close to their former beloved, durge's heart lets them know exactly how important gortash actually was to them. “he's mine,” they growl.

the brain sends out a vibe, almost as if it means to caress as well as edge on. do it, it challenges, though it doesn't say it, doesn't think it for them to hear.

knowledge flashes in their mind, where to stab to prolong the blood loss. no doubt they studied this to get off to their victim's deaths. to torture efficiently, let their victims believe there was a way out.

durge snarls, shows their teeth to the brain, their dagger pierces skin. they hold their breath, listen to gortash's death sounds. his gasps, the pain in his voice, the satisfaction that it was durge in the end. hope they remembered.

a tear rolls down durge's face, drops and soaks into gortash's robe. they pull out the dagger, hold gortash as he sinks into their arms. part of them wonders if he is that fragile or if he pretends. the brain is satisfied. durge realizes they couldn't win this fight of minds no matter how hard they tried, certainly not with gortash in their arms. but there is an archwizard in their ranks.

durge passes the stones to gale. “your turn,” they say. they pick up the dagger from gortash's lap, wrap their arm around his waist.

gale hesitates, “are you sure?”

durge laughs, no humor behind it. “i'm in no condition to beat an elderbrain, but you're an archwizard. you defied mystra, bested that orb, you'll get that crown, you'll return it to mystra, and she'll free you. if you cannot do this, gale of waterdeep, none of us can.”

gale steps up to the challenge. he binds the brain with every move. it doesn't matter, the brain breaks free. the emperor pulls them into the astral prism.

durge looks up, turns to halsin, to shadowheart. “someone heal him,” they plead, gortash still in their arms, barely alive.

“soldier,” karlach warns, anger radiates from her.

“he can-” meeting the fury in karlach's eyes, durge chokes on their words.

“he planned to blow up children with toys! he sold me to zariel!” karlach picks up her battleaxe. “he doesn't get a second chance.”

durge holds gortash closer, as if to shield him. “ketheric died, orin died. i was much worse than them combined,” they remind. “i raped, killed, and ate babes. i haunted children's nightmares, made them watch as their parents sacrificed themselves to keep them safe. carved their names into their parent's flesh as i killed them, ate dwarf regularly, experimented, tortured, kept the corpses to satisfy sexual urges.”

their body shivers. those are unthinkable horrors to them now, something they would never dare. they're good now. their friends shaped them.

“he did what he knew, what he grew up to do, all he ever saw. if i get a second chance, why can't he? if i-”

gortash chokes and despite the blood loss, pushes out of durge's arms. durge reaches out, places their hand on his cheek, pushes their thumb against his lip.

“we can be better,” they say quietly, “we can be good. he can help with your engine, karlach.” they meet gortash's eyes, hopeful, pleading, “we can be good.”

gortash's expression twists into one of disgust. “weak,” he chokes out. “changed.”

durge's breath catches in their throat, tears begin to sting their eyes. “but,” they trace his bottom lip, “we can be better? together? we can-”

gortash turns his head up, snarls, bares his teeth. disgust in his gaze as it wanders over his former lover's body.

the emperor rolls its eyes. “the netherbrain-”

“shut it, ghaik,” lae'zel warns.

durge pulls their hand away, takes out stillmaker from its place on their thigh. they show it to gortash, a reminder of their time together. a gift from bane's tyrant to bhaal's spawn. “karlach,” their voice shakes with heartbreak, “i need a hand.”

with durge's knowledge of anatomy, they know exactly where to place stillmaker to avoid ribs and puncture the heart. karlach places her hand on the pommel, looks at durge, and nods.

durge turns their head away, closes their eyes, lets the tears fall. they nod. karlach pushes stillmaker into gortash's chest, right where durge positioned it. they pull it out together.

gortash gasps, then his body goes limp.

the party is quiet. they follow the emperor to prince orpheus. no one mentions durge carrying gortash's body.

durge uses the pain. they pretend to let the emperor eat the prince's brain, convince it to bring down the barrier. they use magical chackles to bind the emperor to prince orpheus. they hand the orphic hammer to lae'zel and urge her to free her people's prince.

somehow, durge manages to make them all work together. they carry gortash's body out of the astral prism, they promise voss that once this is over, they will remove the chackles. they watch as the allies they've gathered, the friends they've made, question their sanity. their leadership.

finally, durge speaks up. “i cannot fight.”

silence follows. none believe them. halsin is the first who understands.

“you speak truth,” he says. “the headaches, your intestines... i remember from my examinations. you would need healing at all times. no matter, we have come this far and you have put together a good team. you will be missed during the final battle, but, oak father willing, we will make it.”

make it they did. they defeated the netherbrain, they celebrated. durge reaches for withers' arm. withers understands, but denies.

“one last act to piss off the dead three,” durge pleads.

gortash returns to life in their arms. this time, no sign of disgust. he lifts his hand, cups durge's cheek, “you carried me all the way here?”

“we can be good, enver,” durge pleads again.

gortash smiles, pained by bane's torture. “we can,” he agrees.

[blackjackkent]

"Why? Because of what you are." or "We tried, and we failed." for hector for the lyric prompts?

(TY for the prompt! Sorry it took me this long to respond lol. I hope you see this since I can’t tag you. D: 

I'm not sure if you are the same anon-friend who said they were tickled by Hector's previous interactions with the Emperor, but if so, well… this one is definitely not funny, but it is about the Emperor! And it’s long! And feelsy! So there’s that. :P

I'm going to go ahead and set this within Hector's liveblog and directly after this post specifically, because I am still emotional about it; originally my intention was to let him vent and expend some frustration but this definitely ended up going in a very different direction. The game doesn't give us an opportunity for a followup conversation with Karlach until morning, which leads me to believe she straight up just doesn't come back to camp that night and Hector lies alone in their tent, staring at the ceiling for hours in a sort of emotionally fragile haze before finally drifting off into restless dreams…)

PROMPT: 70 Lyric Prompts - “Why? Because of what you are.”

-----

Hector knows where he is without opening his eyes. The air within the Astral Prism is still, but there is something undefinable about it that feels different, some scent or taste or even the texture of the atmosphere on his skin. Foreign. Strange. Wrong. 

He shudders. He doesn't want to look around. He doesn't want to see anyone right now, not really; after the conversation with Karlach over Gortash's dead body, he feels like something ripped into his chest and removed his heart. He barely even spoke to anyone when they returned to camp, just spent hours bashing his fists desperately into the training dummy beside Lae'zel's empty tent and then collapsed into his bedroll as if there was any relief to be found in sleep. 

But he wants least of all to see the Emperor, and that is what he knows he will see if he looks around - the mind flayer's beady lavender stare and twitching tentacles and implacable agenda of transformation and destruction. 

“Go away,” he mutters hoarsely, and does not open his eyes. 

“We must speak,” the creature rumbles. “Gortash is dead. Our plan must move forward.”

Hector's eyes squeeze tighter shut and he rolls onto his side away from the illithid voice, curling into himself. “There is no our plan,” he growls. “There is your plan and my plan. And I want no part of yours tonight.”

“Yet you will hear it, nevertheless, because you must,” the Emperor continues implacably. There is the soft, almost imperceptible sound of shifting fabric, of the illithid levitating along the ground. “With Gortash dead, you will mean to face down Orin. The battle ahead will try your abilities to the utmost. You must reconsider the use of the Astral Tadpole if you are to--”

“No.”

“Why will you not simply--” 

“Why?” Hector answers flatly. “Because of what you are. Because of what you want me to become. I want no part of it, I never have, and we are not having this conversation tonight.”

“It is not a question of wanting. It is a question of what must be.” The mind flayer pauses, then continues implacably, “Karlach's death is a regrettable loss, but you must look beyond it. You and I--”

Something snaps inside Hector's brain and he feels suddenly choked with a surge of emotion too complex for easy definition - rage and grief and exhaustion and disgust. “Leave me alone!” he snarls. His eyes come open and he rolls to his front, through his knees and onto his feet in a smooth motion that curves itself into an unthinking punch in the direction from which the Emperor was speaking. 

The Emperor is too quick, and darts backward before the blow can land. It hovers just out of reach, looking at him with that unreadable stare, and makes a clicking noise from somewhere within the maw beneath its tentacles. “Foolish,” it murmurs. “I am not your enemy, Hector. I never have been.”

Hector stares back at it, for once not bothering to hide any of his anger. “You know,” he spits angrily, “you do a very good impression of humanity. You've almost made me believe it sometimes. But sometimes it's really obvious that Withers is right - that you have no soul. Because no human would ever think that this was the right time for a strategy meeting.”

He turns away, walks to the edge of the floating rock on which the two of them are standing. “If you have something in mind that can save Karlach, I want to hear that. But I don't want to hear about your plan, or our connection, or our partnership. I don't want to hear about the Knights of the Shield, or bloody Stelmane and how she was the love of your poor misbegotten life. And I don't want to hear about your fucking tadpole.”

Anyone else might have been surprised to hear the curse on his lips, but the Emperor listens impassively, its tentacles barely even twitching. 

“So shut up,” Hector finishes coldly, staring out at the unending starscape. “And leave me be.”

There is a long silence. Finally the Emperor speaks, and even for it, the words are slow, low, and very carefully controlled. “Perhaps you think I tolerate such disrespect with equanimity.”

“Oh, go ahead, then,” Hector says with a humorless laugh. “Kill me. Suck my brain out. You won't, of course. Because you need me.” He scowls. “Pity. I would welcome oblivion right now.”

“Were I weaker of spirit than I am,” the illithid growls, “I would grant it. It is lucky for us both that I am not.”

Hector's fists clench at his sides. “Why?” he asks, and it's a demand less of the Emperor and more of the universe, of any gods that might be listening. “Why do I get to live and she gets to die? Answer me that, if you can, you eldritch bastard.”

“I have no more control over Karlach's fate than you do.” A pause. Its tentacles give a sharp, spasmodic twitch.  “Except in one regard,” it adds, with a sudden strange cruel brightness in its voice. “The tadpole would transform her, you know, just as it would transform you. She would have no need for her engine heart. No limit to the years you could have together...”

Hector goes utterly still, the blood draining out of his face. “No,” he whispers.

“There, you see?” the Emperor says caustically. “It is I who offer to heal her, and you that would let her die.”

“Shut up.” He tries to put force into the words but they emerge hollow, broken. The Emperor has found the weak point in his armor, stuck a knife into it, and twisted.

“Are you so selfish,” the mind flayer presses, “that you cannot see the value of what I have to offer? It is strength, and it can be life.”

He sinks to his knees on the edge of the platform, his breath starting to come in sudden sharp bursts. “She has taught me… some things are more important than living or dying…”

“And when you see her burning from the inside out, I am sure those things will seem very important indeed,” the Emperor murmurs. 

“Shut up,” he says shakily.

“I am sure you will watch her scream and think fondly on your principles, on the strength that you turned down because you lacked the courage to evolve.”

“Shut up.” Hector hunches forward, his fists pressed into the stone beneath him, as if curling away from a physical attack.

“And when she is gone, your forbearance will provide great comfort in a cold bed.”

“SHUT UP!” The roar bursts from him and cracks apart into a sob. Tears flood his eyes, blurring his vision. “Gods… please… just leave me alone. I can’t… I can’t… she is dying and she is in so much pain, and I can’t help her, I can’t stop it. If you were anything less than a monster, you would grieve with me, you would want to help her… you would give a single, solitary damn… but you don’t. All you care about is your fucking worm, and it’s all falling apart… it’s all gone… it’s all gone…”

The tears are coming heavier now, choking him, blinding him. “What the hell am I going to do?” he whispers. “I won’t… I won’t do it, I won’t do what you want… I won’t become an… an abomination just to save my heart… I won’t take her choice from her… but how will I bear it…? ”

He realizes, suddenly, that he is awake, that his fists are clenched into his pillow which is soaking wet with tears, that his whole body is being wracked with each gasping sob, that his bedroll is tangled around his legs, constricting him, trapping him. “Oh, gods…” he whispers brokenly. “My Lady, help me, please… please… the night is so dark…”

“Hector?” Shadowheart is crouched at the flap of the tent, peering through at him with an expression of uncharacteristic concern. As he rolls over awkwardly to look at her, he sees faint movement behind her, a flash of Jaheira’s eyes in the dimness, the curve of one of Wyll’s horns. Gods, did he wake the whole camp bawling?

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” he mutters hoarsely. “A bad dream… I’m-- I’ll be fine.”

She frowns, glances sideways at someone unseen beside her in the dark. “Do you… erm. Need to talk about it?” she asks, with an awkwardness that he might find touching if he were not so utterly lost in his own grief. 

“No,” he answers. It is an old habit now to turn away, to hide his feelings, to withdraw into an air of aloofness and control-- though he makes a poor show of it just now, with his eyes red and body trembling. Oh, what’s the point? “Yes,” he adds in a low mutter after a pause. “Maybe. But…not now. Rest. You need to rest, all of you.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then nods and withdraws into the darkness. 

He rolls over and stares at the ceiling of the tent with a heavy breath out. The grief still sits in his gut like a heavy stone, and his breath still feels caught in his throat.

And the Emperor’s voice still whispers in the back of his mind, implacable and cold as ice. “Think about what I told you. We both know that very little time is left…”

[rosheendubh]

AWAY…(have a ficlet From Latticeof Infinity/Elegy of Dead Kingdoms—from this shattered disaster of a crack SpaceRockOpera—the lyrics are from Nightwish’s, ‘Away’. Because some divine being posted 4+ hours of Nighwish’s Top50–and this song embraces quite the Theme of this segment from my particular AU crossover of StarWars-through TTT/HandofcThrawn/Merged Dark Empire1/Shadows of Mindor/events of the YuhzanVong War with Firefly/Serenity, and the Keltiad-squished into the Firefly ‘verse as an Independent system…)

~

“Away, away, away in time Every dream's a journey away Away, away, to a home away from care Everywhere's just a journey away

Cherish the moment Tower the skies Don't let the dreamer Fade to gray like grass…”

~

The first time Thrawn kissed Rhyanon it was after he’d destroyed a fair bit of the Galaxy by collapsing the Wormhole connecting the Terran quadrant with the quadrant of the Imperial Remnant still in conflict with the Republic Alliance. He had good intentions, because there was really no other way to slow Abaddon. But, the fallout by anyone’s measure, even megalomaniacs like the long-deceased Sith, Palpatine, proved a little apocalyptic.

Thrawn, of course, had a contingency plan for the survivors, leading them to the old ruins of the 2nd Death Star, which existed in a sort of fluctuating twilight-world of shifting space-time corridors. An after-effect of the cataclysm imploding through the continuums of the meta-verse.

Amid other events leading to this moment, Rhyanon eventually found him kneeling in the sands of the Oceans of Time, staring off into a horizon of fire and storm and cosmic winds. Pain and anger stained their shared past, dating back years to her time as a courtesan-trained-medic while in Palpatine’s court, when Thrawn was promoted to Grand Admiral on the eve of the Emperor’s death.

Until this moment, she never would have suspected Thrawn capable of suffering as other sentients. Loss, the great price of sacrificing the Ascendency to stall Abaddon’s dark ravaging of planetary systems, wrought lines of weariness heavy upon his brow, around his mouth. The shadow haunting the scarlet eyes cut raw in her heart.

Thrawn asked if her people, the Keltoi, had a word for the kind of grief that formed a void beyond emptiness. “A ballad or a lay, perhaps?” His words stumbling out in that eloquent cadence of velvet and steel, edged in bitterness. “The Keltoi—the legendary race of warrior-poets.”

Rhyanon couldn’t recall any from her youth. But then, her youth had been stolen prematurely, swept away by a brutal act of violence, taking her from everything she’d known and loved.

A memory came to her then, of her brother. Bard-trained Talhaiarn, an officer of the Keltoi fleet in service to the Ardrian Aeron Aoibhell. Warriors, the Keltoi as the Chiss, and Talhiarn renowned as a fearless pilot, a devoted commander. He’d indulged music’s magic as an escape from the horrors of war.

As she knelt before Thrawn, Rhyanon spoke gently. “I may have no verse to offer, but my brother often says the first song was born of sorrow so deep, words were inadequate to lift such sadness to the skies.”

Thrawn’s grief, his remorse, buried under the armor born of leadership, broke through, etched in rivulets of moisture, liquid garnet, like blood, rolling down his azure cheeks.

Rhyanon, with her biokinesis, accessed the nanoplexus integrated into her central nervous system. A graceful curl of her wrist, bend of a finger, she directed a green-gold plasmic current, capturing, analyzing the composition of his tears. The microscopic manifesting as vision, the molecular shaped into an endless weaving of threads imparting life. The profundity of sorrow captured like a globular prism, a raindrop, a teardrop, restless as the cosmic storms ravaging the horizon of this liminal plain.

“Chiss lacrimal secretions,” she murmured as he stared at the mirage coalesced between them, rapt by her enchantment, “while differing in certain constituents, hold a similar salinity to human tears, an osmolarity nearly matching the ocean waters.”

Rhyanon tried offering some other surcease beyond an academic text, wiping at a blood-tinged track from against his cheek. “Our tears flow, as our lives, and our griefs, rivers washed into the Sea where all things end. And emerge again.”

He searched her face, trying to find some salvation from the decisions he’d made. Dreamlike, she slowly leaned toward him, hearing his muted gasp at the softness of her lips upon his cheeks, his dark lashes, wet, salt like human tears—why would she expect differently—where she kissed away his silent sorrow. His surrending sigh as she chastely brushed his mouth with hers, held the synchronicity of their breath, shared in this precious moment.

When Rhyanon drew back, she seemed as mystified as he, her action leaving them both pensive. Her eyes drifted shut, as she turned from the wonder in Thrawn’s look.

And in those moments where Rhyanon still seemed held by that light first brush of lips, Thrawn, utterly mesmerized, reached toward her, her eyelids fluttering wide as he guided her face close. Before she could tense back, his mouth claimed hers, thirsting, seeking, wanting. Her breath caught in surprise, but she responded, easing to the exploration of lips and tongue, eyes closing once more, lost to the taste of warmth, and the heady euphoria of wandering hands, his arms encompassing her supple form, her hands clinging onto his shoulders and neck… ~ It was said, of the 5 Greatest Kisses in the Galaxy, this one was ranked somewhere in the top 10. A true Cold Mountain performance, as Kaylee might have approximated. Had she been there to witness the Kiss. But because no one of the Serenity crew, or the Wilde Kaarde had any idea what transpired between the biokinetically gifted Keltoi medic, and the former Grand Admiral, now Supreme Commander of the Imperial Remnant united with the Empire of the Hand, and they only found out about it after-the-fact, it was ranked in the top 10, without ever receiving any explicit ordinal denomination.

The Republic Alliance and the Fringe systems of the Terran Core were amid a truce with the Empire of the Hand, but the split of forces on either side of the spatial conduit had delayed progress. The conundrum of truncating communication and travel in the absence of the wormhole left River Tam with a puzzle more entertaining than figuring out how to overcome the thousands of meteors orbiting Coruscant, utilizing the antiquated tracking of spatial aquatonics, accelerated by River’s unique talents. A mind operating in fractal domains, dimensional analytics reducing equations to a few hours, that would have taken the Republic’s best physicists a month, she needed something else now, to keep her distracted, or the sound of Abaddon’s Reaver-Hybrid Clones, never far from her consciousness, might threaten the precarious hold she’d only recently recovered of her sanity after Miranda.

Thus, on that rare evening while Rhyanon and Thrawn continued groping and caressing each other like teenagers riding passion’s hormonal tidal wave, Ar’alani was subjected to learning why Terran humans seemed so obsessed with quoting script-lines from long-dead movies. A favorite of these oft-repeated one-liners: “as you wish,” Jayne, Serenity’s weapons-happy muscle-man, babbled every time Ar’alani drifted somewhere in his general vicinity.

This was the penance for losing the Girls’ Night Drinking Game to Zoe and Saffron—aka Mara Jade. Subjected to Jayne’s movie-night choice of Old Terra’s cinematic selection stored in Serenity’s archives. Who knew a man who strolled through civilian markets with a rocket-launcher on his shoulder because ya’ never knew what fruit-vendor might turn into an assasin indulged a secret fetish for romances.

Resignedly, Ar’alani settled back on the worn cushions of the sofa, housed in a back storage pit of the ramshackle smuggling ship. Serenity gloried in its disarray and disrepair like a flick-off to Talon Kaarde’s well-maintained vessel, and orderly crew.

Stale beer and cigara fumes filtered through the air of Serenity’s makeshift entertainment center, holos projecting what Jayne swore as the greatest movie of all time.

“Want some?” Jayne asked, rattling a bowl of heat-reactive seed kernels under her nose, crunching down on a fluffy piece of styrofoam-looking cellulose lathered in butter and salt.

Ar’alani’s expression puckered at the charred pungency of fumes wafting from the bowl, and altogether overwhelming for the refined senses of Chiss olfactory centers. “No, thank you,” she said, trying to keep the forebearsnce from her voice, seeing Jayne’s puppy-dog eyes. “And if you say, as you wish one more time, I’ll dump those seed kernels—popcorn—“the word awkward from her throat”— over your head.”

A mistake, she realized, quickly learning females speaking in a commanding voice only made Jayne more moon-eyed. Which was enough for Ar’alani to toss back another Ewok microbrew.

Keth roach piss would have tasted sweeter*, she thought spurring another curse at Thrawn for bringing them to this lost twilight realm. The crash site of his old Emperor’s mad battalion of destruction. She chokied down the beverage, because drunk was the only way she could envision sustaining Jayne’s company for the next 2 hours, and hoped whatever involved the Supreme Commander in that moment, it was either thoroughly tormenting or worse, boring to the point of death.

When she learned later, the indulgence that had indeed occupied Thrawn, she had no regret for the data-pad aimed at his head from across the conference desk of his office. Thrawn caught the object effortlessly of course, which irked her all the more. Fuming, Ar’alani stalked out from the office, vowing over her shoulder as she exited between the sliding doors, Thrawn could spend the next movie-night subjected to Jayne’s visual art tastes, his rancid popcorn, and cheap alcohol. She heard the low laughter in her wake, the words, “As you wish,” reaching her as the doors whisked shut.

For a moment, she considered turning back around, marching through the doors, up to Thrawn, glaring fire to match the subtle teasing glint in his eyes. And stuffing as you wish right back at him.

As entertaining as the vision was, of smashing a few more data-pads over Thrawn’s polished composure, Ar’alani prided herself on possessing the rare trait of taking the high-road, as the saying went.

Especially because of the laughter. That had been good to hear. Clean, honest laughter, something like joy and the bravado she recalled when Thrawn had been an infuriating captain under her command.

After all the loss, the death, and decimation swallowing their Galaxy, with Abaddon, and forces of the Coroniad-Virathi [read: my analog to the Grysk, but adapted from the Keltiad verse] still afoot. It was the first time she’d heard that sound from him in decades. And if it took basting the Keltoi medic—Mal Reynolds kept calling her Gaia—in reference to some ancient Terran goddess that recalled Rhyanon’s abilities of organic molecular manipulation. Well, Ar’alani decided, if this was what followed a good basting for Thrawn, it was better than the melancholy devouring him since the Battle of the Event Horizon.

So, she held her peace that day, hope’s candle, a flicker in the storm, but present, wakening for the first time since she’d led the few Chiss survivors to this rendezvous of Endor, fleeing their home-worlds, a cold rage constricting her chest, watching Csilla’s incinerated caracass fade away like a million ashes blasted across the Star-ways.

Hope, that flickering candle in Ar’alani’s mind. She strode down the passage to the main hanger-port, notified of General Skywalker’s return with a new collection of refugees from the Infernal Regions bordering the dimensional rift left by the Wormole’s collapse, dubbed Ginngungagap, after some other archaic Terranism.

Echoing through her mind, with that candle, the words, As you wish, yourself, Vu’rawn.

[h-a-rpy]

The Flame That Burns

Hestia hadn’t been sure whether she should cry or not, she could hear the quiet sobs around her… those in mourning of their beloved friend and leader… she glanced around to see almost everyone crying— this was a moment where nobles and commoners had come together to find solace.. in their united grief…

But one man wasn’t crying.. she looked up at the emperor… a man of tall stature, sunken features, and bright ginger hair… he had just lost his wife and mother of his child— it perplexed Hestia as to why he didn’t seem more sad… soon Nafisa, Hestia’s mother guided her away from the casket and to their seats so the funeral procession could begin.

-

Since that day, the empire had felt, heavier… With the loss of the empress and the imperial prince— Hestia, and her younger brother Florence, were put under the limelight as the future of the empire. The children of the Eternal Flame were to be the ones to inherit the great Imperium Perennius.

Hestia felt the obligation that had been placed on her shoulders so young.. she was to be the example, she was the one who would carry the empress’ legacy, the one who had to ensure it was as eternal as their hearth.

She was trained in manners, educated in academics, taught music and basic combat. To her, it was all just, chore work. All one step closer to the crown.

As she and Florence grew, they slowly fell into their places. Florence was being prepped to lead the land of the eternal flame, while she was prepped for something much larger. She spent most of her time in the capital kingdom, Lyria, home to the Prism. The glowing stone that gave them all the lives they lived and the magic they used, and fought for during the great wars. Although, no one had ever been permitted to see it. Hestia had only seen it once when she was younger.

She remembered it clearly… sitting in the empress’ arms with the young prince Scherzo of shadows and Enki of flora at her sides… she remembered the way her eyes sparkled in awe and admiration at the beautiful prism as it spun slowly… casting rays of different colors of light across the room.

“This is our light… dear children. It protects us, as long as we also protect it. Without this prism… we would be divided.. lost.. fearful. Our sacred prism is the same one from the time of the gods and the first Fae… so you must protect it, and everything that it is.. understood?” The late empress’, Valencia’s voice rang in Hestia’s ears as she recalled the memory…

It was late… the moon was high in the sky as Hestia stood in her chambers, staring at her reflection in the mirror for what seemed like an eternity. She had just been notified that the imperial prince had been found… and her brother had been sent out to retrieve and acclimatize him.

This meant everything Hestia worked for, everything she sacrificed, everything she stayed up many moons for… day after day… neglecting all other aspects of life— was simply… ripped away from her… this— “Prince”. The Emperor and Empress’ only child… found alive.. would inherit an empire he didn’t even know existed…

Hestia could feel the steam seeping from her ears.. she could feel the heat as the tips of her hair caught fire like the wick of a candle… she began to seethe in nothing but pure rage... With a scream, she sent a jab of fire to her mirror as it shattered and the wood scorched to ash. Tears rolled down her face only to burn against her skin as she cried out… throwing and burning everything in her way.

Her life.

Her work.

Her sacrifices.

Her crown.

Her.

Hers.

Just to suddenly.. not be. It didn’t make sense. How could a stranger rule her land? How could a stranger step in and carry the legacy of someone he never knew? For this… boy… did not know the empress like she once did. This boy did not make the sacrifices she made.. put in the work she did.. dedicated the life she had.

Soon there were small fires all around her room— being the land of the Flame, these fires gradually burned themselves out and didn’t cause much damage… but she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t breathe. Bursting out of her balcony as if trapped under thousands of tons of pressure. Gasping into the night air, gripping her railing for dear life.

What… was she… now.?

Who was she.?

What purpose did she have.?

Why her.?

She could feel the weight of her wings on her back… wanting to rip them off and throw them over the cliff side of the palace… tears still flooded down her face as she sobbed.. sinking to her knees.

For the first time, she was…

Afraid.

She did not know what would come now. Nor did she want to know. She didn’t want a future that didn’t have her at the pinnacle.

She heard a distant chirp— looking up through her tears to see the great Phoenix, symbol of her kingdom, ascend onto the railing of her balcony..

You would never know Fiamma.. the great Phoenix was what she was… Hestia always thought she was just a silly bird… but here this bird was. Illuminating the night with its fiery body, tilting its head at Hestia.

“G..go away.. begone…” she tried to wave the bird away.

“Leave me be.. let me rot..” she pleaded, trying to shove the great Phoenix away from her, weakly, as it simply evaded her hands as she cried.

“What do you want.? Have you come to see me wallow.? See my fall.? I might as well be a Morningstar…” she said to the bird.

The bird leaned down… its face inches from Hestia’s… letting out a quiet, gentle set of chirps and chimes… she sniffled.

The bird leaned in and gently nuzzled into her face in an attempt to wipe her tears which now only fell harder.. her hair catching fire and turning into a large flame atop her head… she could feel herself… burning… and yet the fire from the Phoenix was so warm.. Fiamma was warm…

Warm.

Not burning.

She felt pathetic… crying into the great bird as its wings engulfed her like a lost chick… Fiamma was not known to be this kind.. this close… but she heard the Princess’ cries in the night, and seemed to know now was not the time to leave her abandoned…

Hestia cried… and sobbed… for what felt like forever. But the bird remained with her… rubbing her tears and providing soft chirps. But they were interrupted by the creek of her chamber door… Hestia’s mother… Nafisa stood in the doorway… eyes wide at her disheveled daughter being cradled by the great Phoenix…

The bird gently pulled away with a soft chirp.. giving a last rub before taking flight into the night… like a comet racing across the sky.

Nafisa slowly approached Hestia.. glancing at the little fires around her room and the flame that engulfed her daughter’s hair. Hestia turned her gaze to her mother… and could only mutter one short word.

“Mama…” she creaked out and that was enough for Nafisa.. she slid down and pulled Hestia close as if she would disappear at a moments notice. Cradling her grown daughter as if she was a babe all over again..

Nafisa gently pet Hestia’s head.. calming the flames back into their auburn locks… kissing her head, “I know… I know..” she whispered to her daughter. She cradled Hestia.. caressing her head and rubbing between her wings gently.. a motion she had to do to her as a baby to get her to stop crying… “things will work out.. my spark..”

Hestia slowly looked up at her mother through teary eyes that had grown red and puffy— in this moment she certainly wasn’t the grown woman she had aged to be… but a little girl, seeking her mother’s love.

“I-I don’t know— anything- anymore… Mama I- who am I.? What do I do.?” Hestia whispered desperately.

Nafisa gently shushed her, caressing her cheek… “my love… you, are Hestia.. my Hestia… you are still the great young woman.. great princess to our nation— to our empire…”

Hestia interrupted, “but I— the empire- it was supposed to be mine I— I was supposed to lead it! Mama I.. I did everything! I did everything right.. didn’t I? Mama I tried so hard— don’t- please they can’t take it away from me” She gripped her mother’s arms…

Nafisa sighed, holding her daughter’s face in her hands. “Hestia… I know this upsets you… I can’t begin to imagine how you feel… but not all is lost.. Just because you won’t have the empire doesn’t mean—“

Only for her to be interrupted again by Hestia who cried out and shook her head rapidly… “no no no!! It was mine! It was all mine! Mama, it’s no one else’s— Valencia- she left it to me!! She told us! It was our duty— our job we— I! Mine! My job!”

Soon a familiar voice came from behind them… Hestia’s father… “now is not the time for a pity party…”

Hestia’s brows furrowed as her mother spoke, “Azar have some sympathy–”

“Sympathy? A lost child– the heir to the empire has returned. You should be happy. You should be the one going to meet with him, not Florence. Must everything always be about you?” Her father shot back.

Hestia could feel the same rage beginning to pool within her… going to stand up but was stopped by her mother– “I’ll deal with it..” Nafisa whispered before getting up and aggressively ushering her husband out of the room and closing the door to muffle their argument…

It was in this moment that Hestia felt as if she had truly regressed to a younger version of herself… Sitting on the floor… listening to her parents argue about her. She looked around her room, it looked like a tornado had ripped through it… She caught her reflection in one of the mirror shards, and she only saw her father’s daughter.

-

Hestia Castor, despite her fiery origin, had slowly become cold. She was quiet and every move was calculated. She could feel fire coursing through her veins… especially alone at night. The little whispers that beckoned her forth, encouraged her aggression and her hate. Her fire was not one of warmth. Not like Florence’s, not like her mother’s, not like the Phoenix… Her fire was meant to burn, and blacken…

The “prince” was said to arrive soon, she looked down at her hands… she could feel her blood pumping and could see the warm glow of fire pulse through her veins, the shadow whispered,

“Take what is yours…”

Her eyes narrowed and her hands clenched into tight fists… what if, she made sure there wasn’t a prince coming home…

[rejectory]

It provokes.

Feyd-Rautha has the Voice without having it. Where there’s a blister of a memory of him bumping up, an ant against the lid, Paul can’t. His thoughts. They have legs in the hundreds, supracoLor through a prism so fast they’re cutting time, shattering light.

The burst of halo salts his eyes. His blink-blink traces back to his jackrabbiting heart.

They slope, or the horizon does, and fall.

He licks. Up Feyd’s jaw, licks. (Paul.) Paul is crouched on Feyd-Rautha like a vulture. He sticks his beak behind his ear. Down in the fine sand, it’s like rolling in spice. He’s a splinter of muscle on Feyd’s body, tightly splayed. Knees apart.

A door opens backward to a man. A weak, good one. You know why I killed him?

Paul desperately tries to kick away—

Leto Atreides, slumped naked over a chair. He’s paralyzed; he has no body of his left to speak of, only thoughts of his family and a desire—Paul, Paul is also desiring—for something awful as the Baron’s toddler head floats over on his whale body. He’s watching the Devil. Clicks his shield on like the coward he is.

The thought comes again: if he undressed Feyd-Rautha,

Screw you—-

what would he find what would he find

what would he find

A cold tickles down Paul’s back.

He didn’t mean that. Dad. It’s not real.

Come back.

A past that didn’t come to be does instead. The Emperor, spared. Paul, plunging his knife into Feyd—

Someone’s in a knot whining like a sacrifice just north of his head, and he’s half curious who. Three someones, twelve limbs, ugly on top of each other, an image of interrupted gestation. It smells like being born.

A hand that’s not a hand but his own impulse starfishes on his spine, bucks it low. He’s rubbing dry against Feyd-Rautha’s stomach until he’s weak-kneed and delicate. His mouth forgets to close. It’s not real. He wants more.

He can’t stand it.

Shishakli can’t stand up. Paul’s holding the flamethrower, he likes it, she deserves it,

No.

Feyd’s nose is a bump in the cave dark. His neck... Something tugs behind Paul’s belly button. Hazed, he finds the cuts he gifted and bites to the blood on the second try.

Oh. That's good. She's good. See-haya knows your body. he doesnt accept leftovers. I know it better. whole arena inside the ramus-shaped stamp on his knee.

He winds that wet around his tongue, less bite than slip, Mah-di's a shivering, too-narrow bow that Rautha pulls inside, tucks in, all swells and bruising pressure, give already, finally, just come

In.

Mmmnn, that gushes, dry-pop split like ozone cracking the sky in two where the blood's coming out, into the box. Beading, beading, it only coming up in heaves while Rautha's worming, he gasps like she does. Fire in mua deeb's spindly fingers, just a barely-man boy, then, but Rautha's already fire, so she's God. Her box as heaven. He's clotting under it, somewhere, spider-weaving screams in her womb. Take it, go on, watch while I watch you

He's prickling into the chaste fabric of their ritual matrimony, is that you, so soft, so scared, so let me

Skewer him on a pike where his little sister can see. You're vile, how disgusting, how'bout your mother? Should she watch us too?

Squirm. Itch. I like it. your pets watch us squeeze inside each other, they wanted this. thrash some more

No.

not that. what did I say. pluck out your eyes for it, you can't—

(Where do you think you're going? Stop, now, there, that's it, I'm only petting you)

—kill

it a second

time.

I'll drown you in your vomit. Plug up your ribs. You know what organs go where. Here, I'll help you blind you excise you what did I say, Cousin

Mother gets to die, her guts so fine so pretty. Here's her fine leg, here's her shining teet. Here's my blade, now, my mother, I repay you— just interest. Just mud. This is what Uncle taught me, only gentler

Back.

Going sideways. There's hot oil and string between contractions, muscles, the stick of skin, syrup on syrup, am I so much, so painful, do you like how I ache you? Plug your ribs. Paul.

Sensitive as the worm. Feyd's grit under scales. The fruit's rotten and sallow, Where's the outworlder, here we are, blood to blood, wet to wet, here's a tooth for you, tell your worm to go forgive itself. Ha ha. Does See-haayaa lick you into wounds, bundle you up so fragile. Which of us makes her scream prettier. Usul, o base of pillar, taste your shame off me.

[velvet-tread]

so revisiting octavia blake (especially after what we’ve seen of her in s5e06 tonight)... what’s your understanding of octavia blake, in relation to bloodreina and also as one of the most disliked characters in the fandom?

 TW – there follows some discussion of abuse so if that is one of your sensitivities, I wish you well and recommend caution with what follows. Are you asking if I still stan Octavia now she’s Blodreina? Because the answer to that is complicated but basically yes. For clarity: stanning, to me, doesn’t involve nailing my colours to the mast and then contorting myself into ever more unlikely shapes to justify every single thing my fave has ever done. It’s possible to love and emphathise with a character, while also acknowledging the terrible things they’ve done or are. Maybe I don’t need to tell you this, but maybe others need to hear it: don’t let ANYONE shame you for loving Octavia. And by that I mean if someone tries, just tune them tf out. They don’t get it, they never will. They aren’t worth your time and energy. Let that truth set you free. So yeah, I still love Octavia, with all her flaws and her sharp edges. I can’t love Blodreina, but while Blodreina is certainly Octavia, Octavia is not Blodreina. Blodreina is the very worst of Octavia. Spoiled, demanding, hard, judgemental, imperious, unyielding, cold, unempathetic and very, very violent. She is the culmination of the story of a non-person, disempowered and locked up under the floor, coming into being and being handed a sword. And power. So much power. She is a product of necessity. She is an amalgamation of Jaha’s lessons, Indra and Kane’s guidance, Kara’s support and Gaia’s teachings. She has a god complex which, imo, can only go the way of Mount Weather. By which I mean it will probably consume everything in its path before blowing to smithereens and taking at least one of our faves down with it. But while Blodreina is certainly real, let’s not get carried away with OCTAVIA IS REVEALED AS FOR THE MONSTER SHE’S BEEN ALL ALONG. Deep breaths everyone, and maybe a sip of water. Blodreina is a persona who enables Octavia to carry out the most monstrous of deeds (hi Jaha!) and live with it. Has Octavia drunk the Blodreina Koolaid? Most certainly. But Octavia embracing her worst is not the same has Octavia being the worst. Also see: Bellamy season 1 and season 3a. Would you look at that A PARALLEL WE LOVE PARALLELS. Blodreina serves a purpose for Octavia-of-the-butterflies too. Because this show is this show and we are never more than a few monologues away from “love is weakness”, Blodreina is also a protective casing that locks away Octavia’s grief, her pain and her misery, her loneliness and self-loathing, along with her vulnerability and empathy. It seems super obvious to me that Octavia’s personal journey this season, apart from trying and presumably failing to keep Wonkru intact, will be about disassociating herself from Blodreina. And that, probably, won’t come without falling spectacularly from grace and facing her pain, and reckoning with the things she’s done. Also see: Bellamy seasons 1-4. Huh. What happens when the exoskeleton crumbles? What’s underneath? What will Octavia-who-washed-Lincoln’s-wounds, come to think about Blodreina and the things she’s done in the name of her people? How will she confront the agony of being Octavia Blake, naked, piteous and vulnerable, the girl under the floor who was denied existence?

I want these things for Octavia. I want the narrative to subject her to the most abject moral scrutiny because that is what you should want for the characters you love. It’s what makes them interesting. It’s what makes them matter. ALSO SEE BELLAMY FOREVER. Now I’ve been in this fandom long enough not to expect many others to see it this way. We are balls deep in moral monochrome here in the Bellarke fandom, and while that gives me pause for a sip of tea and a short prayer to the patron saints of patience, it’s not a situation that anyone can change, least of all me. And why would I? People are free to engage with the show how they want, as long as they stay in their lane.

And look, I get why some people can’t see past some of her sins. I, too, have characters that I dislike with varying degrees of rationality. But objectively, Octavia’s level of moral turpitude is at about the same level as any of the main characters. That’s just a fact. People’s personal preferences, while as valid as any other preference, are just that: subjective opinions. Where I start to sip my tea and raise my eyes to the heavens is when people start presenting their subjective opinions as objective FUCK YOU AND YOUR INBOX truth and thanks but no. It seems to be fanon lore now that Octavia is unempathetic and…it just makes no sense. This is the girl who was filled with wonder at Earth, who refused to let Jasper die even when everyone in camp wanted him to. She saw the humanity in Lincoln when Bellamy, Clarke and Raven could not. She saw the humanity in humanity when all anyone wanted to do was kill each other until they burned in Praimfaya. Wonkru exists because Octavia inspired them with her faith in them. The only way it begins to make sense is when you consider Octavia’s actions through the prism of Bellamy’s experience – which 8/10 is how the BC fandom at least views the show. (Also valid btw. I also project onto my faves! Bellamy among them! But see above for subjective opinion vs objective fact.) With Bellamy, the lack of empathy is real. Octavia, or at least the Octavia of seasons 1-4 high key struggled to see Bellamy as a fully realised person with desires and feelings of his own. But, while this sucks for Bellamy, from Octavia’s perspective it is entirely understandable. No matter how young Bellamy seems to us, to Octavia he is her parent figure. How many of the people on here haven’t put their parents through hell from time to time? I shouldn’t have to point out the bleeding obvious here, which is that teenagers who care deeply about animal welfare, trans rights, LGBTQA+ rights, poverty and climate change can also go through phases of being absolutely fucking awful to their parents. Often, that’s because in our world, teens are subjected to an unholy amount of pressure with which they struggle to cope, and the overspill of that hurt lands on the people responsible for them. It doesn’t make them bad people. And, yes, that can, occasionally, tip over into emotional and, more rarely, physical abuse but we don’t usually call it that. We call that “teenagers being fucking awful” and I am 100% sure that this is the context the writers room is working from. Do I think it’s acceptable, or justified? Hell no. But it’s important to take these narrative threads in the context of the real-world understanding of the people who develop them. This show isn’t created in a vacuum. Now work the scenario I outlined above into a post-apocalyptic landscape with 2x traumatised victims of systemic injustice, one of whom was locked up by the other because of that injustice. Yeah. What is so interesting to me is that the blind spot Octavia has wrt Bellamy – the blind spot that denied him access to the empathy she showed everyone else - has come into play again now she’s Blodreina, but in a different way. After 6 years of having everyone kowtow to her, and after vowing not to love, suddenly Octavia is making concession after concession for her brother at huge personal risk to herself.  It might not seem like that to us, or to Bellamy (and legit! I get why, from Bellamy’s POV), but to Octavia it must seem like she’s trying SO HARD to give him what he wants within the framework of what she thinks is achievable. Consider love is weakness. Consider that she throws herself into his arms on sight, in full view of all of her people. Consider being the arbiter of life and death for 6 years. Now consider Bellamy asking her to trust him. She does and is rewarded with a sonic blast. Bellamy delivers her an ultimatum about Echo, and she concedes. She fucking concedes! When has she ever willingly conceded on anything and ESPECIALLY NOW SHE HOLDS THE POWER OF AN EMPEROR? It’s fairly obvious from the Blake siblings sparring session that Bellamy was the symbolic winner. He got through to her. Octavia NEVER forgives. But she offers Echo – the woman whose sins Octavia will never forget - a way out. When Echo and Bellamy refuse, does she banish Echo? She could do. She’s Blodreina. She’s used to doing whatever the fuck she wants. But, no. She accepts the alternative, and even helps Echo on her way. Yes, it’s brutal and Blodreina-y and serves a double purpose but still, she helps her. She’s not doing that for Echo.  She’s doing it for Bellamy. No, she’s not doing it with a winning smile and a cuddle, but that’s not Blodreina’s style. She tries to thank him for saving them, in the only way she knows how. She reaches out, and he lashes out with cold anger. And perhaps it’s deserved. No, it’s definitely deserved, but GODDAMMIT that was a “you’re dead to me” level of cruelty. Can I just roll back a second and talk about how co-dependent the Blake sibs are? Cool. A friend (I can’t remember who, sorry) once said that Bellamy and Octavia carried their cage back down to Earth with them. And for seasons 1-4 that is absolutely what happened. They are spectacularly co-dependent. Bellamy depends on her to give him purpose, and a direction and reason to live. Octavia depends on him to absorb the overspill of her hurt, to push against, to take the blame for all of the ills in her life. It sucks for them both, and they’re TRAPPED, so terribly trapped, and neither is the other’s jailer but neither can walk away either. And just, what strikes me about the interactions we saw in the sneak peek for 507 is that maybe, FINALLY, Bellamy has broken free of their co-dependent relationship.  He may not even realise it yet, but he has completely re-centred his world around Spacekru now. And I think, that if push comes to shove, he will prioritise Spacekru above Octavia, even if it hurts them both.  It doesn’t mean he loves Octavia any less, but after 6 years of love and support and peace and quiet, Bellamy has broken out of the cage. Bellamy is free. Excuse me while I cry tears of joy. But Octavia isn’t free. Octavia hasn’t had 6 years of peace and support and love. Octavia’s life has been marked by trauma from the moment of her birth, and the trauma hasn’t let up for a single goddamned second it just keeps coming and coming and coming until all she has is her walls and an alter-ego and the hope that she can keep Wonkru together and her brother by her side. Believe me when I say that Octavia is still very much trapped inside the cage which Bellamy has now vacated. IT IS ALL VERY HEARTBREAKING OKAY. IT HURTS. So yes, I still love Octavia and I am ready to see her again when Blodreina falls.

[exploringobjectsofdesire-blog]

7/12/2017: Research Proposal Submission

I have been working on my research proposal to be submitted today, a copy of which can be found below...

Objects of Desire Final Research Proposal

The Object: Jade Mountain (DUROM.1960.2205), donated to the Oriental Museum by Sir Charles Edmund Hardinge.

Initial Description: The Jade Mountain is a jade stone carving that originates from Zhonghua, China. It dates back to 1700 – 1725 CE during the Qing Dynasty, under the reign of the Kangxi emperor, and was gifted to the Oriental Museum by Sir Charles Edmund Hardinge (1878 – 1968). The nephryte jade is celadon-green with some russet markings, and the object measures 14 x 20.5 x 12 cm. It is a kidney-shaped jade boulder mountain and landscape, carved with a scene depicting the three standing Daoist stellar gods of Longevity (Shouxing), Prosperity (Fuxing) and Happiness (Luxing), being worshipped by pilgrims.  

Rationale for Choice: Having grown up in Hong Kong, I have had numerous encounters with jade, which is considered to be one of the most valuable and precious materials in Chinese culture. I have been lucky to have been gifted pieces of jade from my grandparents, most often in the form of pendants and jewellery. Rolling the cool, hard pieces of jade between my fingers never failed to evoke a sense of awe and reverence in me. This emotional connection arises in part from how these gifts were often combined with well wishes for longevity and health. More specifically, certain carvings held well-established connotations, such as the Buddha, closely associated with spiritualism, and the Zodiac pic, denoting the good fortune of a family that could historically afford such a food source. I have witnessed how jade is imbued with cultural values and broader belief systems, and I was therefore instinctively drawn towards the Jade Mountain, and the Taoist universe it captures.

In fact, the opportunity to learn about Chinese art and culture, and to engage with this aspect of my heritage, were reasons I felt compelled to take this module in the first place. Reading Edmund de Vaal’s The Hare with The Amber Eyes further drew my fascination towards the ability of an object to tell a history and heritage, and to evoke emotions and memory, aspects I hope to unravel with my chosen object.

At first glance, I was immediately struck by the Jade Mountain due to its substantial size and shape, as I am more used to smaller-scale jades. I also became enraptured by the carving, so rich with three-dimensional detail, all the more impressive considering the labour-intensive process of abrasion required to carve the hard material. Moreover, I have primarily thought of jades as pieces to be worn, and am therefore interested to find out about other ways jade has been used and conceived of in the past, such as during the Qing dynasty. Through investigating the Jade Mountain, I wish to discover more about the significance of jade over time in China, its reception in the West, as well as jade iconography and how they featured in everyday life.

Contact with the Oriental Museum: I visited the Oriental Museum twice before settling upon my object, in order to familiarise myself with the rich variety of exhibitions on display. After the jade mountain caught my eye, I organised a meeting with Rachel Barclay, the curator of the Oriental Museum. She helped me reach into the museum’s databases and archives, and I went through past correspondences relating to Hardinge’s collection and his personal log of collected items. Rachel suggested I could compare this object to others in Hardinge’s jade collection and jade pieces elsewhere. She also recommended source materials, including other museum databases, journals and books, some of which can be accessed through the Oriental Museum’s private collection. Rachel emailed me high-res photographs of the object, which highlighted even more detail than I had initially noticed when viewing the piece in its glass cupboard.

Review of Existing Information: Fortunately, considerable information has been recorded at the museum for the Jade Mountain, not least because its donor, Sir Jason Hardinge, was a prolific jade collector and a meticulous recorder of his purchases. The Oriental Museum keeps Hardinge’s personal record of acquired objects; this particular object was recorded on the 1st of January 1934, and was purchased for £15.00 – a substantial amount for a man known to be tight-fisted with money, reflecting the perceived value of this piece. The Museum’s personal library holds one of Hardinge’s own published books, ‘Jade: Fact and Fable’, the fruit of the collector’s frustrations around the lack of differentiation around types of jades. The Museum’s online database also contains details about the background and context of the item.

Literature Review: For a contextual overview and understanding interconnections between Taoism and Chinese visual arts, ‘Taoism and the arts of China’, by Stephen Little and Shawn Eichman proves useful, as it explores the specific histories over 150 works of art rooted in Taoist heritage, originating from late Zhou to Qing dynasty. To obtain insight into manifestations of Taoism in everyday life, and to begin thinking about possible usages and perceptions of the Jade Mountain, Livia Kohn’s ‘Daoism and Chinese Culture’ sets Taoism in cultural context, and relates it to belief systems and forms of religious organisation, including ritual, meditation and modernity.

Honing in on research more specific to the jade mountain carving, Stanley Nott’s ‘Chinese jade throughout the ages: a review of its characteristics, decorations, folklore and symbolism’ explores the rich system of symbols contained in Chinese art forms, particularly in jade carvings. The comprehensive ‘Encyclopaedia of Taoism’, edited by Fabrizio Pregadio, contains a relevant section on sacred mountains within the Taoist universe. DK Publishing’s ‘History of the World in 1,000 Objects’ introduces arts and culture within ‘China’s Age of Prosperity’ of the Qing Dynasty, and even includes and elaborates upon the very object I have chosen. I have identified articles from the journal Orientations, including ‘Eight Daoist Immortals in the Yuan Dynasty: Note on the Origin of the Group and Its Iconography’, which sheds light on the three figures perched atop the Jade Mountain, and ‘The Art of Taoist Scriptures’, which explores Taoism through a contrasting medium that similarly depicts mountains.

To better understand the object’s journey from Qing Dynasty China to Hardinge’s collection in England, the article ‘Sir Charles Hardinge: the man and his jades’ is an informative piece about the collector’s activities. Further to this, Stacey Pierson’s ‘Collecting Chinese Art: Interpretation and Display’ is instructive in exploring how cross-cultural transmission forms a unique prism of understanding,

Further Sources: The Metropolitan Museum’s resource, ‘Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History’, contains a section on ‘Daoism and Daoist Art’, with additional reading and relevant objects exhibited at the MET, including a comparable Qing dynasty piece, ‘Boulder with Daoist paradise’. Ireneus Legeza’s booklet, ‘Art and Tao: an exhibition of Taoist symbolism in Chinese art’ was printed in conjunction with a 1973 exhibition of Taoist art at the Oriental Museum, which would allow me to situate the object within a greater museum collection. The National Palace Museum of Taiwan holds not only an extensive jade collection, but also online resources, including ‘Chinese Jades through the Ages’ and ‘the Smart Carvings of Jade and Beautiful Stones’. When I travel home for Christmas, I intend on visiting the Hong Kong Museum of Art to look at jade pieces in the Chinese Antiquities section for further comparison.

Research Questions:

What does the Jade Mountain tell us about the relationship between Chinese art and Taoist iconography?

How was Chinese art mediated through broader frameworks such as culture, cosmology, religion, philosophy, myth and belief systems? To this end, how were objects like the Jade Mountain manifested in everyday life?

Why did jade and Taoist iconography attract Western collectors such as Hardinge, and how might this cross-cultural transmission influence our interpretation and understanding of the Jade Mountain? Does Edward Said’s Orientalist ‘European gaze’ come into play?

Reflective Analysis: At this initial juncture, I have found extensive resources on Chinese jade and Taoist art, as well as information on the collector, Hardinge. Due to the sheer volume of information available, I initially struggled to narrow down my research questions. The challenge for me is to condense everything into a concise and focussed podcast, which I intend on overcoming by keeping to the research questions I set out to answer. A focussed direction can be further maintained by continuously logging my research and checking on my own progress through updating my research log on Tumblr.