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artfulacrostic · 25 days ago

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okay i know we're past ddba 1x08 now and i still haven't finished articulating the meta i have for 1x04 but LISTEN im unable to suppress my Thoughts about the titles of all these episodes. veryyyy interesting choices imo! this is about to be a LONG ASS POST so warning you here and now.

okay so in this post i wanna talk about episodes 1 and 3, which both feature titles based on what are commonly perceived as old irish blessings. for ep 1 we have "may you be in heaven a full half-hour before the devil knows you're dead" = heaven's half hour, and for ep 3 we have "may God hold you in the hollow of His hand" = the hollow of his hand. now the actual origin of both of these is usually attributed to being "irish blessings", but there is some amount of disagreement about the precise origins, and how authentic or inauthentic they actually are. also is it just me or are the writers for ddba obsessed with the idea of references to irish culture and/or matt's relation/lack of relation to it?? ep. 5, lol....

anyway, the phrase that inspired the title for ep 1 is, as best as i can find, possibly the last line of an irish drinking toast, but i couldn't find nearly as much online discussion of it and what i did find seemed unsubstantiated. therefore, i'm gonna leave that one as a more nebulous nod to general circumstances of the episode (literal drinking toast to cherry, with foreshadowing to foggy's impending demise) with just a sprinkle of matt's distant ancestry for fun.

ep 3's title, meanwhile, has a LOT more interesting background! the way that heather does the title drop ("may God hold them in the hollow of his hand") implies that she's using it in the way that references this "irish blessing" poem/song:

May the road rise up to meet you, May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, The rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

now, this poem has dubiously vague origins, but one thing that is known is that the first line is basically a slight mistranslation of an actual old irish phrase, where people tend to mistake one word that means "be successful" with another word that means "rise". so while the actual meaning is closer to "may your road/journey be successful", the fact remains that the first line does appear to have an origin as a general irish "good luck". the rest of the poem, however, is probablyyyyy not exactly an ancient blessing, but something people came up with to accompany the mistranslation line. several irish people on reddit have called it "yank tosh", which i personally think is hilarious, bc that sounds about right. (i'm a us citizen with irish ancestry that i'm about as connected to as matt is, aka mr. "where's your family from then?" "i'm from hell's kitchen").

in addition, you might have noticed that rather than "the hollow of his hand", the poem actually reads "in the palm of his hand". this is as far as i am aware the more common modern phrasing (and the one i'm familiar with, from the embroidered pillows in my grandmother's house on the irish side of my family—for context i'm about as connected to my irish ancestry as matt is, aka mr. "where's your family from then?" "i'm from hell's kitchen"). however, from searching online it does appear that "hollow" is still used once in a while, just not as often in the context of the poem, especially when it's set to music.

soooooo now we finally get to my argument: despite the title drop via heather which points to the poem, i think the deeper and more accurate reference that the ep 3 title is really making is to isaiah 40:12, which is the origin of the actual God-holding-something-in-the-"hollow"-of-his-hand imagery. check this out:

12 "Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and weighed the heavens with his palm? who hath poised with three fingers the bulk of the earth, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance?"

now that's what i'm TALKING about. your context for isaiah 40—let me be clear, i am speaking from a context of catholic study of this book, since that's what i grew up on and that's presumably how it's relevant to matt our catholic guilt poster-boy—is that post-babylonian exile, isaiah the prophet's message to the people of god is 1) comfort for their pain, 2) reassurance that their sins will be forgiven, 3) hope for the future aka the coming of the lord and how it's imminent and they need to get ready for that, and 4) general glorification of god's awesome power and strength, etc, and that if they have hope in him and persevere everything's gonna be allll good, baby!

unfortunately. the biblical israelites are not so good with the idea of the exile as a just punishment to absolve them of their previous sins, and they express that they feel they have not received the justice they deserve:

27 "Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest, O Israel: My way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my God?"

and basically the next bunch of chapters in this book is a piece by piece dissection of why they're wrong about this; god is literally putting them "on trial" in order to refute their arguments here, as he says in the first verse of isaiah 41:

1 "Let the islands keep silence before me, and the nations take new strength: let them come near, and then speak, let us come near to judgment together."

so! what does all this biblical circumlocution add up to in relation to episode 3? glad you asked!

if the episode represents the main themes of isaiah 40 and the book in general, then here we go:

a) what is matt guilty of or feel that he's guilty of? aka, what is his sin that is being paralleled with that of the biblical israelites? well, most recently we have attempted murder, the death of foggy due to association with him, the death of other people (father lantom, etc) due to association with him, and probably other less grave but still bad things like chronic severe and premeditated lying (lol), willfully missing mass (seems like it from how we see him passing by and not going in to the church), etc.

conclusion? i'd say that if the israelites can be forgiven for their sins—

2 "her iniquity is forgiven: she hath received of the hand of the Lord double for all her sins..."

—then so can matt, despite everything.

b) in the same vein, what has been causing matt pain? aka, what has been his babylonian exile? i'd say probably the loss of his old life, which, as we heard in ep 7, is still so raw after a year that he feels like his new life is "fake" (ouch).

conclusion? i'd say guess what matt, good news:

1 "Be comforted, be comforted, my people, saith your God..."

...aka don't worry, the pain is coming to an end. one way or another, his babylonian exile is about to be over.

c) what is coming in the near future, and what should matt do to get through it? well, here's the clincher: salvation is coming. get ready.

4 "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall become straight, and the rough ways plain."

this could not just be literal "prepare the way jesus is coming but also a metaphorical sort of, "the oppressed will be lifted, the high and mighty (fisk) will fall, the corruption can be cleansed, and the fucking terrible shit hand you have right now could get better". it super hurts that this episode (1x03) feels like a success for those goals for a moment before hector gets murdered and matt and hector's family are all left with nothing but good intentions.

conclusion? catholicism is big on not just faith, but also works, so matt needs to keep going in the face of all this shit and trust that due to both his own efforts and his faith, things will improve. also not to mention,

29 "It is he that giveth strength to the weary, and increaseth force and might to them that are not." so matt my guy hang in there.

d) the hollow of his hand means WHAT EXACTLY, THEN? you are thinking. GET TO IT? well, here we go: heather's toast is a bit bitter for matt to swallow, why? because of this:

12 "Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand...? 14 With whom hath he consulted, and who hath instructed him, and taught him the path of justice, and taught him knowledge, and shewed him the way of understanding?"

what this boils down to is power: who can do these things? only god. who can god consult with on these things? nobody, because god invented them. god being able to measure all of the waters in the world in the vastness of just one hand provokes an image of awesome power beyond human comphrension. this phrase and much of isaiah 40 in general is a comprehensive reminder of why, in the catholic belief system, god is in charge. not humankind. god knows everything, is everything, and has a Plan that involves holding every creation gently in the palm of that hand, just like the water, measuring the breadth and span of their existence and understanding them down to every atom.

the toast hurts because matt believes god is all-powerful, all-knowing, and yet god's plan didn't involve foggy nelson surviving. god may be holding the court case, foggy, and men who cook in his hand, measuring them and protecting them symbolically, but on earth, it's humans who have to put in the work, because free will is a thing. this is what matt believes. and he believes that he didn't put in the work. he couldn't protect foggy, just like he can't protect hector from being murdered even after doing his best to win his court case. heather might be making a pithy wish for god to appreciate and protect the case, foggy, and a man who cooks, but the man who cooks is still going to be the only one of those things intact by the end of the night.

but he hasn't allowed himself to fully succumb to despair, even in this spiral he's been in for the entire season. he can't, because he has to put in the work. the question is, what is the kind of work he's meant to be doing? what is god's plan for him? so deep down, even though he's in pain, exiled from his old life, a sinner who can't even make it through the doors of church, salvation is coming. he can't make himself extinguish his belief, or stop hoping.

31 "But they that hope in the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall take wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint."

#daredevil born again #daredevil born again spoilers #ddba spoilers #daredevil #daredevil spoilers #daredevil born again meta #matt murdock #matt murdock's deeply catholic worldview #is something i want to be a tag tbh #r speaks #so yeah if anything in this doesn't track go ahead and chalk it up to the fact that while my knowledge of catholic scripture is vast #i haven't studied in depth and on purpose for several years sooo #this is a mix of stuff i remember #my analysis as of the last couple of weeks #and my general catholic background and trauma lol #like matt my catholic guilt is inescapable but i don't have it the way he does sorry babygirl #long post #1x01 heaven's half hour #1x03 in the hollow of his hand #i was being serious when i said i think they are obsessed with him being distantly irish tho #its very funny to me #anywayyy i'll be back with More To Say about other episode titles soon and also that episode four meta #and i really want to rewatch the original show again through a critical analytical lens #but i simply do not have time atm #r tags

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persnicketypansy · 2 years ago

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I’m trying to write a poem but I can’t get it to go right. I keep writing lines like

I make myself tea/tomorrow my sister/dead dog in the driveway/depression is

A cicada is trying to kill itself against the window glass of my kitchen - which isn’t a metaphor but it sure as hell sounds like one. I’m trying to write about depression and how it’s a cold room with a single warm spot on the floorboards. That’s not right, though. My poetry instructor would say i was unfocused, distracted (by the cicada, if I’m being honest) or at least probably if I’d ever had an instructor that’s what they would say.

poetry has always been about the smallest amount of words to create the biggest, brightest picture. It’s always been a way to put a feeling into words - look, it’s a river I’m pouring into your hands. Do you get it yet?

In the simplest words, the fewest lines, the rawest sketch of an image, imagine me young and sad. Now imagine me now, older and happy. Now pretend that the two images are exactly the same. Did I move forward or did everything else just move away from me? Bead on a string, is the bead moving or is the string? But how do you write that out? How do you make it something digestible?

The cicada is very loud. Bugs skeeve me out.

when I was young I thought happiness was bigger than the sky (do you get it? how big the sky was to me when I was seven years old? the sky was an ancient whale going to swallow me out of the wildflowers. what did that make happiness?)

young went away. now only I remain (I don’t know what to make of this; i shed my youth like a skin. a cicada shell, if you will, now that the thing outside in the dark has finished its fitful dying)

when young had me, I was sad. These things were not connected, except by knots I tied (i wasn’t sad because i was young; young was a well i dug to hold all the sad I already had)

but the sadness went with the child. they live together in the hollow green garden (where the birds sing, you remember the poem about lost children? child me wrote it on her arms and legs. she looked for birds to chase)

I drink tea (and somehow, even though my seven year old self will never believe it, this is happiness)

Idk tho. im still missing an important part of the puzzle. sadness leaves and there’s room for something else in your life suddenly. happiness sneaks up on you. happiness and sadness aren’t opposites (they’re yuri) not like in inside out, but like in a ‘happiness is a survival technique’ way. once you grow up you can’t be sad the same way a child is sad anymore, because you’ve got defense mechanisms in place

sometimes you miss the sadness, the way it just swallows all of you up, but then you make some tea and remember that child you would have killed to be where you are right now, and things are better. the whole (that was a dark time once) (this will be a dark time someday as well) things get better - not things get better, but things are better. child me was wrong about what I needed. what I have now is enough to get by. optimism?

is the point optimism? idk. something something, savor what fulfills you instead of trying to satisfy the ideals you came up with when you were young, because child you doesn’t know shit about a good cup of tea or a four hour conversation with a friend. you don’t owe your past self the satisfaction of all their unrealistic dreams.

child me wanted to get stolen by a bird

like. i don’t know. i’ll come back to this

#crowdsourcing like a true tumblr-assigned poet tonight #yall are welcome #shit like this is why im not a poet yall. i don't know first thing about organizing these thoughts #my friend was like 'oh #youre a poet now. write a poem about it'#not in my job description! but here i am #whatever #persnicketypoem #persnicketydraft

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skeleton-12 · 1 year ago

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Icarus

I longingly stare into the bright sun

And I see a crow flying up above

How I wish to be a crow and have wings

I'd fly up to the skies and be free.

For now, I reside in a living hell

Where my own shadows bring me to my knees,

Where vile, desolate whispers slowly flow,

It takes away my life's colours as it goes

Yet, I know that I can escape this hell.

If I turn the screams, the tears into wings

Those that made me suffer will help me soar

My screams of angst will turn into feathers

My numb tears will hold them together

They didn't kill me, they'll make me stronger

My pain will build a staircase to the bright skies.

Heartache has been my master for so long

Now, as I brandish my beautiful wings

I'll soar high to the sun, where I belong

Once and for all, I'll be free from my sins.

I took off whilst a gush of wind propelled me

The mystifying, lush aura compels me

The purifying sunlight cleanses my soul

I no longer feel shunned, for now I feel whole

I flapped my wings and flew to the blue skies

From below me, I heard my shadows cry

So I turned my back and said my goodbyes

I am the dark, caged bird who learnt to fly

Yet, as I flew up higher and higher

My wings started to melt and pulverize

The sunlight started to feel like hellfire

As I begin to fall to my demise

My wings are made of screams, tears, sorrow and pain

The sins that I tried to atone for in vain

My skin got torn apart like my hollowed soul

For the arbitrary sun eats shadows whole

It was foolish of me to have admired the crow

For I knew they signified death and pain

With a smile, towards my doom I have flown

My only chance of salvation has been slain.

Inside my black soul my tormentors dwell

This curse inside, I can never dispel

How did I think I’d be able to fly?

Maybe it’s time to accept my fate and die.

Happiness, warmth, and joy, that is the sun’s muse

I am deformed, ugly, I must be Icarus

Flying too close to the sun where I don’t belong

As I plummet down to my death, I say my goodbyes, farewell, and so long.

</3

Posting a full poem now and I am terrified for my life pls be nice

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the-writing-beetle · 4 months ago

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I wrote a poem in honor of the tiktok ban and Trump's inauguration. Also, I would like to mention that I do respect others' opinions, but that doesn't mean I have to tolerate it. You can not dictate other people's lives, essentially hurting them in the process, and expect love and respect in return. Until we can respect that we are all different and start thinking of the people instead of power, money, religion, race, sexuality, and traditions, we will always fall and have to dust ourselves off and do it all over again. I'm afraid humans will never know peace.

"Our Empty Glasses"

Sometimes, I wish we didn't grow up to understand the world,

That we didn't have a clear veiw,

Through the window that I hold delicately in my hands,

The gateway to countless worlds I could only ever hear of through the mouths of liars.

The feeling of impending doom,

Has not left my core,

The country moving forward in heed,

The promise of great things to come.

The joy feels hot,

It burns in the eyes of those who oppose humanity,

The flames cascading down to burn the ground we stand on,

The very hell fires they said we'll perish in

Our empty glasses gleaming in the fire light,

A hollow cylinder waiting to shatter,

In the laughter of those who devoured the empathy of others,

Their lips leaving a film of tar on the rim.

Flames on the horizon,

Threatening to consume all who oppose tradition,

Snuffing out the last will of love and respect,

Of people who are true to others.

Even with our empty glasses covered in tar bubbling in the heat,

We cast our hearts into the hell fire,

The flames charring the flesh,

But remain whole and full,

Of the affections and love of those who fought before us.

-h.m., a queer writer who lives in a red state.

#i dont fucking know #original poem #poetry #freestyle #poems on tumblr #tiktok ban #never give up #queer community #love wins #history is doomed to repeat itself #will we ever know peace #respect others doesnt mean tolerate their hate

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leonbloder · 3 months ago

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What To Do At The End Of The World

I've discovered that any curiosity I might have about what is going on in the news lately quickly gets snuffed out by the dizzying feeling that things are going to hell in a handbasket in our country and the world.

Also, there aren't any regular eggs in my local grocery store, only the fancy kind that cost nearly $10, which feels apocalyptic.

I have this sudden urge to start reading the book of Revelation from the Bible yet again, even though I know better than to use it for predictive purposes.

The problem is, I've studied it extensively and can't help but sometimes see some of the images described in its oft-cryptic pages as eerily similar to what is happening around us.

This brings home my firm belief that the last book of the Bible was meant to warn Jesus' followers about the cyclical nature of history and how to remain faithful during times of chaos.

But it's hard to do just that. In times of uncertainty and despair, it can often feel like the world is unraveling. Global conflicts, social injustices, and personal struggles can cast an overwhelming shadow over hope and joy.

Yet, it is precisely during these moments of darkness that our light is most needed. Each of us carries within us the ability to shine brightly, offering hope to ourselves and those around us.

T.S. Eliot's poem "The Hollow Men" poignantly reflects on the human condition amid times of societal upheaval. Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

Eliot warns us that the shadow of resignation and inaction lies between our desires for a better world and our reality. This shadow often results in a sense of powerlessness, leading us to retreat into apathy instead of engaging with the world around us.

This resignation echoes a profound truth: doing nothing in the face of turmoil does not transform the world. The alarming refrain, "This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper," imparts a powerful message about the consequences of inactivity.

It suggests that it's not great calamities that mark the end of hope but rather a slow surrender to despair. Neglecting our voices and actions can lead to a creeping silence—a missed opportunity to advocate for change, stand up for the voiceless, and radiate hope in dark times.

Anne Lamott captures this sentiment beautifully in her book Almost Everything, where she states:

"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come."

This quote reinforces the idea that hope is an active choice, one that emerges from our willingness to engage with the struggles of our world.

However, we must remember that we are not powerless. Each choice we make, each act of kindness we extend, and the stand we take can help dispel the shadows that loom over our world. No act of compassion is too small; even a smile shared with a stranger or a helping hand to a neighbor can create ripples of hope.

Consider the impact of speaking truth to power and using our platforms to uplift others. It is in our collective efforts to embody hope that we can ignite significant change.

The Scriptures remind us of our call to action even in the bleakest times. In Galatians 6:9, we are encouraged by the words:

"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."

This passage is a powerful reminder that our commitment to work for a better world is not in vain, even when everything is lost. Our actions can plant seeds of hope that will one day flourish.

As we navigate the complexities of life, let us hold fast to our dreams and desires for a better world. We must act consciously and assertively, not letting the shadows envelop us. The love we share, the hope we inspire, and the courage we exhibit can transform despair into motivation.

So, may we refuse to succumb to the resignation that Eliot so hauntingly describes. In adversity, we can rise with intention, courage, and purpose.

This is our call to action: to be beacons of light, to infuse our communities with hope, and to transform the narrative of hopelessness into one of possibility.

Let us create a world that reflects kindness, justice, and love—a world that shines brightly against the darkness. Even amid uncertainty, we can uplift each other and illuminate the path forward, proving that hope is always within reach.

May it be so, and may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with us all, now and forever. Amen.

#dailydevo #dailydevotional #christian living #leon bloder #faith #spirituality #spiritualgrowth #presbymusings #dailydevotion #leonbloder

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write-and-wander · 4 months ago

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Yawning Grave | Three: Dwindle

Astarion x Ayzora (F!OC)

Description: New faces, old memories, and internal battles. The party at last finds Halsin and begins to move closer to answers, all the while Ayzora and Astarion dance along the balance between the head and the heart.

Warnings: N/A | Word count: 7.1k

| One | Two | Three | Four | ...

Read on Ao3

Streaks of red ridges carve sharp pathways into pale plains. Lines interrupt the curve of great circles, punctuated with bug-bite dots.

Ayzora’s scars are like a waving Van Gogh variation on her own skin, carved out in a reminder of the life Orcus forced upon her; a contrast to Astarion’s, which are an intentional pattern drawn by the hand of another. Because the marks made by a master upon their slave are a promise: “I own you. I will use you as I please.” But of all the ways to brand a slave…

“Why Infernal?” Ayzora asks aloud.

Astarion, standing tall in leather slacks, does not turn to face her. He faces the rising sun, arms spread, as if embracing the Dawnfather himself while he basks in the golden glow. He does, however, tense at her question. He rolls his shoulders ever so slightly, as if allowing the sudden tension to roll off his back, and ignores her question.

“You sleep light… I thought you’d be exhausted after last night.”

She decides not to push, stands, and reaches for her clothes, beginning to dress herself in silence. He seems reluctant to look at her, only turning his head towards his shoulder enough for her to hear his words. He seemed… distant last night, too. Even when he did look at me, his eyes seemed… empty. Am I so unbearable to look at? Her spiraling thoughts only speed up her process as she rushes to cover her horrid, scarred body.

She almost believed him, when he called her beautiful. She desperately wanted to. But reality is swift to settle in.

It’s over. Astarion is not holding her; caressing her; kissing her. He is cold and distant. He let go of her the second it was finished. He stood as soon as she fell into trance.

She is not a lover, but a monster. She is an orphan and an outcast. She cannot be anything else.

She takes a slow breath, exhaling until her chest is hollow, and holds it there as she finishes dressing.

Astarion sighs in concession as he realizes the conversation isn’t going anywhere now, and at last addresses Ayzora’s first words.

“I don’t know why that bastard wrote the poem in infernal,” he admits, watching her.

Her back was turned to him as he spoke, preparing to leave. She stops just short of the edge of the clearing, eyes remaining on the trees. “Poem?”

“A gift from Cazador.”

Ayzora turns to face him.

“He considered himself quite the artist, and used his slaves as a canvas. He composed and carved that one over the course of a night.” He bows his head, his voice lowering. “He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

Her eyes flicker in sudden recognition as it clicks: that searing pain I felt when we first connected.. . She opens her mouth to offer her sympathies, but he’s quick to interrupt.

“It seems yours are much more meticulous, though.”

“It’s a necrology,” she says, wrapping her arms around her abdomen as if it protects the mosaic that hides beneath her dress.

His head tilts to the side in sudden piqued interest. “That’s quite the list you’ve compiled, then… Trophies?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, reminders. If I don’t forget them… I can make up for it all.”

“Well,” he responds in surprise. He tilts his head, examining his nails. “A little cliché, don’t you think?”

She shrugs.

Astarion’s shoulders slack. She’s impossible! How in the hells does Gale, of all people, get her to talk?

“You seem to like cliché, if your words are anything to go by.”

His eyes widen. After all of this passivity, she’s… flirting? It seems my work paid off after all. A smile settles on his features. “It’s always a pleasure to find like-minded people.” He grabs his shirt from the tree branch it hung from. “Now let’s go, we’ve wasted enough time already.”

Ayzora feels something flutter in her stomach, and bashfulness immediately follows on its heels. Shit . The smile is already on her face- the mask has already slipped. She turns and walks back to camp in hurried strides.

Astarion watches his newest plaything leave as his confidence swells. I’m almost disappointed. This was certainly easier, but I think blackmail is always so much more fun .

He put the pieces together last night. Her skin is pale, and cold. Her heart did not pound beneath his touch; it was still. Her breath is a natural habit, sure, but clearly unnecessary; her chest never moved while she tranced. Her patron, Orcus, is the god of undeath himself. She tries to hide it, and manages well enough, but Astarion knows death better than most.

Ayzora is undead.

She’s no vampire, but she reeks of death as much as her lover.

And no one else knows.

A surprise for later, then.

“I owe thanks. I am the druid Halsin.”

Ayzora’s stomach drops.

What once was a bear now stands tall before the group in a humanoid form. His ears are pointed like an elf’s, but instead of the lean frame of Ayzora and Astarion, his defined muscles nearly double his size by comparison, dwarfing even the white dragonborn that stands before him. He maintains nearly a full foot of height over his elvish counterparts. He wears brown and green leather with golden filigree and leafy detail, signaling his druidic background. Covered in the viscera of slain goblins, his introduction makes waves amongst the group as a flurry of emotions rise. Most breathe a sigh of relief. Shadowheart whispers thanks to Lady Shar, while Lae’zel, still offended by the group’s general disinterest in her creche, remains quiet.

“Glad we could be of help,” Dark Urge, ever the confident leader, responds as he steps forward.

“I must admit,” Halsin continues, “I didn’t expect anyone to come to my aid…”

His voice fades into the background as Ayzora glances over at Astarion, who is watching the druid with an uninterested expression.

Feeling eyes on him, he meets her gaze.

She smiles and drops her eyes back to the floor.

The tadpole in her brain writhes for a moment as Astarion mentally prods, asking for permission.

She allows their minds to connect.

“Yes, darling? ” He asks. Despite the conversation being utterly silent, only existing in their minds, his tone is lighter than usual, as if he’s smiling in light of her attention.

“You seem bored. Aren’t you… excited about this? We found the healer.” She tries to keep her feelings concealed: the worry about the healer’s ability to truly cure them, the fear of her nature being revealed to the group, and above all, the solemn concern that she will be alone and without chance at redemption if Astarion- the elf she is rapidly garnering affection for- goes his own way; but the emotions translate to Astarion as clearly as her words through the mental pathway.

“We’ve also met two other healers who did nothing to help. I’ll be impressed when one of them manages to prove themselves useful.”

Ayzora shifts her attention back to Halsin, who is still in the middle of sharing his knowledge about the tadpoles.

Hope begins to wilt away as the druid speaks, until the damning words at last confirm what she had feared: “I can’t cure you.”

Astarion scoffs.

Ayzora turns and begins to leave.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t help,” Halsin adds.

Gale catches the necromancer’s arm. “Wait,” he whispers. “Please.”

She pulls her arm out of his grasp, but concedes. Back still turned to Halsin, she turns her chin towards her shoulder and listens.

Halsin explains that while he did not find a cure for the illithid tadpoles, he did find their source: a place called Moonrise Towers. On the heels of his information is a request- help him, and he helps them. If the group kills the three leaders of the goblin camp here, the tieflings in the druid grove could finally travel safely to Baldur’s Gate. With the grove taken care of, Halsin can join the journey to Moonrise.

“What can I do to help?” Dark Urge asks, immediately accepting the new quest.

“Another favor,” Astarion notes mentally, his tone chock-full of exasperation.

Ayzora takes a deep breath. “More blood to spill,” she adds, matching his tone.

In her youthful naïveté, she started her travels to make ends meet. She walked herself down a dark path because her god and her friends demanded her to. All the while, so much blood was shed it could create her own ocean to drown in. Each new kill feels like another gasp for air that only fills her lungs with gore. Watching over the temple of the Raven Queen was supposed to be the ladder out of the eternal fountain of death Ayzora was baptized in, and yet her head is still under bloody waters.

“Well, when you put it that way…” Astarion’s voice breaks through her guilt. He smiles, the thrill of bloodlust dripping from his bared fangs.

Before she can respond, the tadpoles’ connection snaps. She is alone, again.

It’s frustrating, how Astarion’s absence stings.

“Come with us,” Dark Urge insists.

Astarion rolls his eyes.

Ayzora looks back at the muscular elf.

Though his form is towering and his words speak of a gruesome fight, his eyes are as soft as the tone of his baritone voice. A sense of recognition pricks the edges of her thoughts. He’s familiar to her- like a few notes bringing a long-forgotten song back to the forefront of her mind.

Halsin looks over the party, assessing his unlikely companions. While Wyll and Karlach remain at camp, the rest stand before the archdruid, anticipating the confirmation of the group’s newest addition. His eyes linger on Ayzora.

Meeting his gaze, suddenly, it clicks. The now-remembered melody sings. Memories flood back to her.

“So be it,” he says at last, and looks again at the white dragonborn. “May Silvanus lend us nature’s fury.”

The series of fights that follow are hard won.

Halsin, shifted back into a bear, leads each battle with the fury of the scorned. He is a child who fights for his god’s creation, and a leader who fights for the safety of his people. His prowess is noble.

Astarion loses himself in the joys of bloodshed, dashing between goblins and running daggers through various kinds of flesh and furs. With his secrets at last exposed, he can indulge freely in turning his fanged rage against Cazador towards his temporary opponents; and none stand long once they are made his target. The blood that splatters on his chest and drips down his cheek mixes with sweat, turning translucent and catching the torchlight like glittering ruby dust. His passion is contagious.

Ayzora is elsewhere. Her movements are made with practiced precision, proving effective even in close range of her enemies. Her mind, however, is trapped in the purgatory of her present situation, drifting down the river styx with a different sort of hell beckoning her on either side. If she tries to anchor herself to the present, she drifts away from goblins in a dark ruined tower and washes up on a great battlefield facing the people who she betrayed. If she reaches towards another place or another time, the faces of angry gods flood her mind with anxiety. So instead, she chooses… nothing. Her eyes drift between opponents only to aim a spell. Her mouth only moves to vocally command the flow of magic through her. Her scythe swings and slashes with ferocity. All the while, Ayzora is absent, locked away in the recesses of her mind. Her state is unnoticed.

When it’s finished, Halsin, Dark Urge, and Gale enter a quiet conversation. Lae’zel cleans her blade while Shadowheart cleans her armor and Astarion makes a beeline for the treasure hoard. Ayzora turns Messorem from scythe to cloak and sits, clasping it back onto her harness while she stares a thousand yards away, into nothing.

“We’ll see you back at the grove, then,” Dark Urge says as Halsin takes his leave.

Lae’zel promptly stands to return to camp on her own, and after a beat, Astarion returns to the group, pockets full of gold. Ayzora quietly stands, shrugging off Gale’s gentle concern with a smile and a quip about their poor luck with healers. Shadowheart and Dark Urge begin their walk back to camp, and Gale and Ayzora start to follow a few paces behind. She turns back to Astarion, checking to see if he’s coming with them.

Astarion meets her gaze, and for a moment, his heart sinks. He recognizes the emptiness behind her green and gold eyes. He’s felt it before, choosing nothing as a means of escaping that which he refuses to experience.

It was the expression he wore last night, as he ravished her in the woods.

For the first time in decades, there’s a pang of guilt in his chest. Guilt. Why?

“Don’t worry, darling, I’m coming,” Astarion chirps with a wink, jogging to catch up with the group and taking his place alongside her.

That evening, Gale and Dark Urge recount the day to Karlach and Wyll, even making a point to introduce them to Halsin when he stops by the camp.

Ayzora sits in front of the fire, slowly plaiting her hair into a clean braid, and carefully watching Halsin as he greets the others. His eyes occasionally flicker to hers, feeling her stare fixed on him, but he maintains his focus on the newly met companions.

She stands and walks to the nearby shore, staring out at the lapping waves of the Sea of Swords. She wraps her arms around her frame, a chill running from the base of her neck, down her spine, and dispersing in her legs.

“It’s a beautiful view,” Halsin says softly.

Ayzora jumps, glancing back to see the Silvanic druid standing behind her. She nods, turning back to the sea.

The moonlight dances on the surface of the waters, casting an oblong silvery reflection against the distant ripples of the lively ocean. Stars sparkle across the mirror of the horizon, turning the sky and the sea into a glittery gossamer blanket of indigo over Torril.

Sand softly crunches until warmth radiates against Ayzora’s back- he stands close, but does not touch her. Slow tears trail down her cold face.

“I remember everything,” Halsin says low, his rumbling voice trailing hot breath that lands on her skin. “And it seems,” he continues, moving to stand beside her, “you remember as well.” He glances at her briefly, but moves his eyes to the sea as she continues to stare forward.

“71 years,” she whispers.

He hums.

The salty-sweet ocean breeze fills the otherwise silent air.

She breathes in deep, letting her watery eyes flutter closed.

A large, calloused hand reaches for hers in an offer of comfort.

She takes it.

He speaks again at last: “I’m so sorry.”

Her voice is breathy and broken, barely carrying over the waves crashing into the shore. “It’s alright. You tried. It meant a lot.”

“We all tried.”

“It never matters.”

“It does,” he insists, turning to face her as he wraps both hands around hers. “You must not give up, Ayzora. You will find an answer.”

“This isn’t a curse, Hals. I can’t cure what I am-”

“Not by normal means, but there may still be a way.”

She looks up at him, tilting her head in a despondent plea. Please, don’t.

“You convinced me with the Shadow Curse. I have yet to give up on healing the lands again- and the longer I search, the more certain I am that it can be done.”

“I am, too. For you.” She lifts a hand to his cheek. “I’ve made peace with it. I need to focus on recompense, now.” She pulls her hands away, dropping them back to her side. In another life, she would have loved to journey with him. To have searched together for a cure to her state, and healing for the shadow-cursed lands. Perhaps to have even grown to love him. But when she met him, he loved another. The lands had been cursed for decades. Her life was permanently shrouded by undeath. There was no light amidst all the darkness.

If only I had told her then, he thinks as he looks upon the face he loved and lost all that time ago. Maybe it could have been different.

“You tried; and when you failed, you gave me Droop. You’ve done enough.” It’s a closed chapter, she means, let’s not try to open it again. She sighs, and mutters: “I’ve only started.” My story is far from finished. No rest for the wicked.

“Ace,” he begins. But no words follow. The moment he saw her again, his heart stirred, as hope and love rekindled. Now, it only aches.

She nods. She knows. And that is enough for her.

Halsin watches as his once-companion- who could have been so much more- walks away, leaving him standing on the shore with the same defeat he had felt 71 years ago.

Silently, she returns to camp.

Astarion watches her walk through the camp like a ghost, drifting over the cool grass with hollow eyes that only look forward. He knows what drives him to that place- but what has driven her there? He stands and begins to follow, but stops in time with her as she freezes just in front of her tent.

She takes a deep breath, shifting her posture, and turns. Seeing Astarion, she blinks a few times in surprise- clearly too preoccupied beforehand to have noticed him following her. “Astarion,” she greets.

“Hello, darling,” he responds, shifting his weight onto one foot.

She looks around the camp. “Has everyone else gone to bed already?”

“Yes- you just missed an exciting little tiff between Shadowheart and Lae’zel.”

Ayzora sighs, “of course. Did they resolve it?”

“Unfortunately.” He looks over his nails. “Dark Urge talked them down. A shame, really,” he whines, glancing over at the other tents, “a fight certainly would have been more interesting.”

“Shame I missed it,” she says flatly. “Do you need to feed on me, tonight?”

His brows twitch together for a moment in confusion. “Well, I don’t need it, seeing as we’re due for a party tomorrow. But I wouldn’t say no.”

“A party?”

He sighs, resting one hand on his hip while the other gestures along with his speech. “The tieflings from the grove offered a night of celebration to thank us for saving them.”

She hums, “Tomorrow might feel more like home for you, then.”

Astarion’s head tilts, silently questioning her. He’s no hero. What about this would feel homey?

“You know… the ‘bustling taverns’ and all?”

“Oh, yes,” he chirps. “It might not be so bad after all… at least, with the right company.”

She looks down. He didn’t really want me… did he? He just seemed so-

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Her head snaps back up. “I’m fine. Why?”

He scoffs. “You may be one of the quiet ones, darling, but you’re never this standoffish.”

She shakes her head, “It’s… a long story, and I need to get some rest.”

“Well, in any case, if you ever need to… talk ,” he strains, clearly… out of his comfort zone, in this sort of conversation, “I’m all pointy ears.”

His joke, corny as it is, manages to make Ayzora smile.

He feels relieved at the sight. It catches him off guard. Why does it matter, anyway?

“Thanks, Star,” she responds quietly.

Star. Like a light in the darkness.

He smiles, ever so slightly. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s a feeling he had nearly forgotten.

“Goodnight,” she whispers before slipping into her tent.

“Goodnight, Ayzora” he responds after a beat, so quiet she probably didn’t even hear him. His smile lingers.

He turns away from the closed tent. Tomorrow, the journey is put on hold, taking a day of rest as the tieflings come to celebrate with their… heroes. A title that, for the first time in his two and a half centuries, includes him.

He can ponder his feelings all he wants tomorrow, then. Maybe I just need reassurance in our… alliance. Perhaps another night of passion would make it feel a little more secure. Then, everything can resume as planned. Walls go back up, feelings are pushed out of the way, and a target is carved onto Cazador’s back. The perfect plan carries on.

So long as he continues to deny himself the genuine connection he somehow desires still, despite everything.

The navy night shifts to a soft, sourceless lavender light emanating around her as she trances. A bright blue glow flashes from the other side of her eyelids, and the chilling sensation of a presence hovering over her body forces her eyes open.

“I came just in time,” the voice greets, “you are transforming.”

Ayzora jolts back, shrinking away from the looming figure.

An elf in gold and red armor kneels beside her, holding a gentle hand near her sweating forehead. His eyes are the rich brown of a wood elf’s- almost bearing a distant resemblance to Ryon- but his features are softer, less angular. His face, and even more so, his voice both feel familiar.

When the nautiloid crashed… and I lived…

He shifts back, granting some space between them.

‘Transforming.’ Into a mind flayer. Is he the reason for our lack of symptoms?

“You…” Ayzora begins, but no other thought comes to mind.

“I saved you before. You remember?”

Ayzora nods.

“I’m here to save you again.” He smiles warmly.

It does nothing to disarm her. Her head shifts sideways as her expression shifts from confusion and curiosity to a defensive threat: Why? What are you doing?

“Don’t worry,” he continues, holding up a hand to signal his passivity. “You will not become a mind flayer.” He stands. “Not while I’m around.” His hand extends towards her, offering to pull her up to her feet. “I’ll protect you.”

Watching him with the expression of a cornered animal, prepared to lash out at a moment’s notice, Ayzora scoots back to add a couple extra inches to the space between her and this… dream visitor… and slowly rises on her own. The last person to come to me in a dream was Orcus. He, too, made a promise that seemed too good to be true. Who is this? What the hells does he want?

“Independent,” he notes, twisting her defensive behavior to a positive light with a smile that is beginning to unsettle her, “good.”

Now standing, she looks around. Stars litter the lavender skies, but there is no movement to them, as if time stands still. The ground beneath her feels less like a promise and more like a suggestion, something she could easily leap from without the resistance of gravity. Rocks of various sizes float around the small, airborne island she finds herself standing on. Weathered pillars hold up a stone gazebo- one that could be an independent structure, or part of something much grander and much older than this floating piece of land could allude to. What is this place?

“We haven’t much time, so listen closely.” He pensively paces towards the edge of the island, staring out into the sparkling purple abyss.

Ayzora remains in place, watching his every movement. But, she listens.

“There is great potential within you. It comes from that parasite. Your instinct is to resist the power it gives, but you must accept it, nurture it.”

So you protect me from its evil transformation, but sing the praises of its power? Convenient.

“I will keep it from consuming you. But for the sake of both of us, you must learn to wield it.”

If it consumes us both, I still come back in less than a tenday. I could take my chances…

But… Astarion.

Fine.

She nods.

The stranger gestures towards the space that lies beyond, and at last, Ayzora takes a few hesitant steps closer. Distance still remains- enough space to give her time to react- but she can see the vast skies that stretch beyond this small sanctuary this elf has brought her to.

It’s a stunning view.

Until another distant island- shimmering with magic, surrounding some sort of… great skull, it seems- comes into focus. Glowing figures, basking in a light that renders their humanoid form otherwise unreadable, engage in a battle in the air.

“A fight for the fate of Faerun,” the visitor clarifies. “A fight we are losing. For now. You can change that, but only if you embrace your potential.”

If only you knew where my ‘potential’ got me.

“I have to go.” His voice is suddenly lower. Less pleading. More grave. He turns to her. “The enemy is closing in. I will be back.”

Ayzora looks back to him. She has felt many things on this journey- but the instinctual fear that rises in her stomach surpasses all of it. This is wrong . He is not what he appears to be. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she’s certain of it. No. Not another one of you. I can’t do this again.

Before she can even begin to express anything, a bright light pulsates out from the distant battle-ridden skull. It floods her view, drowning out the sparkling purple sky. She lifts her arms in front of her face, bracing herself, when the visitor steps directly in front of her.

Holding out a hand out towards the other island, the growing light is contained; but only for a moment. “Wake, now,” he urges, telekinetically forcing Ayzora backward, away from the explosion, with just the gesture of a hand.

As she flies into the space beyond, bright white light fills her vision, forcing her eyes to screw shut. When she drifts, all she sees is that light, while his deep voice echoes in her mind:

“You’ll feel better- I promise.”

His promise is broken the moment her eyes open again.

The air turns cold and thin as the white light is swiftly drowned in dark night.

“My harbinger.”

His voice fills her body with a dread she has gone decades without.

Ayzora, already on her knees, beholds the Demon Lord of Undeath.

His eyes glow red beneath the deer skull he wears over his face. Two massive horns protrude from matted black fur and curl outward with his stretched gangling wings. His blood red skin is half-covered in black leather armor, adorned with black iron spikes. His clawed right hand clenches The Wand of Orcus, a black obsidian and iron rod shaped like a human spine, and at the top is a mount for the glowing human skull- an eternally cursed memorial for a hero that dared stand against him centuries ago.

A weapon she used to wield, in what feels like another lifetime.

“Orcus,” she acknowledges with a nod.

“Your companion,” he begins.

“Which one?”

“The vampire. He, too, belongs in my domain. It seems he has captured your attention, as well as mine.”

Her body jolts towards him, but her movement is quickly halted by the hands that grasp her shoulders.

“Has it been so long that you’ve lost your respect?” His left hand flicks outward, ordering the others to release you. “Come now, Ayzora.”

Claws retract from her flesh, leaving symmetrical trails of blood on her collarbone.

She stands, posture straight, face devoid of emotion. Masterfully, she draws open the slit of her dress and drops her head in a low curtsey. “What do you require of me, my lord?”

Orcus smiles as she straightens. “You’ve found us quite the gift. Fitting, that it is borne by my domain.”

She bites her tongue.

“Am I correct to assume your affections for the vampire outweigh that of the others?”

Her teeth dig into its flesh. Stale blood mixes with saliva.

“I only ask for certainty that you will not be swayed by the druid, nor the wizard.”

Enough. “When did you start watching again?”

His head tilts to the side in interest. “I am always watching over my champion,” he answers, as if the question were trivial.

“We had a deal-”

“And I have maintained it perfectly, despite your failure.”

“You should have told me we were contending with Shar!”

He clicks his tongue. “Nevermind the past. Though you failed to harness it completely, your aid in the shadow curse still harvested plenty for your phylactery. My armies grew, and I have left you alone. As agreed.”

“Until your need for me becomes too great.”

“So you do recall our deal.” With a wave of his wand, undead creatures swarm behind him, gasping and moaning as they clamber over one another until a throne of bones and rotting flesh forms beneath him. He lowers into his undead seat. “Your dear elf has the key to the next great expansion of my domain- one that, I assure you, will be to our mutual benefit.”

“What do you want with him?”

“Tsk, I care not for the vampire. I care for what he can grant me.”

At least he’s honest about these things now.

“You’re smart, Ayzora. You will know when you discover it. All I ask is that you follow through.” He extends a hand to her. A deal is offered.

Ayzora instinctually begins to reach for his hand, but stops herself. Gathering every bit of the courage she’s built for the last seven decades, she lifts her chin and looks into the eyes of her patron. “Call this our last deal.”

His hand retracts to his side. He leans forward.

“If I ‘follow through,’ then you end our pact.”

“You will lose the chance to make a deal with the Seldarine, and you alone will be responsible for your phylactery. Are you certain?”

The Seldarine. Even after all I’ve done, would Corellon accept me back into his hands? Will I ever return to the Feywild? Long ago, Ayzora dreamed of paying off enough debts to make a plea with Corellon. She would be accepted back into elven society. She would belong. She would finally be redeemed. And after serving his people for the centuries that could follow, she would at last return to his embrace in the Feywild; perhaps he would even send her back to Toril, allowing her to reincarnate and live a life free of the pain she could not escape in this one. It’s been over a century and a half since Orcus tempted her with the idea. Inspiration has long since withered. If I don’t escape now… when will it be over?

Closing the gap between her and the hulking demon lord, she offers her hand. Orcus’s symbol, still magically carved into the back of her hand, is revealed at last as it begins to glow a dark blue.

“You’ll get what you want. I’ll get my freedom. Then you can find someone else to do your bidding.”

“Very well.” Orcus extends his hand, grasping Ayzora at the forearm.

One last deal.

She wakes with a jolt. The cold sweat upon her brow is gone, along with the pain of the beginnings of ceremorphosis, and so is the nightmare.

But the churning anxiety in her stomach remains.

A being, clearly of some sort of great power, coming to her in a dream. Offering to protect her, while also granting her power of her own. All the while, placing the proposal against the backdrop of some great war that only she can help with, so long as she embraces whatever it is he offers her.

It’s all happened once before. It turned her into something else entirely.

She can’t do that again.

She won’t.

And the demon lord responsible is making a request on the heels of this stranger.

She prefers the Raven Queen’s nightmares.

“Breakfast is served!” Gale calls out.

Her head snaps towards the door of her tent as people begin to shuffle around the camp outside. The sun is rising, and with it, her companions.

And, rumor has it, there’s a party to be had today.

Lovely.

When she leaves her tent, she hears the tail-end of Lae’zel’s “call to action” (a githyanki’s version of a request) to head north and at least scout out the path that will guide the group to the creche that she guarantees has the cure they’re seeking.

Wyll, Karlach, Gale, and Dark Urge agree to go with. Astarion takes the opportunity to “get some beauty rest,” and Shadowheart… seems to have wandered off a while ago.

“In that case,” Dark Urge pipes up, “I will go search for her. Traveling alone may prove to be dangerous.”

“Don’t need an excuse, D’Urge,” Karlach chimes in, “go find your girlfriend. We’ve got it.”

With a smile- and a glare- he takes off.

“What about you, Ace? You could come along,” Gale offers, shifting the group’s attention to their yet-silent companion.

She dismissively waves a hand, “no, I’ll stay. Someone still needs to watch camp.”

“And start a fire?” Wyll asks.

“Sure,” she agrees with a nod.

“Then it is decided,” Lae’zel confirms. Turning on her heel, she promptly begins the walk north.

“Be back soon, soldier!” Karlach yells back with a wave as the rest of the group disperses.

Footsteps fade behind the gentle breeze.

Exhale.

Glancing around to confirm she’s alone, Ayzora’s tears fall freely at last. Silent, but free.

A few quiet hours pass by. The sun has passed by the top of the sky and is beginning its descent back to the horizon as the afternoon settles in.

The sunlight warms Ayzora’s cheeks, which are still drying from intermittently crying. She sits on a log by the fire pit, placing down a few pieces of the wood Wyll had freshly cut the day before and littering them with kindling.

Near-silent footsteps appear behind her, catching her attention.

Astarion.

She wipes her face of any remaining tears as the footsteps stop. Determined to talk about anything other than what weighs on her mind, she speaks first: “Do you think you’ve adjusted to it yet?” Ayzora asks as the now-revealed Astarion sits down on the log behind her.

The dry leaves finally catch, quickly consumed by flame.

She moves to sit and take up the unoccupied space beside him.

His eyes follow her, head tilted just an inch. “To what?”

“The sun,” she answers, turning her face upwards with closed eyes to bask in the warmth. Silently, she thanks the Dawnfather for allowing her under his light, even if Corellon never will.

“Gods, no,” he scoffs. “200 years of habits aren’t broken so quickly.” He sighs, and continues with a low voice, “especially with a… temporary change. But I’m never one to turn down gifts.” His eyes flicker to her neck. As wonderful as the light of the sun is, its warmth hardly holds a candle to the gift of warm blood filling the mouth of a hungry vampire.

“Gifts?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, as if suddenly remembering something, “I had the strangest dream last night. There was a visitor promising me protection, and all sorts of delicious powers from the parasites in our heads.”

Her expression sobers as she looks at him.

“Given our shared affliction, I suppose you had a similar dream…?”

She says nothing.

“No need to be shy about it, darling. This is a good thing. Now we can see what these tadpoles can do for us.”

She hums, rolling her head back towards the sky. “Enjoy it while it lasts. The scales will always balance in time.” Her mind wanders to Orcus’ first promise- the one she sold herself for- as her stare drifts to the distance.

“Oh, I plan on it,” he purrs.

But there is no response from Ayzora. She is returned to the fog of her mind.

The fire crackles. Astarion watches the blaze consume the wood, turning brown bark to white ash.

And Ayzora’s mind wanders.

He came to her in a dream. “A life for a life,” he said. If she destroyed the Raven Queen and her temple, he would grant her the power to bring back Laz. Ayzora could finally give her adoptive father, Zedd, the wife he had missed so dearly; she could finally pay him back for everything he had done for her.

So she accepted his offer. Ayzora, Remus, and Ryon- The Shrouded Triad, he called them- infiltrated the temple and tore it to the ground, taking the goddess of death with it.

Laz’s body laid in a tomb beneath the temple. Ayzora resurrected the woman, introducing herself briefly before bringing her home to Zedd. The reunion was- still is- the happiest day of Ayzora’s life. The family she had so desperately craved was hers at last.

It wasn’t until Ayzora had seen Orcus’ symbol glimmer and fade with necrotic magic on Laz’s forehead that she questioned what she had done. She suddenly wondered about the conditions of his gift of resurrection; the hidden cost of the deal beginning to surface.

If only she had stopped there.

“You were there, that day,” Astarion notes softly, “when the nautiloid reached Baldur’s Gate.”

Ayzora is wrenched from her thoughts, jarred by the sudden shift in topic. Shit . “You remember?”

“I remember your gods-awful cloak.”

Ayzora laughs breathily.

Silence returns to the air.

Astarion shifts, his eyes still trained on the orange glow of the dying campfire. He tosses in a few more bits of kindling, encouraging the flames to grow a couple of inches taller.

“You stopped,” she finally says.

“Hm?”

“When you saw me. You stopped.”

“As did you, if I’m not mistaken,” he quips, lifting his head to look at her.

“Well-”

“Why were you there?”

Every muscle in Ayzora’s body snaps to attention, tensing together and leaving her frozen.

The expression she wears is almost identical to the one he saw that morning. He’s seen her flustered, sure- hells, she could hardly keep her cool the first time he offered her a night of passion- but this was… different.

Her mind buzzes through about a hundred variations of an answer, ranging from blatant lies to softened truths. She would twist her story, somehow, into something that paints her as far less desperate, but… He wouldn’t buy it for a moment. With a deep breath, she gathers her courage and manages to finally speak: “You prayed.”

“What?” His eyes grow wide beneath raised eyebrows.

“To the Raven Queen. I heard you.”

He shoots up to his feet, taking a step back to gain some space in a suddenly intrusive conversation. “You were there?”

“No, I-”

Everything crashes down on her at once. Orcus. The tadpole. Astarion. My damnation. It’s all falling apart at the seams. Her perfect posture crumbles before him as she doubles over with her face buried in her hands.

“I used to scry on the temple, and answer prayers on the Raven Queen’s behalf.”

It’s all too much for Astarion to take in- how dare she see him like that, in all his naked desperation. “Odd choice for the chosen of Orcus,” he digs.

“I am his no more than you are Cazador’s,” she spits, looking up at the elf. Her arms cross over her midsection, clutching her sides in an attempt to soothe the guilt twisting knots in her abdomen. “I-” … wanted to be good again, she finishes silently. She swallows, forcing back tears.

Astarion clenches his jaw at the mention of his master’s name- but he stops himself. If he snaps now, he loses her. Good things come to those who wait. So he waits.

“I wanted to help you.” It’s a half-hearted admission- there’s so much more to it- but it’s an admission regardless.

He sits back down beside her in a near-collapse. So someone did hear me. Someone did come for me. All this time, Astarion knew he would rot away in the bitterness of his utter abandonment; but now… his heart could rot no longer. Suddenly, he isn’t alone. Suddenly, he isn’t invisible. Suddenly, he isn’t abandoned.

Suddenly, he’s completely screwed.

“And I left,” he whispers in disbelief. “To think, I almost brought you to…”

“Why didn’t you?” She interrupts, the question burning in the back of her mind all this time finally making its way into words.

He’s taken back by her bold question. If his heart could still beat, it would race. “W-Well, it… I thought I’d play savior.” His eyes darken as he tries to retreat back into the comfort of theatrics. “Chaos makes for easy prey.”

“The frozen elf wasn’t easy prey?”

“You were-” Astarion begins, but falls silent. How can anyone reason with the kind of things I was forced to do? How can anyone make sense of what I did to stay sane? He sighs. They can’t; so he answers honestly: “You… looked like me.”

Ayzora’s words fall into the abyss.

Her skin is just about as pale as his; her heart just as still. Her long hair, though straight, is the same silvery white as his curls; her eyes as bright of a strange hue. He looked at her, and saw himself. He couldn’t bear to watch Cazador kill him again.

It was a selfish reason, sure, but she couldn’t hold it against him.

It was the same reason she chased after him. To free a slave from an all-too-powerful master. To save herself.

All this time, in chasing each other, they were chasing after some distorted echo of self-preservation.

But now, she sees so much more than herself when she looks at him.

She’s terrified.

And gods be damned, so is he.

They both continue to stare at the fire in silence. What else is there to say?

His prayers didn’t go completely unheard, after all. And the one who tried to answer them nearly lost her life in the attempt. Here he was, attempting to lure someone who was already running to him.

She only ever wanted to save herself. That was all that drove her to this place. Yet, she finds herself caring more for his future than her own. No matter how this ends, she would try all over again. For him.

Her left hand shifts. Slowly, carefully, it slides just millimeters closer to him. Reaching for him. Asking to be held. Just for now. Even if it’s all a lie. She’s okay with that. He can lie about everything, as long as she can be honest now.

His eyes glance down while his head remains in place. He watches as her hand turns, exposing her palm. A hand to hold, if he so chooses. Small, innocent touch, offering comfort. It feels… alien.

It’s all a lie. A plan.

His right hand lifts off his lap.

A plan I perfectly carried out. A plan she walked right into.

It gently lands atop hers.

It’s a lie.

She squeezes.

Right?

This is cross-posted to my Ao3, @ write-and-wander, so be sure to subscribe to the fic there if you want to see it first and be notified when it updates!

Chapter Four: Decompose

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plus-minus-contingency · 2 years ago

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Hold on, we are unionizing?

I don't even have a name yet.

Please call me 8-8-8 Anon.

That's the structure of my poems.

But, I do tend to deviate.

I AM ACCOSTED BY HOLLOW GREY BLOBS OF MADNESS. THIS IS HELL. I STAND IN PERDITION.

#interaction #ask

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xaspiringbeamoflightx · 21 days ago

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This was it.

Tina Bell, who wasn't afraid of anything, was about to take the first steps on the single most terrifying thing she had ever done in her life, and ever would do again.

Now, don't get it twisted; she wasn't terrified of marrying James. She wasn't terrified of forever. What she was terrified of was letting every single person in the whole wide world (Redwood Hollow) know that she had feelings, and that she might cry, and that her friends might be assholes, and— Terence had given her a nudge before she could spiral. And then the doors opened, and the music played.

Tina's eyes, adjusting to the gentle sunlight, darted around the glade. Checking who was there. Checking who wasn't.

And then, like someone had a great big spotlight in the sky, and was telling her to focus, her eyes met James'. And there they stayed with every step and every thrumming heart beat until finally her hands were in his. Now, she was back on land.

Tina was extremely aware of every pair of eyes in the aisles. Every whisper.

And then… as James spoke his vows… they disappeared. And it was only them, basking in the warm April breeze and birdsong.

Tina was still, and quiet, for a long time. Much longer than she ever was. Perhaps an eternity after James finished speaking.

"Jesus Christ, James…" Tina whispered. No. It sounded much more like she had had the wind knocked right out of her.

James had told her he loved her many, many times, in no uncertain times, and she had believed it every time (bar once). Hell, Tina knew James was the biggest sap in the whole wide world, no competition. She had told him that in no uncertain terms. She should have been more prepared for this. But she was not. Tina was not prepared to hear how much he loved her in front of everyone she knew, and know that he meant every single word that he said. Tina was not prepared for tears to start welling in her eyes in front of a field full of people.

And despite James' words being the very reason she was about to burst into tears, his hands were the one thing keeping her grounded, as strong and as comforting as they had ever been.

She had to take a moment, biting her lip and sticking her nose high in the air, as she often did when a feeling was taking its time with her.

Her eyes never once left the sparkling blue of James'.

Finally, she let go of one of his hands to pull out a small piece of paper that had been tucked away neatly where her corset met her skirt.

It felt rather naff now. There was no way on God's green earth she was toping that.

"You should have let me go first," Tina said finally, accenting with the brightest, giddiest laugh she had ever laughed in her life. "This is going to sound like a fourth grader wrote it…"

Tina fumbled with the paper for a moment, and very nearly tossed it.

"I don't have a fancy poem, or even a lot of words, actually. Which you're probably thinking makes a change because I never shut up but… I know how I feel, and you know how I feel, and now I get to let everyone and their grandma know too."

"For a long time, I didn't think this was in the cards for me. I never thought I would ever feel this safe, or this loved. I know you felt the same, so maybe it was a weird twist of fate and a glitter gel pen that put us on the same path toward the same thing. It wasn't an easy one. I quite liked to ignore fate for a while, not believing that it knew what was right for me."

"But you persisted. You knew."

"You knew that the promise of safety, care, and having a hand to hold for the rest of time was already written in the story if only we were brave enough to keep reading."

"I can't wait to hold your hand forever. Please, let me. Let me take care of you, and hold you when things are shit, and when they're great too! Thank you, James, for taking a chance… and for taking care of my heart when it badly needed it."

Tina's bottom lip quivered. She scrunched up the piece of paper, and scrunched up her nose. It did not stop her tears.

Tina looked James in the eye, properly, once more. No longer reading from her scrawl.

And she smiled, teary.

"I'm glad it's you."

i vow to you | tina x James

To say that this was the happiest day of James Hook’s life was an understatement—like calling the ocean “a bit wet” or the stars “kind of bright.”

He stood at the altar, hands steady but heart hammering in his chest like a drum echoing through mountains. He hadn’t peeked when Tina entered his room earlier, no matter how badly he’d wanted to.His friends had warned him: "It’s bad luck before the wedding." And honestly? He didn’t believe in all that... but just this once, he wasn’t about to take any chances.

Now, as the doors opened and soft music rose through the room, James forgot to breathe. Tina stepped into the space like light breaking through cloud cover—sudden, soft, stunning. She’d always been beautiful. That wasn’t new. But now, something about her looked almost unreal. She looked like she belonged to another world. Like she’d just walked out of a picture book.

Like a fairy princess.

And he—well, he guessed he’d be her knight. A little rough around the edges, but absolutely devoted.

She reached him, and he noticed her hands trembling. Without a word, he took them gently in his own and ran his thumb across her skin, slow and steady. It was the kind of gesture that didn’t need words.

They were in this together.

Always had been.

The officiant gave a nod. It was time.

James took a quiet breath—his eyes on Tina and nothing else—and began:

Thy smile, a breeze from oceans deep, That lulls my restless heart to sleep. No mortal charm, no fleeting grace— But magic wrought upon thy face.

Thou art the star that stilled my tide, My soul’s true north, my radiant guide. I take thy hand through shadow and flame, Through battles lost and battles claimed.

In joy and sorrow, dusk and dawn, Through kingdoms fallen and newly born— Thy burdens I shall gladly bear, Thy cup o’erflow with love and care.

With wine I’ll warm thy weary bones, With whispered light 'mid ancient stones. This candle, lit in twilight’s glow, Shall lead thee where no fear shall go.

And with this ring, of starlit gold, I bind my heart, forever bold. O Lady fair, O fire divine— By earth and sky, wilt thou be mine?

Through trials deep, we both have trod, By fate and fire, by will and God. Yet never once did I forget, That in thy eyes, no pain breeds regret.

Through mortal life and death’s dark door, My oath remains forevermore. For thou art love, thou art my breath— My soul’s own mate, beyond all death.

I take thy hand—not as the dead, Nor as the living, torn and led— But as the one who, stars among, Shall walk with thee when time is sung.

Though realms may fall, and moons may fade, Though gods may sleep 'neath willow shade, Still shall my vow remain as true As ancient runes in skies of blue.

For even when I cannot hold Thy form so dear, so brave, so bold— Still will I guard thee, night and day, And love thee past the end of age.

So let the Fates weave as they will— My love shall find thee, constant still. And death shall yield, its power undone— For thou and I, beloved, are one.

James took a breath as the last word left his lips. The world hadn’t stopped turning, not really—but it felt like it had. Just for a moment. He looked at Tina then, not just as his bride, but as the woman who had become his home, his heart, and his future.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and there was a curious spark in his eyes—part wonder, part awe.

And now, it was her turn. He waited, eyes locked with hers, eager to hear the words she had been holding in her heart.

@xaspiringbeamoflightx

#tina #hook #happiestevent14 #the vows #listen if there are typos its because i was writing through real tears

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zushigirl · 2 years ago

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Tagged by the phenomenal @ninzied to find break, dark, fall, and regret…Here’s the first one and - boy - has this tag game been fun! May turn one of these wips into a full fledged fic. Let me know what you think!

Break (Bookstore AU)

The quiet.

The shift in energy hits Karen the moment she enters the bookstore. All the chatter of Hell’s Kitchen – the hum of voices, the roar if traffic, the pings and digs of cell phones – seem to fade away. Almost as if she’s been transported to another world.

Like Alice stepping through the looking glass.

She makes her way down the stairs, eyes tracing the rows of wooden shelves filled with tattered paperbacks. Foggy called Castle’s Used Books dreary, but she loves it instantly. Rows upon rows of faded paperbacks. The smell of paper. The focused energy. The place reminds her of the old bookstore across from the Student Union at Georgetown.

Making it to the bottom step, Karen grins. The sign by the unmanned checkout desk is the real reason Foggy poopoos this place.

Silence your cell phone or get the hell out.

The infamous sign.

Foggy told her about it.

“I was minding my own business. Just waiting for Marci to find some Daniel Steel novel. I pull out my phone to check my email for like one second. One second. The minute my phone pings, the owner was on me. He appeared out of nowhere, towering over me. Scowling. Eyes glinting like some psycho murder. Told me to try reading something other than Instagram reel on my phone.”

Karen chuckles to herself. Poor Foggy. He doesn’t know how to disconnect.

Glancing up, she studies the chalkboard signs at the beginning of each aisle. Poetry. That’s the section she’s been tasked to find. Specifically, The Hollow Men by T. S. Elliot. Ellison’s birthday gift from the staff. The newspaper editorial is a huge fan of the poet’s work, and this is the one piece not stuffed in the massive bookshelf behind his desk.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Karen remembers reading the poem in college. It’s a little dark for her tastes, but if the man who plays gatekeeper to her name being published in the next edition loves it…

It takes fifteen minutes of wandering through the store, but Karen finally finds the poetry section by the back wall. Of course, T.S. Eliot is located all the way at the very top of corner of it all. She glanced warily at the step stool sitting at the very end of the aisle. It’s not quite tall enough for her to reach her target and the heels she’s wearing won’t make things any easier.

Sighing, Karen grabs the stool and leans up against the bookshelf. She climbs on top, standing on her tip toes, craning her neck to scan the titles.

Hollow Men, Hollow Men, come on Hollow M –

“Ma’am?” A gravelly voice – the first she’s heard since entering the store - echoes behind her.

“Shit!”

In an instant, Karen’s wobbling on the stool. Then she’s teetering on the edge. Then –

Someone’s holding her steady. A firm hand on her forearm.

“Hey. Hey. Be careful now.”

Karen looks down…to find a pair of coffee-colored eyes staring up at her. Suddenly she knows who this is…and Foggy was wrong.

Frank Castle doesn’t have eyes like a psycho murder. His eyes are…Karen can’t put her finger on it, but there’s a story in those eyes. A story so compelling she can’t break her gaze.

#kastle #frank x karen #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #karen page #kastle fic rec #kastleff #kastle au #kastle fam is the best fam

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derangedrhythms · 4 years ago

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Hey! Do you have any quotes whose descriptions are just really beautiful or figurative?

"Oh yes, skin black. Very black. So black that only a steady careful rubbing with steel wool would remove it, and as it was removed there was the glint of gold leaf and under the gold leaf the cold alabaster and deep, deep down under the cold alabaster more black only this time the black of warm loam."

— Toni Morrison, from 'Sula'

"...but the rain / Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh / Upon the glass and listen for reply,"

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver; from 'xlii'

"Nothing compares to your hands nothing like the green-gold of your eyes. My body is filled with you for days and days, you are the mirror of the night, the violent flash of lightning. the dampness of the earth."

"You are here, intangible and you are all the universe which I shape into the space of my room. Your absence springs trembling in the ticking of the clock, in the pulse of light; you breathe through the mirror."

— Frida Kahlo, from The Diary of Frida Kahlo, tr. Barbara Crow de Toledo & Ricardo Pohlenz

"The sight filled the northern sky; the immensity of it was scarcely conceivable. As if from Heaven itself, great curtains of delicate light hung and trembled. Pale green and rose-pink, and as transparent as the most fragile fabric, and at the bottom edge a profound and fiery crimson like the fires of Hell, they swung and shimmered loosely with more grace than the most skilful dancer."

— Philip Pullman, from 'Northern Lights'

"Often when I imagine you / your wholeness cascades into many shapes. / You run like a herd of luminous deer / and I am dark, I am forest."

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours: Love Poems to God; from ‘Du kommst und gehst. Die Türen fallen’, tr. Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy

"My right hand unfolds rivers / around you, my left hand releases its trees, / I speak rain, / I spin you a night and you hide in it."

— Margaret Atwood, from 'Power Politics'

"Once I wounded him with so / small a thorn / I never thought his flesh would burn / or that the heat within would grow / until he stood / incandescent as a god; / now there is nowhere I can go / to hide from him: / moon and sun reflect his flame."

— Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems: Juvenilia; from ‘To a Jilted Lover’

"She wore a gown the colour of storms, shadows and rain and a necklace of broken promises and regrets."

— Susanna Clarke, from 'Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell'

"…him pressing against / me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe / his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me / like stars."

— Richard Siken, Crush; from 'Saying Your Names'

"Flower after flower is specked on the depths of green. The petals are harlequins. Stalks rise from the black hollows beneath. The flowers swim like fish made of light upon the dark, green waters. I hold a stalk in my hand. I am the stalk. My roots go down to the depths of the world, through earth dry with brick, and damp earth, through veins of lead and silver. I am all fibre. All tremors shake me, and the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs. Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing."

— Virginia Woolf, from 'The Waves'

And a song: 'Pale September' by Fiona Apple

#compilations #beautiful #figurative

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minarcana · 2 years ago

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🌻+ zenoo c:<

i collect poems / accepting

The lip of the cup kissing mine in my friend’s hands was like the sun: a fire burned in the vine’s water devouring me but not my gown.— Solomon ibn Gabirol

The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wished to have a name it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close. —Magarch

how graceful they are, this reaper’s hands. he plucks the heart from within me with the practiced ease of a florist; as if he will make of it the centerpiece of a nuptial bouquet. -- iris-keeper

All my own blood is gone. Something strange paces there now.

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chameleon3 · 29 days ago

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guess who’s back back again

todd’s little giggles when neil is trying to cheer him up about his birthday 🥲 he’s so in love

^ need somebody to say “oh my!” to me like neil does to todd

tinaaaa

^ charlie forgetting gloria’s poem is so funny to me. dumbass

^^ when todd and neil look at each other and look away neil lets out a shaky little breath 😭😭 his gay ass was scared as hell

^ PLEASJEJEJS charlie laughing at meeks and pitts making fools of themselves is so funny

after knox reads chris his poem: ”cameron, you fool ❤️ (endearing)”

^ charlie waving and shushing the other poets to hear knox

his final scene (telling todd): his chin quivers fucking get me. he was neil’s best friend and he was the one who had to tell todd. how long did he wait before waking him up? how long did he sit and watch todd sleep in peace, knowing what he would say would change his life forever?

him gesturing to the other poets before todd says “it’s so beautiful” to stay back

the way charlie looks at todd as he lies in the snow sobbing. knowing there is nothing he could possibly do to comfort this boy. knowing he is right. the only thing he could do was hold him tight and try, just try, to keep him grounded.

his sad stare. he knows what this has and will do to todd. he knows and he has to live with it

charlie not even singing, he’s so overridden with grief and disbelief and numbness. look at his tired, sunken eyes. he is a hollow shell of who he was

charlie not even bothering to put out his cigarette when cameron enters is really telling. he knows he’s out, he doesn’t care.

WHAPAM

all done!!!!

i decided to rewatch dead poets society and only focus on one specific character (charlie this time) last night and i decided to take notes???? idfk it was 1am and i just finished bawling at the other movie so here are my notes somebody please decipher them i have no fucking clue what any if this means

(also i only watched until i filled both sides bc i was eepy)

#finished the charlie watch finally #doing todd next

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write-and-wander · 6 months ago

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Yawning Grave | Three: Dwindle

Astarion x Ayzora (F!OC)

Warnings: N/A | Word count: 7.1k

| One | Two | Three | ...

Read on Ao3