#the sea shall yet give up her dead

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Long ago, you were cursed to one day sleep for an eternity—unless you’re presented with true love. You thought destiny couldn’t find you on the high seas, but when you're sorely mistaken, it's up to a certain swordsman to get his act together and rescue you from eternal sleep.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: zoro x princess!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.4k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: tw blood, sleeping beauty au, meddling faeries here and there, stubborn swordsmen and lovelorn princesses, no use of Y/N, light angst, major fluff

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: falling - timothy cole

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢,

a very many years ago, twelve Wise Women from the Isle of Perminion—faeries was a more precise term, but they felt the label struck too much fear into their mortal fellows, and in this economy, faeries need willing clientele—were invited to the presentation of a young princess from an old kingdom. Each bestowed upon her gifts coveted by all. Beauty, grace, love, and the like. 

It was the thirteenth Wise Woman who took it all back.

“You dare not invite me to this celebration of life? Fine. Forget me. But not before I give the princess my own gift. She’ll grow beautiful, wise, and loved, as my fellow Wise Women decreed—but one day she’ll lose all that to the prick of a spinning wheel and fall dead to my power!”

Your life had just begun, and had already gone to shit (forgive such undignified language, unfit for a princess, but really, you felt you deserved some leeway).

The whole of the kingdom knew the witch’s speech by heart, saying a prayer each night in the hope that their princess would be fortunate enough to never cross a spinning wheel in all her life. And from the rail of her tower’s terrace, the princess dreamed of someday joining them. Not in their prayers, but in celebration that even the worst curses are no match for the blessed princess of their kingdom. Blessed, as she once was, before the outrage of Carabose found her.

But that was only the dream of a foolish child.

Foolish dreams. You were cursed not only in the very literal sense but also by the paranoia of your parents, the king and queen of your revered nation. Not a soul outside the castle walls had seen their princess since the day of her introduction—the day you were cursed to one day cross the spindle of a spinning wheel, and die.

Well, not die. Your godmother, Rosalie—the twelfth Wise Woman and the only one that mattered in your opinion—had gifted you a chance at survival. 

“The princess will not die upon pricking the spinning wheel. She shall only sleep till… till she receives a display of true, compassionate, unbridled love.”

It was the first thing Rosalie could think of that would lessen the blow of the witch’s spell. 

And yet despite this security, your parents locked you away, terrified of what would happen to their little princess should she cross that fated hunk of wood. Honestly, it was beyond embarrassing being destined to be bested by a hunk of wood, but that’s just your luck, you supposed.

It was also just your luck that one day when you’d just barely given up all hope of living a fulfilling life, a certain crew of pirates found your kingdom, caused the uproar of the century, and managed to help you escape all in just two days. 

With the wind in your face some months later, it seemed all your dreams of grandeur were coming true; far away from your castle, you sailed the seas with real friends at your side. You never worried about your curse, for why would you ever find a spinning wheel at sea? It was silly to fear the fate set before you. 

Rosalie always told you that destiny cannot be fought, but look at you now, proving her wrong. 

(It’s like you were asking for things to go wrong).

The day was windy and bright, with sparse clouds high above and cool grass underfoot. The Going Merry rest at the docks of the little coastal city, Usopp making repairs in record time. You couldn’t help but wish to go out and explore, taking full advantage of your freedom.

You took Zoro with you, of course. You’d never leave the ship without your loyal guard at your side. 

Zoro. What to say about Zoro? In your opinion, he was probably the love of your life, if he ever got over himself and admitted he loved you too. Either way, you would never picture life without him by your side, even if he brushed off all your teasing advances with a roll of his eyes.

“Here,” you motioned him to your side, feeling warm inside with the familiar bump of his shoulder against yours. You picked up one of the ornate golden rings displayed at the market stall before you, grinning like a devil as you lifted your hand to measure it up against your skin. “What do you think? I prefer silver, but gold would match your earrings.”

Zoro, lovely and clueless Zoro, only tilted his head, aforementioned earrings chiming against one another. “I think it's nice, but why d’ya wanna match?”

By the time you slipped the ring on your fourth finger, he saw where this was going. “Hmm, no reason.” You handed the ring back to the seller and smiled up at Zoro’s perturbed, blushing face. 

“Sorry, you’re just so easy to tease.” He grunted in reply, drawing another smile out of you. Your eyes got all misty, like they always did when you looked at Zoro, and the words escaped your lips before you could stop them. “Go out with me.”

Zoro kept his gaze firmly on the sky, his shoulders far too stiff to be comfortable. “We’re… too busy for stuff like that.”

It all felt like a mildly disappointing routine at this point; you asked, he dodged around giving you an explicit no. Perhaps if he actually got the nerve to deny you, you’d have given up, but Zoro always left you with that small hope that one day his answer might change.

Still, something in you held the strong consideration to give up. Lovelorn and yet hopelessly deep, it was a tempting option. Surely, pursuing someone so adamantly disinterested was a lost cause. But what if, you dared to call back, silencing your doubts.

“C’mon,” you relented. “I need some new fabrics.”

You scooped up his hand and he let you drag him down the street to a little boutique on the corner. The door rang when you entered, and Zoro tried to ignore how your hand still clung to his even as the door clicked shut behind you.

“I wanted to make Nami a new dress,” you said as you beelined for the shelf of various fabrics. “You know, to make up for the one I ripped.”

He didn’t try to pull back, only standing at your side as you skimmed your free hand over a set of pinks. “Still don’t get how you ruined it that badly. It was practically in two pieces.”

“You were there. I was in a tree.”

“But why?”

Your silly smile rose to meet his gentle grin. “Because I wanted to? You could have joined me, but no, you stayed all alone on the ground like a loser.”

“If I was in the tree, who would catch ya’ when you fell like an idiot?”

With a scoff, you let go of his hand and picked up some pink and blue fabric, failing to see him watch you longingly. “Touche.”

Zoro was never sure what to make of you—you were like nothing he’d ever faced before. The day you waltzed into his life and started up your little flirtation game was the day Zoro found his most formidable opponent in the love you shared so willingly.

There was your habit of getting into trouble too—trouble he often dragged you out of—which didn’t help much either.

Zoro thought princesses were meant to be graceful and poised, as Vivi was, but you toppled those expectations at the very foundation. At this point, it wasn’t really a question of if he returned your feelings, but if he was able to voice it. As far as Zoro was concerned, the answer would always be a firm no.

As you started to stack the pink and blue on your arm Zoro reached to take them from you, draping the fabric over his shoulder. He returned your appreciative smile with a slight nod, heart warm at how you doted on him with your eyes alone.

Yeah, it was better this way—you waiting for something that would never happen, and him standing stoic at your side, nothing but a loyal companion.

“Miss.” Your voice, calling to the cashier, broke him from his less-than-happy thoughts. “Have you got any purple?” You swiftly turned back to Zoro with a brief, “Robin said she likes purple.”

The cashier looked up from her book, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I just finished some this morning,” she said with a grin, getting up to lift the gate in the counter and motioning for you to follow her into the back of the shop. “I’ll show you.”

Zoro’s skin prickled as you glided after the cashier, shooting him a smile as you disappeared through the door. He was left standing with the odd sense that something was wrong. 

Maybe it was the way a sudden draft hit his back despite there being no ventilation, or maybe it was the fact that you walked under a ladder earlier just to piss him off. Or, perhaps, it was the flash of green in the cashier’s eyes as she passed by a mirror.

Whatever it was, he stayed put, trusting he would be there to help you the moment you needed him. Zoro was always there when you needed him. Neither he nor you had reason to doubt this fact.

You felt completely at ease as you entered a small, dim room full of messy shelves, half-knit sweaters, and heaps of yarn. “Here,” the cashier pointed to a table at the center of the room. “Is this the shade you had in mind?”

A grin split your face as you felt the fabric, marveling at its softness. It was high-quality stuff, definitely not cheap. But you thought of Robin, who had done so much for you, and felt it was worth the possible loan from Nami.

“It’s perfect,” you replied. “How much?”

“Oh, it’s on the house.”

You startled instantly, eyes darting up to find the cashier absent from your side despite her voice being right in your ear. “Come again?”

“You can have it.” Turning slowly, you found the woman sorting through a surplus fo purple fabrics. “I have plenty.”

A gentle laugh escaped you. “Thank you so much. My friend will love it.”

The cashier swiveled on her heel and leaned against the table, head cocked to the side. Had her eyes always been so vibrant an emerald? They almost seemed to glow. “No, thank you, Your Highness.”

Chills ran up your spine at the formal address, all air expelled from your body as you choked out, “Pardon me?”

Caught up in the green of the woman’s eyes, you didn’t notice a misty tendril swirling up your body till it clouded your vision, directing your captured attention to the corner of the room. There in the shadows was a contraption you’d never seen before, yet you knew its purpose instantly. 

The purple string being woven gave it away. How had you not noticed the spinning wheel before? 

The fabric slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor in a lump. You darted for the door, yet your feet never moved an inch, cemented in place. Was that a tear on your cheek? No, it couldn’t be. You never cried. And yet, a salty streak ran from your eye to your jaw now, as if your body knew what your mind denied: your fate had caught you.

“Stop.” You weren’t sure who you spoke to. Your feet that started to creep toward the spindle? The husk of a woman, possessed by some evil spirit of a bitter sorceress? Destiny herself? Whoever you ordered refused to listen as you closed in on the wheel and raised a steady hand.

A half-lived life flashed before your eyes. A princess sat alone in a room, loneliness her only companion. A girl stood on a ship, tasting freedom for the very first time. A woman stared at a man, knowing this was what love felt like. 

A light pinch shocked your whole body, and you finally broke from the spell to find your index finger pierced into the sharpest of spindles. A cackle echoed from every corner of the room as the cashier collapsed on the spot. 

One thought broke through your slowly fading mind. Traitorous, wobbly feet took you to the door, flinging it open and leaning you against the doorframe. Your heavy eyes ached, Zoro’s voice so far away. You didn’t feel his hands on your arms as you sank to the floor.

Your labored, panicked breathing matched your flickering, terrified eyes. “Spindle.”

And you lay fast asleep in Zoro’s arms a moment later, peace written in your features. Your chest rose and fell gently. Zoro gazed down at the sleeping beauty, uttering your name over and over, practically paralyzed… Until he noticed the tiny bit of blood dripping from your fingertip, and he looked into the ajar room. A spinning wheel stood right in his line of sight, the wheel creaking as it spun slowly.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

You had never told any of your friends about the curse, too embarrassed to do so. Was that a lapse in judgment? Perhaps, but you were too asleep to know.

Now Chopper stood at your side, holding his stethoscope over your heart. He set the scope around his neck a moment later, putting his hooves together nervously. Chopper felt the whole crew staring at his back like a brand. “I think—Well, I think she’s sleeping.”

Luffy had been deathly silent through the whole ordeal, not taking his eyes off you since Zoro carried you back to the ship in a hurry. “Then let’s wake her up.”

Sanji slapped a hand over his mouth before Luffy could start yelling, shoving out a sigh. “We tried that, didn’t we? Marimo shook her for five minutes before we could pry him off her.”

Everyone waited for when the swordsman would quip back his own insult, but the usual pattern was thrown off by a strange silence. Even Sanji looked around, confused to find Zoro nowhere in sight. 

Sanji blinked a few times before he placed his hands on his hips. “Now where the fuck is he?”

From the corner, seated in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, Robin spoke up for the first time all evening. Her thoughtful eyes stared into the space ahead of her. “I saw him leave a moment ago. Said he had to get something.”

Not even a second later did Zoro barge down into the galley. In one hand he held a spinning wheel of all things. In the other, he held a woman’s arm in a vice. 

Nami jumped to her feet, aghast. “Zoro, what—?”

He nearly threw the woman before them all, his brows drawn into an expression of ruthlessness. “Well? What did you do to her?!”

With her eyes wide and breaths short, the woman violently shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean!”

Sanji stepped forth intending to sock Zoro in the face for scaring the woman, when Zoro turned on him and spat, “This woman’s the reason she’s—she’s sick!”

That was all it took for Sanji, somehow still poised, to face the terrified woman now encircled by a crowd of frowning pirates. Sanji grabbed the woman’s arm, not as harshly as Zoro had, but just as firmly. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” she sputtered, gazing over at where you laid limply on the table. “I… I remember her. She wanted purple fabric.”

Zoro nearly had the mind to throttle the woman. “You led her into the back room and minutes later she stumbles out and—and sleeps!” He slammed the spinning wheel on the ground, startling everyone around. “She said spindle. What’s this? Some sort of… torture device?”

The woman did nothing but blink at him. “It’s a spinning wheel.”

“What’s it do?”

“It spins.” Suddenly the woman had the nerve of a warrior, righting herself to face Zoro’s glare. “I don’t know what you think I did, but I didn’t. All I know is I led her to the fabric and…” 

All her words fell short as she stuttered to find them, her brows screwing together. “And I don’t remember. I—I don’t remember what happened.”

Sanji seized her shoulders and leveled her with a look. “I need you to remember, madam. It means that girl’s life or death.”

The woman stood frozen, stunned as she stared into Sanji’s eyes, her cheeks turning a concerning shade of pink. Nami rolled her eyes and promptly shoved him out of the way, snapping in the woman’s face. 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Nami asked sharply.

“I mean I don’t remember.” Their captive grew increasingly frustrated, and maybe a bit nervous as well. “I walk that bitch into the back, I black out, and I wake up to this guy dragging me out of my home!”

Just as Zoro gasped (“Bitch, huh?”), Robin stood and slowly made her way toward the spinning wheel, running her hand over the wood and grazing a finger over the sharp needle. Inspecting the spindle close, she found a bit of dried blood there. She hummed, keeping everyone on edge, and went toward your sleeping form, grabbing your hands and turning them over. “Ah-ha…”

Zoro stepped forward, anxious. “What?”

“I think she poked herself on the spindle.” Robin made it sound so simple.

Nami tapped her finger to her nose as she pondered. “But why would that make her… sick?”

“Poison?” Chopper offered at the same time Robin answered, “Magic.”

“We don’t have time for speculation,” Sanji gritted as he fished around his pockets for his lighter, cigarette between his teeth. “Can we test for what poison it could be?”

As Chopper started to ramble about some tests he could run, Zoro stared daggers at the spinning wheel. Now, he wasn’t superstitious, but perhaps he was a little stitious, because the longer he stared at the wheel the more he remembered about what transpired in that shop.

“Why would it be magic?” Zoro asked suddenly, silencing the room. 

All eyes found Robin, who was now sitting on your bedside holding your hand. “She’s a princess, right? The princesses in the stories I’ve read dealt with a lot of bad magic.”

Nami shook her head. “This isn’t a story, Robin.”

The debate went on like that, really going nowhere at all, the cashier woman tentatively slinking away during the rabble and inevitably going forgotten. Luffy ignored them all, approaching you and lifting your hand to inspect as if he’d find some kind of sign in your pierced fingertip. 

And just maybe, he did find something. “Hey, Nami?”

She ran a hand over her face as Sanji and Zoro took jab after jab at one another, the stress of your condition getting to the both of them. “Yeah, Luffy?”

He followed a very excited thought bunny here and there, after princesses and stories until it hopped to a stop in front of a certain royal friend of theirs. You appeared next, smiling like he wished you would now. “Vivi? Yeah, I know her. We go way back.”

“Call Vivi,” he ordered, closing the discussion as he too sat at your side and started to poke at your sides, as if tickling you would be enough to break this spell.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Often, your dreams gave way to the most horrible nightmares, and always, you would find refuge in the realm of day. Until now. No matter where you ran a firm sheet of black blocked you in. Air as frigid as the Arctic enveloped you. No friend in sight, no solace from the cold. 

Finally falling still, you blinked, and you stood in the middle of your tower, back in your kingdom. The high-reaching walls created that familiar dome painted with the long-forgotten stories of your people. The marble floors chilled your bare feet. Your bed leered at you from the far wall, whispers inviting you back into its clutches that would send you spiraling further into this forever sleep.

Panic surged up your chest till you gasped for air, losing your grip quicker than you could keep up with. Laughter taunted you from every corner till you started to scream and shout and call out for anyone to help you. But the door held fast against your pulling and thick briar thorns wrapped all around the balcony. 

Still, you clawed at the spiraling thorns, prying to see through, blistering your palms on their heated stalks. Your whimpers were followed by a loud, echoed roar, a harsh gust of wind cast down from the wings of a soaring lizard you’d only ever dreamed of. 

You whirled around to catch a better view of the creature’s mass, clutching at your heart as those gargantuan claws settled down on the tower of your bedroom. Two nostrils blew smoke that encroached the balcony and the depths of your room. The dragon’s eyes held no mercy as she gazed down with malice. 

This curse played a cruel joke, trapping you within the bars of your own mind, turning your fantasies against you. Your every turn showed you more wonders turned horrors the longer you searched for them; the clouds formed words you wouldn’t dare to repeat, the grass down below burned in confusing patterns, and the voices of those you held dear echoed from somewhere nearby.

Your fretful mother. Your paranoid father. The gossiping handmaidens. The superstitious priest. All lamented your fate, screaming how they knew it was a matter of time before the curse finally found you, tearing into you for ever even dreaming of leaving. You really should have stayed. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d piped down and stayed.

Then it was Luffy, Nami, and Usopp. “Why did you ever ask her to join us?” “Not sure. I thought she was something she wasn’t.” “She’s just a liar.” “A dead weight.” “A curse.”

Robin’s voice pierced her eardrums as your knees hit the ground. Why had she ever given you the time of day? Some sheltered little princess without enough common sense to know a spinning wheel when she saw one. And Chopper, his sweet voice turned sour. How pathetic. Beaten by a piece of wood.

The worst of it all was when his voice broke through all the rest despite how she tried to ignore that rumbling tone she once learned to crave. Zoro’s words were direct and clear. She’s finally gone. God, I was this close to just silencing her stupid mouth myself.

To think he would ever actually love her? How foolish of you.

The walls of your dreams closed in swiftly, caging you in and suffocating your hopes till you were left a husk, floating amidst the torment. 

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Vivi had been silent for so long Luffy wondered if she’s gotten distracted and walked off. Nami shuffled closer to the snail transponder. “Vivi?”

“Sorry,” her voice reappeared, a slight crack to it. “I just… you said she pricked a spindle?” Nami hummed in agreement, and Vivi expelled a long sigh. “She’s been asleep since? You can’t wake her?”

“That’s what we said,” Zoro snapped, shutting up at Nami’s sharp glare.

“It’s just… I mean, I’ve only heard stories. She only talked about it once, in a letter she wrote to me. That’s the only way we could talk since her parents locked her away—”

“Stories about what, Vivi?” Nami guided the tense princess back as Zoro started to pace back and forth, his hands raking at his hair.

She was silent for two whole seconds, and then, “The curse.”

The whole room fell still.

“They say a dark Wise Woman cursed her when she was baby, so that one day, she would prick her finger on a spinning wheel’s spindle… and die.” She rushed to amend herself, “But then another Wise Woman fixed it. She won’t die, but fall asleep… until someone shows her an act of true, unconditional love.”

For a long while the whole room is held captive by silence, eyes flickering to where you snoozed nearby. Zoro couldn’t look away. The way you looked so peaceful pained him in a way, knowing you were trapped in a place he couldn’t save you from. At least the tiny grin on your face gave him confidence your everlasting dreams were nice.

“How do we do that?” he heard himself asking.

“I—I don’t know. I thought it was a story to justify her isolation—”

“Well, obviously not.”

“Zoro,” Nami’s words cut sharply. “Take a walk.”

“But—”

“Walk.”

He stood with as much noise as he could, knocking his chair back and stomping out of the room. Zoro stopped just at the door to cast a look at you, highly aware of the eyes of everyone on him. His hand closed around the doorframe, his heart tightening, and he left without another word. 

Letting the others see how much he cared for you would just make everything infinitely worse. Zoro couldn’t handle that level of teasing on top of your sickness.

Zoro stepped out onto the deck, now basked in moonlight, and rushed to lean against the railing. His skin felt feverish in contrast to the cold dread coursing through his veins. Why hadn’t you said anything? Sure, he probably wouldn’t have believed you, but maybe… maybe he wouldn’t have let you leave his side so quickly.

And now this? This formidable task would supposedly save you. An act of true love? What could that even mean?

With his eyes on the sky, Zoro let out a shaken sigh. He would tear every one of those stars down if it meant you would be okay. Would that be enough for this curse? Or would he have to take down the moon as well and lay it at your feet?

No… no, certainly nothing he could do would ever be strong enough to save you. For so long he’d put off your advances, too stubborn to face the emotions building up in his heart… Zoro doubted he held the strength to perform such an act, and that notion threatened to crush him. 

He too had read the stories Robin spoke of; stories of princes who swooped in and saved the princess with a kiss. You needed one of them—those princes—and Zoro was far from royalty.

If anything, he was the knight in rusted armor who failed.

But, an idea crept out of the depths of his mind, crawling to the surface till his heart pumped at the possibility. He was no prince, no knight, and no cursebreaker—but Zoro was a hunter.

He burst back into the galley with a crazed look in his eyes. “Vivi?”

Her voice crackled out from the startled snail. “Yes?”

“Where do we find this Wise Woman?”

Not even a day later, the crew set out on the sea once more, a new destination in mind: the secluded island of the so-called wise and elusive faeries. 

Zoro stood at your bedside, too afraid to reach out and take your hand, making a solemn oath.

“I will find a way to save you if it is the last thing I do.”

If only the swordsman would have known—the strongest of magic lies in promises. If only Zoro had the eye to see the tendrils of magic curling around your sleeping body, tightening around you as the curse shivered away from his declaration. Spirits hissed from the corners fo the room and shied away from the mere passion behind his eyes. Somewhere distant a sorceress coiled her fists around nothing as her hold on the slumbering princess slipped through, little by little. Could he have fathomed it, he would have known he held more honor than the mightiest of princes. 

But he couldn’t fathom it, so he failed to notice the magic encircling his heart, seeking out any cracks in his steel-strong pride. There were none to find. The magic had nowhere to go, and until the hunter’s pride wore down, nothing would change. 

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Your godmother turned out to be a real bitch, by Zoro’s standards. First off, she was waiting for them on the shore, like a creep. In her witchy get-up, Zoro could have mistaken her for the one he meant to run through with his sword. 

“What’re you supposed to be,” he sneered as she made her way up the gangway, practically making herself on home on the deck. 

She met his glare equally. “I’m your only hope, dear. Now wipe that look off your face. You’ll get stuck like that.”

Rosalie took control of the situation in her stride, heading down to the galley and acting as if she owned the place. Only Nami seemed to be put off by this, standing at Zoro’s side with her arms folded as the rest of the crew gathered around the Wise Woman.

“She was always too stubborn for her own good,” said Rosalie fondly, a tiny grin on her lips. “Luckily for you, Carabose never strays far from the island. It’s the source of our power, and the poor, scaly, greedy thing would just die if she lost her magic.”

The radiant faerie pulled her dark curls forth, scrunching up her angular nose as she thought of the witch to blame for her dear princess’s condition. She sucked in a breath and released it harshly, suddenly appearing much older than before. “I must thank you. My princess deserves so much more, and you managed to give it to her, if only for a little while.”

“You talk as if she’s dead,” Nami grumbled. The look Rosalie gave her then was far less than comforting.

“Well, unless you have a source for true love nearby, she’s as good as it.” Zoro’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword, his eyes slamming shut as that grief washed over him again. Rosalie’s eyes flickered to him, an unnoticeable shine in her eye and a tilt in her lips. 

(Wise Women see much more than the normal eye, and just now Rosalie spotted the remarkable fuchsia tendrils of a very special kind of magic, so rare many thought it mere myth… yet it was swirling around the swordsman’s heart).

She turned to face the crew in their entirety, her expression grave. “Only the caster may raise a curse unless it is broken according to certain parameters. I may be able to deal with Carabose through negotiation. We… have a history.” Rosalie ruffled slightly. “She might have mercy and relinquish the curse herself.”

Zoro scoffed, drawing the faerie’s attention. “And if she doesn’t?”

Rosalie’s eyes flashed. “Then I’ll cut her down and hope that is enough.”

Sanji shook his head, blinking like he was forcing himself to deny Rosalie’s beauty. “And what will we do?”

“You’ll be with me. If Carabose dies and she does not wake… one of you will have to make a sacrifice.” Rosalie assessed them all with cool eyes, reveling in their discomfort, till she cracked a smile and tossed her head back. “I jest, I jest! However, we will need to come up with a display of true love after the deed is done and our princess has not woken.”

Zoro continued to bristle at the faerie’s coolness, grinding his teeth as she floated about the room, mumbling to herself. He dropped his swords on the table with a clang, startling Rosalie. “I can kill the witch myself. Give me ten minutes, and it’ll be done.”

“I know you are desperate to save your friend, Swordsman,” Rosalie simpered. “But you’ll be staying here.”

His blood was boiling at this point. The plan at hand was hardly what he’d had in mind. Zoro shook his head firmly and grasped his composure tightly. “I need to do something.”

“And you will! You’ll be guarding our princess.” Rosalie dared to set a hand on Zoro’s shoulder, making him go all stiff till he caught her steely gaze. “Carabose controls many of the spirits of the island. I wouldn’t put it past her to send one of them to whisk the princess away. You perhaps have the most important job of all.”

Yeah, right. Zoro locked eyes with Nami over the faerie’s shoulder, sharing a silent agreement as he shrugged the woman off. “Nami can stay behind—”

“No.” Rosalie’s grip tightened around his shoulder as the temperature dropped instantly. “You will stay, and Nami will come along.” Her smile felt sinister. “I am Rosalie of the Wise Women, and you are just a man with a sword. I have conquered kingdoms in the name of her parents. What have you done?” 

“I’ll kill the witch,” he said weakly. “And I’ll save her.”

“Kill the witch,” she mocked him. “You mean to tell me that’s an act of true love, swordsman?” Rosalie leaned in close, her voice as soft as wind. “How can you say you love her when you let her go, Roronoa Zoro. Now stay put and don’t make the same mistakes twice.”

She swept away as swiftly as she’d closed in, leaving Zoro breathless and unsteady. Rosalie clapped her hands together and faced Luffy with a grin. “Now, Captain. You understand the plan?”

Luffy looked all around, making eye contact with each of his crewmates, till he found Zoro, who leaned against the wall having some sort of crisis. Words rose up to his tongue, ready to lash out and tear the faerie to bits when he saw it. The tendrils were growing brighter. Slowly, he turned to Rosalie, who met his gaze unblinkingly. “Yeah, I got it.”

Usopp shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, Luffy, I don’t think—”

“I trust her,” he declared, and that was that. Usopp nodded, followed by the reluctant rest. Zoro’s eyes flashed up to meet his captains, unsure about how confident Luffy was, but not willing to ever doubt his friend. 

“Splendid,” Rosalie simpered. “I’ve no doubt Carabose is waiting for us, so we’d do best to keep up our guards.”

As she rounded everyone up and led them out of the galley and off the ship, Nami brought Zoro aside, her brows furrowed. “I don’t like this,” she murmured. “But I trust Luffy.” Zoro grunted as if to agree, his eyes unfocused. Nami gave his shoulder a pat as she passed him. “Just stay with her. Who knows, maybe she’ll know you’re there.”

And Zoro found himself all alone, the ship a deathly quiet he had never witnessed before. He could hear his every breath and feel the rock of the ship. A creak came from somewhere nearby, pinching at a sensitive part of his mind. Zoro took a few weightless, shallow steps down the hall, his hand running against the wall, until he came face to face with the door of your bedroom. 

Too long he stared at the door before he shoved at it, swinging it open wide. Zoro surged inside with so much gusto his muscle memory urged him to reach for his swords, but he’d left them in the galley. Instead, his hand grasped at air whilst he vacantly stared about the room. 

You lay soundlessly atop your bed, hands crossed over your chest like a corpse. Zoro instantly moved to adjust your arms, laying them instead at your sides. There, that was better.

His brows screwed together; where a smile had earlier been gracing your lips, a firm frown now replaced it. Your face contorted, your mind plagued by an enemy Zoro couldn’t fight. Ensuring he didn’t make a sound, Zoro took a knee and drew close to your face, folding his arms on the edge of your bed and resting his head there.

Sweat beaded along your forehead, distress clear on your face. Without thinking Zoro reached to wipe it away with the back of his hand, initiating a kind of intimate contact only you had ever thrust upon him. He shocked himself, frozen with his hand on your cheek before he cleared his throat and returned to his original position.

Hours he stayed like that, eyes dutifully watching over your face, pulse spiking at every sign of distress caught in your features. Your brows pinched together, lips parting as a strangled sigh left you.

Perhaps… Zoro threw caution to the wind and reached for your hand. You didn’t budge, but—and maybe he was seeing things—it looked like your face softened up a little bit. So he stayed just like that, rubbing circles into the back of your hand.

He lifted his gaze to the window, where the sun was beginning to set once again. “Wonder if the others found that witch yet…” They could be fighting for their lives, if Rosalie’s dumb plan fell through. He should be out there. Zoro’s eyes flickered all around the blue sky, worry eating at him, till he finally rose to his feet and dropped your hand. 

“I’ll be back—” Your instant whine had Zoro practically jumping out of his skin and descending back to your side all at once. “I mean, they can probably handle it. I’m still here.”

Your face returned to a state of calm as if you’d never moved at all. He scoffed out a laugh, murmuring fondly, “You little shit.” Again, little shifts in your expression hinted at a nightmare. “What’s goin’ on in there, huh?”

(Your dreams had taken a drastic turn. Dragon fire shot past your head, close enough to singe your eyelashes. The broom you’d taken up as a weapon splintered against the scaly back of your guard. The serpent burned away at the roof of your room, circling like a vulture, taunting echoes slipping off her forked tongue. As your eyes continued to flutter, sleep beckoning like a long-lost friend, you didn’t dare to succumb to the call. Should you sleep, you felt certain you would never, ever wake up. 

Yet, you were so tired. It couldn’t hurt… if you rested your eyes… if only to escape the taunting of his voice. He’s glad you’re good as dead. He never had to deal with your pining ever again. 

Every echo of doubt had you believing that just maybe, it might be true, sending you deeper into this eternal insanity).

“Zoro.”

The swordsman didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. “I’m here.” If his words had any effect on the state of you, it didn’t show. You only rustled sharply, eyes flickering all around behind your eyelids… until you fell deadly still. “Hey now. Don’t slip away just yet.”

Again, he took up your hand, willing you to keep giving him signs that you weren’t too deep into slumber. “An act of true love. Sanji could probably pull one of those out of his ass.” That thought sent him on a tangent, pictures of your effervescent smile flashing across his mind. 

Days ago, he’d been so secure on never revealing his feelings to you. The pair of you would have lived all your lives revolving around one another until you inevitably gave up, and it would be for the best. Right then and there, though, Zoro felt certain if he never looked into your eyes again he would never forgive himself for every time he turned you away. 

“I’ve always wondered,” he whispered. “Why you don’t just go after the lovecook. It’d be a hell of a lot easier than dealing with me.” 

Zoro made himself comfortable, leaning his head on the bed. “If… when you wake up, let’s go do something, like you wanted. You like painting, right? We’ll go painting. I’ll probably offend the very act of art, but maybe you’ll laugh at me, and it’ll be okay. I’ll throw paint in your hair and you’ll punch me, and it’ll be a real good time.”

Nothing. Your chest rose and fell at a concerningly slow pace. “When we get you back… I’ll apologize. For being an idiot.” Had your lips always been so dry? “But you have to wake up to hear it.”

Your condition remained unchanged… save for the stark silence coming from your nose, and the eerie stillness of your chest. Zoro’s gut churned. You were only meant to sleep, so why weren’t you breathing?

(The sleeping beauty dared to lie down, the tower burning all around her, at ease among the encroaching flames).

His hand felt at you heart, his own stuttering at how faint yours was beating. You looked so blank. Not a flaw in your void expression. Zoro, on the verge of pleading to gods he didn’t believe in, again reached for a sword that wasn’t there as a bone-chilling chuckle echoed from every corner. 

“You can’t save her~” sang a ghostly voice, right into his ear. 

Zoro slammed his ear down on his shoulder to rid himself of the shiver running down his spine. Whipping around, he ground his jaw enough to hear the chip in his teeth. “Watch me, witch.”

Her laughter mocked him. “How? You’re no prince. No knight. What’re you going to do, warrior? Kiss her and hope your honor is enough?” Carabose appeared in a misty shadow behind him, surging through his body like a specter, sending him keeling to the floor. “The princess’ soul has long belonged to me. True love doesn’t exist. Rosalie should’ve known that.”

“You’re wrong!” Zoro bellowed, something deep in his heart constricting, building up a fire in his bones. 

“Oh,” the witch hummed darkly. “I’m sure. This isn’t a fairytale, boy. Kisses don’t wake princesses… and simple swordsmen don’t save them.”

The witch’s cackle faded even as he slashed at the air with his arm, wild eyes searching till they landed back on you, unnervingly calm. If Carabose’s intention was to have her spirits discourage Zoro, she fairly succeeded; but she also succeeded in something else—giving him something to prove.  

His shoulders sunk as he just stared, taking in the hopeless sight before him. It was much too late to confess to his sleeping beauty. Even if they did find a way to wake her, who was to say she would still want him? What if some hero swoops in and takes her away?

He would be deserving of that fate, Zoro thinks, his foolishness crashing down on him even as he falls to his knees at your side once more. 

Make a note that Roronoa Zoro doesn’t believe in magic. It’s all make-believe to help children see the good in the world. He knew that full and well, deep in his heart. But something he knew with far greater certainty is that he would do anything to have the chance to love you as you loved him. 

Magic wasn’t real. But what if? Zoro felt silly for daring to think it, but even then his hand reached to cup your cheek. Wasn’t there truth to every story? Kissing princesses didn’t make the world all right. Fairytales don’t come true. 

But the sun was setting on another day with you held down by this curse, and Zoro felt pathetic and weak and he had no other plan at hand. 

“I’m an idiot,” he confessed the obvious. “I never choose what’s easy except when it comes to you. Which made it difficult, which defeated the purpose and—Never mind.” Peaceful despite the circumstances, you never stirred an inch. “Please wake up. Please… Or I’ll look really, really stupid.”

One hand on your cheek, the other bracing himself against the bed, Zoro pressed the most delicate of kisses atop your cold lips, a horrifying shiver shooting through him at how it felt like kissing a corpse. Lingering, he drew back, breath staggered at how nothing happened. You didn’t shoot awake. Not a muscle in your body twitched. Your eyes didn’t move.

“Please,” he mumbled over your lips, his forehead colliding with yours in a desperate plea. “Wake up. Wake up so I can tell you I love you.”

Unseen magic exploded around the room, wrapping around the swordsman and the princess as pride and honor were laid down at the feet of a curse that died with the far-off scream of a thwarted witch.

(The sleeping princess blinked awake, squinting from the blinding light filtering in through the open ceiling. The dragon faded to mist and the fires blew out with a hush. Words the princess had only ever dreamed of hearing echoed down to her ears, and everything went white).

You awoke from the most horrible sleep, your bones and body aching as something like a cold fever washed over you. A shallow breath fizzled out of you right before your lungs brought in as much air as they could take. Eyes flinging open, your surroundings came into focus in an instant, and you found a figure looming over you with the funniest expression.

Zoro’s face was white as a sheet, eyes wide and brows vaulted, his lips parted. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and a laugh left you before you could stop it. You smiled with no abandon as Zoro’s hand traced your jaw. “What’s this about?”

And it all came rushing back like a punch to your gut as Zoro’s eyes bore into you. Your lips fell into a shocked gape. “You kissed me?”

“I… uhm…” 

You slowly sat upright, hands in your lap, head tilted as you admired the man before you in a light like never before. “You love me?”

His eyes pinched shut, and you feared he regretted his confession. Perhaps it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. Maybe he didn’t mean it and you’re stupid for ever thinking he might—

“I do.” He looked as breathless as you felt. “I do love you.”

An eternity could have passed and you wouldn’t have known nor cared, all too caught up in etching his face into your memory. Hesitant, you rose to your knees, bed covers shoved aside, and your hands went to cup his face tenderly. “Tell me again.”

Warmth flooded his cheeks as your thumbs ran over his cheekbones, drawing his eyes back to yours every time they dared to flicker away. He melted into you, one hand falling to your waist and the other cupping behind your thigh. “I love you.”

Another smile burst across your face. “I love you too.” You leaned in close, nudging your nose at his cheek. “I’m gonna kiss you.”

Zoro cracked a grin, his eyes fluttering. “Okay.”

“And kiss you.” 

“Fine by me.”

“I’ll never sleep again. I’m only going to kiss you until they pry me off you, my handsome, lovely, cursebreaker swordsman—Mmph!”

His lips cut you off, surging forth to catch you unguarded. Zoro’s arms pulled you in quickly as you pushed in just as firmly, hands raking through his hair. Years you waited and years you longed. Countless nights you laid awake intending to give up come morning, only to fall back into his eyes. 

All for this. The day your soul knew would come even when your heart was doubting. 

“I love you,” you broke away to say, simply because you could.

And no witch, no curse, no destiny would ever keep you from telling him. 

Giggling at nothing at all, you leaned into him and wrapped him up in your arms, head falling to his shoulder. Your eyes drifted behind him, your whole body freezing at the sight in the corner. “What the fuck is that doing here?”

Zoro nearly broke his neck whipping it around only to choke on a laugh. The spinning wheel sat humbly to the side, purple string still running through it. “Probably was a bad idea to keep it in here.”

“You think!” You lightly flicked his nose and got a little grunt out of him. “Let’s burn it.”

A bonfire awaited the crew as they returned, their egos bruised and spirits low despite their defeat of the Wise Woman Carabose. Every last one of them nearly screamed when they saw you stoking the pillar of fire with the brightest smile on your face, Zoro’s arm round your shoulder.

You teetered this way and that, tossed around as they hugged the life out of you. Laughter came easy and the night drew long, stories of their victory recounted and certain questions about your recovery proposed.

“You needed an act of true love,” Chopper wondered, never straying far from your side as he clung to your arm. “So what happened?”

You weren’t at all subtle in your direct look at Zoro, who coughed and averted his eyes to the suddenly very interesting ground. “Someone got off their high horse and—”

“All right!” Zoro laughed awkwardly. “Cook, where’d you put the extra sake?”

Nami silently awed as she dragged you and Robin aside, begging to know exactly what happened. Somewhere through the night, Usopp looked around, lowering his glass from his lips. “What happened to Rosalie?”

You tripped over nothing at that name. “What? My godmother?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “She helped us find Cara-bitch, or whatever… When did she disappear?”

Everyone took a moment to think, blinking quickly as a single answer was formed: they didn’t know.

“That sounds like her. I just wish I could’ve said hello,” you said. 

Zoro hovered at your side, his hand ghosting over yours. “She was weird anyway.”

“Hey!”

The fire fizzled out somewhere close to dawn, though the celebration seemed far from over. Your eyes felt heavy and your body too, but every time you fell too much into drowsiness, cold terror tore through you. You weren’t joking when you declared you’d never sleep again; the prospect petrified you.

“C’mon,” Zoro muttered when your head fell to his shoulder and shot back up for the sixth time. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve slept enough—”

“That’s not what I said.” Zoro stood and offered you a hand, a gentle smile warming you from the inside out. You shoved your hand into his and started the trek below deck, departure unnoticed.

As you passed your bedroom, you stopped and stared at your bed just three seconds before you bee-lined to Zoro’s door, leading him along behind you. Dazedly, you waltzed around each other, preparing for sleep even as your heart pounded in your head. 

“What if I don’t wake up?” you wondered aloud as Zoro sunk into bed.

His eyes found yours and you swore you fell even deeper. “You will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I love you.”

That fact was one of the only real things either of you knew, and for now, it was enough. 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @100520s

[ask-postcrash-curly]

🎣 Giving P3 Curly a sick fishing outfit…

70% █████▒▒▒▒▒

⭐ Downloading Tulpar Crew Pack…

80% █████▒▒▒▒▒

🐟 Bleep blop bleep blop… is that how fish make sounds? Oh well…

99% ██████████

🌻 You chose the following:

P3 Curly as your character avatar

Download Tulpar Crew Pack

Normal Mode: Swish-Swash Buckling Shlongaloo

Jimlings #3: Crickets

🌻 A great choice! Now that these are out of the way, let’s start off with a bit of a storytelling, shall we? Let me just turn on my narrator voice… ahem ahem... dot dot dot... (insert really cool narrator voice)

You are a humble fisherman who just decided that today was going to be a good day. You grabbed yourself a cup of coffee to start it. The aroma of fresh coffee beans filled the atmosphere, hitting it juuust right. Everything was fine and dandy… until the world decided that it wasn't going to be fine and dandy. You experienced every minor inconvenience known to man: Spilling your cup of coffee, a small but noticeable stain on your favourite shirt, stepping on a wet puddle with socks on, those unskippable YouTube ads that lasted for a solid minute for a 30-second video… getting caught in a red light and you have to wait. So close, yet so far…

When you got home, you decided that maybe a fish sandwich would cheer you up. To your unbelievably worst luck that never seemed to run out, there was no fish. How ironic...

So you decided to venture out to the sea to find yourself the perfect fish for your perfect fish sandwich. Sure, you can buy fish from the supermarket, but catching it fresh makes it all the more delicious.

After grabbing your trusty Swish-Swash Buckling Shlongaloo and a box full of Jimlings #3, you finally made your way to your boat and set sail. Normally, the ocean would be shrouded in darkness in the dead of night. However, the moonlight seemed to be glowing so strong, it became the light in the void and revealed royal shades of blue you never thought you’d see at this time. The call of the night reeled you deeper into the heart of the ocean…

🪼 Now Playing: Emma Is Lost - Isobel Waller-Bridge David Schweitzer 🪼

                   .ılılılllıılılıllllıılılllıllı.

0:00 o──────────────────── 1:07

                    ↺   |◁   II   ▷|   ♡

As you drifted farther away from home, all that was left were the faint hum of your boat’s engine and the swooshing sounds of the sea. The smell of salt wafted in the air as the cold midnight breeze gently bathed your entirety. Your eyes flooded with the sight of the blue horizon. Perhaps this is how you got those so called “ocean eye”. Whether or not you had loved the ocean, it had left a part of itself in the window of your soul. You were truly part of its world.

After your nightly dose of the lustrous sea, you placed your gaze upon the full moon. The fishermen at the docks said that you won’t get a good haul if she’s fully out, but you believed that that was a bunch of baloney. Besides, you get to see the whole of her beauty. Moonlight painted your face, an ethereal glow highlighting your features. She seems to be listening right now. What do you say to the moon?

[1] - (You are free to say anything. Make small talk , pour your heart out, anything, really! Perhaps the moon will respond... perhaps not, who knows?)

Random ramblings from d1tz to the mod:

I was too late to realize... that Curly's fishing fit looks almost like Mario without the hat... sobbing screaming frothing at the mouth

I gotta give him a bucket hat, I don't want to draw Curly and think of that goofy ahh Italian plumber

Yes, I decided to use the nighttime screen to avoid drawing another piece LOL

!!

All right, let’s see what we’ve got.

Wonderful art. I like the little crew doodles, hah. Feels like something Daisuke would draw on Swansea’s Post-Its.

Coffee, eh? Guess fisherman Curly’s sleep schedule’s not so good either. Heh.

Wait, why do the wet socks bother me if my feet are fake? Why am I wearing socks over my prosthetics? I’m overthinking this. These little inconveniences sound fantastic, honestly. Carry on.

This art is insanely funny. Thank you!

Hmm, I like the song. It’s eerie, but nice, you know?

Oh, uh—

Hello, Moon. It’s me… Curly…

You look a lot like the Tulpar’s nighttime window screen if it were the real thing and not a glorified screensaver. Which I obviously know nothing about, being a humble fisherman and all. Hah.

Uh… So… Any good fish in these parts? I’m on a very noble sandwich-making quest. I’ll appreciate any help. Thanks, Moon.

God this is ridiculous. I love it.

[antivan-sprig]

A Fourth Song in the Night

Okie dokie! I ended up cheating and giving Jerran two songs. Originally I was just going to use the first one but I just couldn’t do that to Jerran, especially after the last time. Anyways I’ll leave it up to you to decide exactly when Jerran shows up and what exactly he hears.

The second song is very much the vibes that Jerran inspires (in my opinion) and arguably it could also be a song about Eleanor depending on when this is in the timeline (once again I’ll leave that up to you). Only included the first verse for brevity since it was getting long :)

@teamtakagi : Jerran had avoided that section of hallway for weeks, yet for some reason he found himself restless that evening. As Liselath's voice gently wafted out through the crack in the door, he found himself slowly sinking down on the floor to listen.

Liselath sat on her bed with bass guitar in hand, humming slowly as she thought back on the recent pyre readings she’d done. While she considered most to be a good introduction to the other members of the Veilguard, a few stood out to her as less successful; and of those few, one was disastrous. She’d underestimated the strength of the blight which ran through a warden’s blood, and worse, she’d overestimated her ability to control what came through the fire.

She cringed thinking back on that night with Jerran. She knew she owed him a better apology, she’d been the one to ask him to join her after all; but apologies were not Lisel’s forte. The unrest that the event stirred up inside her found its way out through music, Lisel had been working on her Jerran inspired song for three days now and had mostly finished it. She’d hoped to create a piece which reflected his inner strength, gallantry, and the gentle sense of wonder he inspired. Instead, she found herself strumming a familiar song, a favorite of hers. It was a tune known well by the Dalish, a dark and melancholy tale of lost love. Although as she thought through the lyrics she was struck by how much they reminded her of Jerran and everything he’d gone through.

She sighed aloud, knowing that once her brain got preoccupied with something musical, the only way to get through it was to play it a few times. She took a breath, steadied herself and then began to strum the haunting melody.

I shall tell of a hunter whose life was undone

By the cruel hand of evil, at the setting of the sun

His arrow was loosed

and it flew through the dark

And his true love was slain

as the shaft found its mark

She'd her apron wrapped about her,

and he took her for a swan

And it's, oh, and alas it was she, Polly Von

He ran up beside her and found it was she

He turned away his head

for he could not bear to see

He lifted her up and found she was dead

A fountain of tears for his true love, he shed

She'd her apron wrapped about her,

and he took her for a swan

And it's, oh, and alas it was she, Polly Von

He bore her away to his home by the sea

Cryin', "Father, oh, father, I murdered poor Polly

I've killed my fair love in the flower of her life

And I always intended that she be my wife"

"But she'd her apron wrapped about her,

and I took her for a swan

And it's oh, and alas it was she, Polly Von"

He roamed near the place

where his true love was slain

He wept bitter tears, but his cries were all in vain

As he looked on the lake, a swan glided by

And the sun slowly sank in the gray of the sky

She'd her apron wrapped about her,

and he took her for a swan

And it's, oh, and alas it was she, Polly Von

Briefly she considered the idea of sharing the song with Jerran. From what she could understand from the twisted visions, there was a considerable amount of restless ambiguity surrounding Kyra’s fate. No outcome Lisel could imagine was very comforting, but if Jerran was anything like her he might get some closure in simply making up an ending for her. Yet the more she considered it, the more it felt like wishful thinking. She doubted most warden’s would think like her, and more so, a warden knew better than anyone the likely fate of a woman dragged off by darkspawn.

A shiver went down her spine as she recalled the memory.

“Better get back to it. At least then something good will have come out of all this.” Lisel said while fighting off a yawn. She began strumming again, this time being the song she’d intended for Jerran in the first place.

I walked ten thousand miles,

ten thousand miles to see you

And every gasp of breath

I grabbed at just to find you

I climbed up every hills to get, to you

I wondered ancient lands to hold, just you

And every single step of the way,

I pay-hey hey hey hey

Every single night and day

I searched for you

Through sandstorms and hazy dawns

I reached for you

With that, Lisel rose to her feet and sat her bass down by the dresser. She flashed a smile at herself as she passed the mirror, stopping to examine the toll the late night had on her face. It was only then that she noticed the slight crack in the door. She whirled around and took a few rushed steps towards the door, stopping an arms length away from it.

“Someone there?” She called out, worry apparent in her tone.

[musicalfan78]

Every saga in a mf78 nutshell (pt 9, finale)

Warning: This contains some uncomfy mentions of violence, SA, and a bit of gore. Read this at your own risk. 🙏

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9

*THE CHALLENGE*

Penelope: ....the suitors have lost their patience, Telemachus is out. But hey, they don't even know that every night I unthread the work I did. From the storm, it was very harsh-

Penelope: Wait. That could mean something! I gotta announce that damn challenge!

[Penelope gets out of her room, and to the hallway where the suitors are]

Suitors: TIME'S RUNNING OUT! TIME TO CHOOSE A KING! TIME'S RUNNING OUT! TIME TO CHOOSE A KING!

Penelope: Alright! Whoever can string my husband's old bow, shoot through twelve axes cleanly, will be the one who rules with me! Now go on!

[The suitors all go off with the bow]

Penelope: Oh Odysseus, please hurry...I would never live without you, and I'd rather go away than love someone else..

*HOLD THEM DOWN*

[Each suitor tries to string the bow, but as they can see, they're unable to. Antinous moves away from the wall]

Antinous: Enough is enough. We all can't do it, lets face it.

Suitor: He's right!

Antinous: We're being played! A distraction! Where the fuck is our rage and our strongness? We gotta take em out so we'll rule!

Antinous: Oh, and I hear that a weak bitch of a prince was away on a mission, and he comes back today..

Eurymachus: So you're saying you got a plan?

Antinous: Hell yeah I do! We'll go by the beaches, wait till he arrives, then kill him! Chop him up into pieces, and drop them into the sea, the ocean and I's little secret..the birthday boy shall have his last birthday yet..

Suitors: FUCK YEAH!

Antinous: Then, the poor unfortunate queen won't have anyone left to protect her and breaking down that damn door. And I'll ..... get to see the end of the rainbow....feel her gold...and taste the JOYOUS sweetness.... And don't worry boys, im making sure we all get a chance, she'll be helpless at us once we're finished with her!

[All the suitors cheer with pride, all talking and adding onto the plan]

???: ...

Antinous: SO LET'S STAND UP BROTHERS! TAKE CHARGE, AND GET PAST THE LIMIT! NOW WHO'S WITH-

[An arrow is struck right into his throat, he coughs loudly]

Antinous: COUGH..! ..damn....well, im dead. *family guy death pose*

[All the suitors turn around to see who drew the arrow, it was no other than...]

ODYSSEUS

[The old king of Ithaca. He looks at all the suitors, not playing Mr nice guy anymore]

Odysseus: Well, well, well. Twenty years of suffering, pain, and wrath of gods, I come back to see every suitor go against me. It reminds me of troy.

Odysseus: But hearing you going to touch my wife and attack my son? Oh then you have crossed the fucking line. Say your prayers motherfuckers..

[Odysseus goes into the darkness, all of the suitors go and split up into different areas]

Suitor: I still can't question how he's still alive!

Suitor #2: He's been out for so long, he looks like he's been through hell, and more fierce!

Suitor #3: Oh, who gives a shit? We know how to fight back, we'll outnumber him!

The suitors: NO!

Suitor #4: You don't get it man, this king prepares for any fight! AND HOLY MOTHER OF GO-

[A arrow stabs right through the suitor, the rest look down in horror. As they try to run away, Odysseus kills them all, from the neck, to the chest, to the throat]

Suitor #5: WHERE ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD?!

Suitor #6: SHUT THE FUCK UP! HE SEARCHING FOR US THROUGH THE TORCHES.

Suitor #7: UH GUYS? WE GOT A PROBLEM

Suitor #8: THE FUCKING WEAPONS ARE GONE, PERHAPS HE'S TOOK THEM AND NOW IS USING THE DARKNESS TO STRIKE US.

Suitor #9: Well fuck. We're empty handed, he's got his bow. We'll have to kill him in the dark!

Suitor #10: Well that'll be a breeze! We know these halls, it won't be-

[A arrow stabs that suitor in the head as he falls down]

Odysseus: Are yall dumbasses? I BUILT THIS PLACE, IDIOTS!

[Another kill count happens to the rest that were found. Meanwhile, Eurymachus is in the middle of the hall, looking around]

Eurymachus: Hey king! We didn't mean all that shit! We were just playing around!

Odysseus: Are you sure about that...?

Eurymachus: Yes, yes! Ever since you killed the leader we're nothing but innocent now!

Odysseus: ... *Raises the bow*

Eurymachus: WA-WA-WAIT! How about you put that down, and like, relax. Let's hug with open arms!

Odysseus: Hmm, alright.

Eurymachus: REALLY?

[Before eurymachus could reply more, he was bolted down from the arrow towards his throat]

Odysseus: No one says the stuff my best friend says..

Ghost polites: GO KICK THEIR FUCKING ASSES!

[He walks off, feeling the support of every friend that died, away killing suitors left and right]

[Meanwhile, a group of suitors find the weapons room, Amphinomus opens the door..]

Amphinomus: Wow, for one king, he hid our weapons in the room where they usually are placed..no lock at all.

Melanthius: It's a bit fishy that the king who is tough leaves a room of weapons unlocked don't you think?

Amphinomus: That's bullshit. But now we got our stuff back, let's find that shitful king and kill him..

Melanthius: WATCH OUT!

[Out of nowhere, a double spear is stabbed into Amphinomus's stomach, he takes his last breath as the spear is out of him. From the shadows reveals someone, in new armor, and is somewhat looking like Athena....wait, it's-]

TELEMACHUS!

Telemachus: If you want to be spared, then put down the weapons, I ensure it!

Melanthius: So, the prince arrives! Well, unfortunately for you kid, we ain't doing shit, now that we know what the king is up to..

Telemachus: I really don't wanna hurt you, but if I have to, then I will...

Melanthius: Ha! You've doomed the king now, cause now that you're here, we'll make sure it's your last moment here in this world..

Telemachus: NO YOU WONT!

Melanthius: HEY BOYS! LOOK WHO WE FOUND, THE POOR PRINCE OF ITHACA! GRAB THOSE WEAPONS! ITS OUR TIME TO STRIKE!

Telemachus: DONT YOU DO THIS!

Melanthius: Oh we will, ONCE WE DEFEAT YOU, WE'LL KEEP YOU HOSTAGE! NOW ATTACK, BROTHERS!

[The suitors go and surround telemachus and try to attack him, Telemachus stabs them and follows Athena's instructions to make it and defeat them.]

Telemachus: STOP! GET OFF! GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!

Melanthius: FIGHT TILL HE CANT FIGHT NO MORE! THE KING WILL HAVE NO CHOICE!

[Telemachus keeps killing, and killing, and looks around for more incase they're behind or nearby]

Melanthius: Because if he doesn't arrive, this kid will be like a dead animal...in half.

[After a while, Melanthius smacks telemachus to the ground, the double spear dropped. Melanthius points the sword at Telemachus's neck]

Melanthius: Say goodbye..

Odysseus(from behind): Goodbye..

[Melanthius is stabbed in the back by an arrow,, the sword dropped away from Telemachus. Melanthius was unable to make words]

Telemachus: OH FUCK!

[Telemachus has ran off as he got the chance]

Melanthius: Mer....merc...ple...

Odysseus: You? You beg for mercy?

[The arrow was out, Melanthius falls to his knees]

Odysseus: Your time for mercy has expired...

[He shoots at a suitor]

Odysseus: Mine has died so I could get back..

[He shoots another]

Odysseus: And as long as you're all living, my family's in danger..

[He keeps shooting, not stopping]

Melanthius: B..

Odysseus: Says the one who AGREED to slaughter my son..

Melanthius: WE-

Odysseus: SAYS THE ONE WHO AGREED TO RAPE MY FUCKING WIFE!

Odysseus: I HEARD YOUR SCHEMES, AND WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO DO TO MY FAMILY. YOU SHALL RECEIVE NO DAMN MERCY! YOU ALL ARE GOING TO DIE! HERE AND NOW!

[He shoots more, and more, and more...he then grabs Melanthius by the shirt]

Odysseus: You all lost my trust, every single one of you, and now that you've shown me your true selves, THIS IS YOUR FATE!

[Odysseus uses the exact arrow, and slashes Melanthius's head off, the rest of his body collapses towards the floor as he drops the corpse]

The rest or the suitors: OH MY FUCKING GOD!

[Odysseus turns the palace into nothing but a red, gushy, bodies, bloody, and smeared up place... All the suitors were dead, Tiresias's prophecy was true, he got home alive, but he was no longer himself]

*I CANT HELP BUT WONDER*

[Telemachus comes out, looking at odysseus, lost at words]

Telemachus: ....father? Is that you?

Odysseus: ...son...

Telemachus: You- and right here-?! Oh my-

Telemachus: ...I've been wondering, thinking, and imagining how I would be like you, rule in your honor, but I'm happy you're back....and to finally meet you, I haven't seen you in a looong while..

Odysseus: ...my son, my boy, you've grown so much, you even look like a soldier, warrior....20 years I held you in my arms, now I get to see you in person...

[The two continue to look at each other, on the verge of crying. After a while, telemachus hugs odysseus, holding onto him]

Telemachus: I MISSED YOU DAD! ;-;

Odysseus: I MISSED YOU TOO SON! IM FINALLY HOME!

[The two emotionally cry their hearts out as they embrace]

Odysseus: ....Telemachus? Do me one favor, and let your mother know I'm home, ill go see her in a few...

Telemachus: ...alright..

[He lets go of the embrace and starts walk off]

Odysseus: ...wait.

Telemachus: ...?

Odysseus: ...Happy birthday.

Telemachus: ....thanks dad. 🥹

[A few seconds later, Odysseus can feel Athena's quick thought signal]

Odysseus: I can feel your sense...something like, an old friend....

[A quick glance to the hour glass, athena is sitting near an edge of it, turned away from odysseus]

Odysseus: You were never the one to say hellos.

Athena: ....sometimes I feel like there was a fucked up moment I did, how this world crumbled down on you once I left.

Athena: If there's a world where everything would be just how it was planned, and not this way, would it be possible?

Odysseus: It'd be far away then. But, hey, your a goddess, and since you're immortal, maybe my son will learn from you more as he's becoming what you wanted, from generation to the next.

Odysseus: I never asked though, could you turn around for a second?

[She does turn around, her right eye has been struck blind, and blue]

Odysseus: Oh, it was zeus wasn't it?

Athena: Yeep..

Odysseus: ...wait, you were the one who fought for me?

Athena: I sure fucking was.....

Odysseus: Wow, I'd like to say thank you then. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have someone I have to see.

Athena: ...alright then, good luck, friend...

[Odysseus gets out of the quick thought, he then walks over to the room where he and her spent nights with..]

*WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH ME AGAIN*

Odysseus: ...My love, you won't have to wait fot me a moment longer...

[Odysseus opens the door, Penelope turns around]

Penelope: ...is it you? My husband? Am I blessed? You're actually here....but you look different.

Odysseus: ...I'm not the one you first knew, I was through hell and horror, and i had to do some consequences to pay the price...

Penelope: What did you do this time?

Odysseus: I killed all the suitors, stabbed a god, and had to lose the crew because of my stupid decisions....sorry I kept you waiting for a long time. Would...you fall in love with me again? Even if it's been a huge while?

Penelope: Hmm, well, if that's true, may I ask if you move our wedding bed and take it far away?

Odysseus: ...are you kidding me?

Penelope: What?

Odysseus: You're telling me to move our wedding bed, that was made from the tree we first met at! The only way to do that is...TO CUT IT FROM ITS ROOTS-

[Penelope raises her eyebrow, smiling while crying]

Odysseus: Oh...so it's a yes?

Penelope: Yes, Ody, I will fall in love with you, every single damn time. Don't tell me you're different, or something else. You're my husband! And I've been...waiting for you, but now we'll love each other just like how we were back then..

Odysseus: ...Penelope..

[Penelope and Odysseus give each other a loving hug, holding onto each.other so save time for who knows what.]

Penelope: I love you, Odysseus...

Odysseus: ....I love you too, Penelope...

[The two look at each other, and they share a soft passionate kiss. Telemachus comes by and sniffles with tears of joy as Athena pats his back. All is right with the world]

.. . .

*BONUS*

[Everything pauses, the screen zooms away, the camera switches to Odysseus. He closes a book]

Odysseus: Well, and that folks, was my story. I went through war, fought a cyclops, went through a storm, defeated a goddess, went to the underworld, defeated sirens...maybe sacrificing 6 men to scylla, sacrificing my crew to Zeus, had to survive 7 years with the bad lady, stabbed a god, Slayed some naughty suitors, and got the girl.

Odysseus: And so..

[Jorge Rivera Herrans comes by and puts an arm around Odysseus, smiling]

Odysseus/Jorge: Was our journessy.

*THE END*

[cosmic-rin]

Eyelids Heavy, and Hearts Even Heavier

I sat by the cliff, feet dangling off the edge. A cool breeze pierced my face, snapping me back to reality. My thoughts felt muddled as if no rational idea could link itself in my mind. Eyelids heavy and heart even heavier, I stood up shakily by my place.

And then I jumped.

At first, it felt like nothing. I felt weightless in the air, almost as if I was flying. A morbid thought to check for wings flashed through my mind before I quickly subdued it. Seven seconds. Silvery pearls escaped the corners of my eyes as I plummeted head-first to my eternal damnation. Five seconds. How odd it felt, to feel nothing but a crushing sense of relief. How odd it was, to fall to my own doom and feel thankful for it. Three seconds. How odd indeed, to savour the fall and not the last breaths that came with it.

Even when my back hit the rocks below I did not scream. Or perhaps I did, though it could not have come out as more than a few strangled breaths of air. I did not clutch my chest in fear of death, nor did I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I only saw red spots dancing at the corner of my eyes and felt a gaping void in the place of my heart. I think I smelt blood.

And then there was darkness.

Complete. Eternal. Damning.

I could hear something- someone calling out. She was calling a name and her voice carried such agony, such despair that deep down I felt a selfish ache wishing she was calling for me instead. Then, all of a sudden, she was in front of me.

Hand outstretched and eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

"Grab on," she said, and I did.

My feet were moving, I realized. Once more my thoughts were racing, unable to connect in reasonable notions. My gaze flitted back to the girl beside me. She was no more than ten years old, guiding me through seemingly endless darkness. Her hair was a lovely shade of auburn, and at a closer glance, I noticed her skin was a smooth olive. Yet her eyes carried a sadness as unfathomable as the sea.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks. I blinked and in an instant, two rocks appeared ahead of us. She let go of my hand, and sat down on one of them, patting the one next to hers. I sat down. When she looked up at me, I sensed a sickening familiarity in her face but couldn't place it in my memory.

She peered at my face curiously, "Where did we go wrong?"

I could only stare at her. "I beg your pardon?" Amber eyes stared dead at me. "You promised. What happened to us? Why did you give up so easily?" A sense of urgency gnawed at my sides though I couldn't tell what it was for. Something was definitely wrong. She started sobbing. "You killed me. You KILLED me! You killed me!"

I didn't say anything- couldn't say anything. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me she was right. I blinked and suddenly the rock I was sitting on, washed away into a cliff in the middle of a raging sea. "Who are you?" I yelled into the insatiable and angry waves. "Don't you know?" No. I wanted to screech, but I couldn't conform my tongue to saying the words.

I swatted at the moisture coating the apples of my cheeks. My eyes sting and yet I don't know what I'm crying for. Isn't this what I wanted? A voice spoke in the back of my mind. The ocean and your tears taste the same, do they not? The tides and your sorrow share a taste! And your sadness comes in waves just like how the ocean reaches for the shore it never holds on long enough for it to matter. She takes in a deep breath. Do you understand me? I look up at the clouds. It might rain soon. I might drown if it does. No, I don't think that I understand yet, but I think I might all the same.

Maybe your sadness is like this ocean, she continues in her bellowing voice. Maybe you are the one holding on to it and it needs to be let go. Perhaps, like the waves, it shall recede in its own time.

The water level was rising. Fast.

In a minute it was already at my knees. One gasp and suddenly I was struggling to keep afloat. I must've been flailing around for at least an hour, trying to find something, anything to hold onto. As my limbs gave way to exhaustion and water started to clog my airways, I looked one final time at the darkening sky above and thought about the little girl I had seen earlier. Nothing made sense. Nothing was rational but in my last conscious efforts, I wondered what I wouldn't give for just one chance to tell her it was going to be alright. That everything wasn't as scary as it seemed right now. That I hadn't given up as easily.

But that would be lying, wouldn't it?

A story isn't a tragedy because of how it ends. A story is a tragedy because it is always supposed to end this way. But do I really have to end it now?

Had enough? Or do you still not get it? called a faraway voice again. My head was underwater. Familiar spots were dancing in front of my eyes. I exhaled, "Yes," but only bubbles came out. A choked sob died in my throat as my eyes rolled back and I succumbed to the water pressure.

I know now. Can I try again? Please?

pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepl

Gasping for air, I sat up by my place at the edge of the cliff near the sea, feet dangling off the edge. The cool gust of wind pierced my face, clearing my thoughts and focusing my vision. A dull throb at the back of my head makes me realise that I must've dozed off and grabbed a few winks of sleep. Eyelids heavy, and heart even heavier, I stood up straighter, firmer by the boundary.

I took in heavy breaths full of sea salt. Swiping away at moistened eyes, I heard my trembling but determined voice whisper to myself against the sound of crashing waves below. "It's alright. You're going to be alright," I don't dare look down. "I'm not giving up on us."

My story may not be thrilling, or interesting. My story may not even be believable. But in the end, my story matters because it reminds me of the chance at life I had, that once it's over, I can never come back; at least, not that I know of. A chance at life- I took in a deep breath again.

I turned on my heel and took a step forward. Then another, and another. Once more, and then I stopped counting.

I never looked back.

[wisteriasymphony]

Pulcinelle - Fragmentation

“Victory is still within my grasp, Nathalie! I have no need for the minor miraculous! Victory is mine, victory is mine!” Gabriel shouted through his phone, tearing his atelier apart while he paced like a caged tiger. 

The man had not rested for the slightest moment since the Chinese Miracle Box had been stolen from him, and his face wore the exhaustion like a coat of warpaint. Silvery gray hair fell over his brows in the haphazard manner of a battle-torn settlement, white banners of surrender tainted with ash as his eyes burned with a conqueror’s fury. And yet, he had conquered nothing. Monarch had crowned himself king with a power he no longer possessed. 

Raising up a crumpled diagram to the air, Gabriel continued to roar and howl. “I know the frequencies of each Kwami’s power! With the traces of their energy recorded within me, I shall be able to replicate them!” The ruined king burst into a manic laughter, shaking the paper like an empty chalice as its brothers swirled across tables and laid in dead heaps on the floor. “With the immense power of Embodied Transmission, all of the minor miraculous will be recreated and under my control! Do you understand, Nathalie? I’ve won! I have won!” 

Monarch Renatus - Alliance Rings

Alliance Rings shall be constructed of an alloy (hereby designated Alliance Alloy) of 50% Silver, 39.9999% Lutetium, 10% Scandium, and 0.0001% Miraculum. Miraculum powder shall be harvested independently and combined with Lutetium before the Alliance Alloy is synthesized. Miraculum powder will display properties similar to mica, giving Alliance Rings a faint purple sparkle that may be used as a marketable feature. 

Miraculum charged Alliance Rings -> Instantaneous Akumatization -> Potent Transmission? 

“Gabriel.“ 

“All I need is to convince Tomoe of this plan, and I’ll be—“ 

“Gabriel!” Nathalie was pinching her nose so hard she was half worried she would snap it off. “You had the Rabbit Miraculous with you, the first thing you should’ve done is gone back to save Emilie. We can’t keep helping you if you can’t help yourself!” 

“This isn’t just about Emilie anymore!” 

Gabriel began to choke at the sound of his own words, letting the phone drop to the floor. All at once, the room began to spin, the papers and charts around him like a sea of parchment with an ever-shifting gravity, no up nor down. He had to grasp the edge of the table to prevent himself from collapsing and remember, remember that it was all about Emilie and it would only ever be about Emilie. He had to remember the ghost she had become, picture his love slipping away and resolve beyond all means and measure to bring her back. It was about Emilie, and ergo everything was justified, nothing was his fault! Gabriel could swear he had never been at fault!

“Yeah,” Nathalie barked back. “I can tell.” 

And so she ended the call. 

—— Hours later, in another office… ——

“Where are they?” 

Gabriel was not at all comfortable with the idea of admitting failure to Tsurugi Tomoe. “Where is what?” He stammered out, loosening his collar with a finger. 

“The collection of minor miraculous,” she repeated herself. “You said you had them.” 

“When did I ever say that? You must, uh… You must be mistaken, Tomoe.” 

“At 21:08 last night exactly, I was greeted with an email in my personal inbox. Its contents were:” 

Madam Tsurugi,

 I am pleased to inform you that I have acquired the possession of fifteen minor miraculous this evening. I feel as though this may be beneficial to our plans for the Perfect Alliance Initiative, and would like to discuss alterations to our plans in the morning. As you know, these artifacts are highly powerful (albeit not what I am currently searching for), and I believe you will know the best course of action moving forward. 

An earlier meeting later on this evening would also suit me, although I do plan on following this sudden turn of events up with a grand speech to Paris as a whole to highlight Ladybug’s catastrophic blunder. Please refrain from contacting me until after I have concluded this. 

Signed, Gabriel Agreste 

“…That must have been an automated message.” 

“Do you take me for an idiot, Agreste?” 

Gabriel swallowed hard, bringing his face into a taut closed smile that pushed his glasses further up his face. The cocktail of drugs he’d taken to restore himself was only making Tomoe’s face swim before him, her features blending into a blurry blobfish mush that he couldn’t stay still long enough to focus on. The sweat rolled down his face with the tempo of his twitching cheek. 

“I can say with utmost certainty that—“ 

“That you take me for an idiot?” 

“No!” Gabriel blurted out. “…That what transpired last night was due to circumstances beyond my control. I believe the culprit we should turn our attentions towards is my nephew, Felix.“ 

“The fourteen year old boy?” 

Gabriel swallowed again, following the action up with a quiet, nervous laughter. Of course it had to be the most ridiculous thing, for a boy less than a third Gabriel’s age to defeat him, but there was simply no other leads! Gabriel could picture that twerp now, cackling to himself as he sifted through the jewels rightfully stolen for Gabriel, crying to his mother about how innocent he was and how his uncle deserved to be robbed like this! But Gabriel Agreste would not take this slight standing down, not for a moment. Just as Tomoe had put it, Felix was but a small defenseless child. 

“…Yes.” 

“I see no reason in working with you any longer if teenagers can surpass you in competence,” Tomoe stated coldly, rising from her chair. 

Gabriel slammed his hand down on the desk, the sweat from his palm graying the slick white sheen on the white wood. 

“One last gamble, Tomoe. I have one last gamble.” 

Gabriel fished out his brooch from underneath his jacket lapel, holding it up to the light. To the untrained eye, the center of the brooch was a cabochon of charoite, dark streaks clouding the surface of the gem. From its back shot out four spokes, the top two longer than the bottom: Pearlescent, shimmering nacre reflecting tones of lilac and blush pink. Silver veins ran up each wing tenderly, so thin they were hard to even notice. Perfect, invisible segments, tapering off at the ends of each wing into immaculate points. 

“Feel its power, Tomoe,” Gabriel panted, leaning onto the desk. “This is all we have ever needed! Imagine even an ember of this power flowing through the alloy in every ring! Even the smallest pinch of this brooch as a component, and I will have every customer of yours as my minions.” 

Tomoe slowly sat herself back down, keeping a hand on the table to steady herself. 

“And how do you plan on accomplishing this?” 

Gabriel’s laugh was hoarse and already sickly, his grasp on the brooch so tight the lower wings began to poke into the flesh of his hand. 

“If there’s anything I know intimately, Tomoe, it is that a miraculous can break,” he replied. “And if I can even shatter a single wing of this brooch, I can redistribute its power as I see fit.” 

taglist: @notchocostrwberry @beezonia @silliersiluriforme @lemons-taste @pyrusinc @wuhuislandconspiracy

[lunabo17]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64179355/chapters/164698633

Hundreds of years ago, after opening a forbidden book in order to regain Mystra's favours, Gale was put into a magical sleep so that the Orb would remain stable. Then, after being kidnapped and infected by Ilithid invaders, Astarion stumbles upon the slumbering man, and not only awakens Gale, but finds his soulmate.

Awakening

Chapter 1: Sleeping Beauty

Gale fell to his knees, the Netherese Orb lounged in his chest pulsating. He knew that his actions had been foolish the moment that he had felt the strange magic lash out, claw it's way into his chest. It was a crying and hungry thing, like a child that had fallen and hurt it's knees, begging for it's parents to comfort them.

He had everything anyone could wish for: power, security, money, and even a loving family. Yet what he craved was more, to rise above to the heavens, to feel magic in a way unknown to those around him. He wished for Mystra, his beautiful goddess, to see only him, and not the multitude of others she favoured and bedded. He wanted his love to be enough.

It was never enough.

Foolish man with a foolish heart. What could he, a mere mortal, give a goddess? It didn't matter that his magic was impressive, even to his peers. It didn't matter what dreams he had, of the wondrous things he could do. He was one wizard in a line of others, a temporary distraction in a sea of eternity.

Gale wanted romance, and sweet nothings. Mystra was the goddess of magic. It mattered not.

But he had tried to impress, to push his mastery even further, for just a kind word, a gentle touch, another night. He begged and pleaded. He had no marks of a soulmate, afterall, so he was free to romance anyone he wished. And if it was his goddess, who once had taught him, had seemed to love him, what difference did it make?

He had thrown himself into studies, found the obscure references to Netheril, even found the book, sealed shut. Now, he would finally impress his goddess, earn her love eternally.

It was not meant to be, and he knew it after the pain had subsided a little. He had been thrown into the Astral plane, after nearly a year of near silence from his goddess, and Mystra was livid.

"Do you know what you have done, what you have unleased?" She had asked, her face twisted into fury. "That magic toppled a whole empire, sought to rival my own, and means to consume magic as it is!"

"I believed it to be part of your Weave that Karsus took from you! I beg your forgiveness!"

"You don't deserve forgiveness, Gale of Waterdeep. I won't allow you to attempt what Karsus did. You shall be put to sleep, to watch over the corrupted Weave for all eternity. Perhaps then no one will be foolish to attempt to disrupt my power."

"Please!" He attempted to plead, but already, he could feel exhaustion racing through his limbs, his eyes growing heavy. He fell to his side, sinking into slumber, tears falling from his eyes.

Yet though Mystra had forsaken him, another goddess did not. Sune had heard his pleas, knew of his tender heart. Foolish as his actions had been, the young man didn't deserve eternity to suffer because Mystra was worried he would try and take her place! She couldn't save him from the slumber, couldn't move him from his prison on the Astral plane, but she could give him a chance, slim as it was; if his soulmate could find him, he would awaken.

Until then, he would remain asleep, seeing his lover ones leave, seeing the world change, lost in his dreams.

~~

Astarion knew he was dead, and wasn't sure if he should be happy that he would finally be free of Cazador, or upset he couldn't kill the damned vampire. Really, did it matter, if one was falling to your doom after having an Ilithid parasite shoved into your brain?

Would a fall like this kill a vampire spawn? He really hoped so. However, before he could think on it too much, there was a flash of purple, and he wondered vaguely if anything else could go wrong.

He woke up some indeterminate time later, and frowned at his surroundings. The ground, if one could call it that, appeared to be clouds, and all around him were stars. As a high elf, he had some natural magic, but had barely explored it as he struggled to gain his position as magistrate of Baldur's Gate, and was forbidden to practice under Cazador. Still, he recognized this place.

He stood up slowly, his head pounding, but free of Cazador's leash. Yet, why was he here?

There was what appeared to be some sort of tomb near him. He hesitated to approach, memories of his own time sealed flooding his mind, yet curiosity won. Carefully, fearing he would be attacked, he looked in, and his eyes widened.

Nestled inside, a nude man lay, his skin nearly as pale as his own, with purple lines of swirling magic along his left side of his body, like vines, pulsing slow, like a heartbeat. He looked fairly young, a human in his twenties or thirties, though his hair was streaked with white or silver. What caught his attention, however, was the lines on the man's chest, where the pulsing light was strongest.

Shaking, Astarion pushed his own tunic down to see the marks on his own chest that mirrored the slumbering man, though the tendrils were not as extensive as the human's.

This was his soulmate. He gave a bitter laugh, realizing after all the hundreds of years of torture, of surviving the nautiloid, he had found this man at last.

Hesitating, Astarion gently brushed his fingers over the man's cheek, finding it far warmer than his own. He gasped as the tomb disappeared, and he caught the naked man before he fell to the ground.

Beautiful eyes slowly opened, a warm brown with flecks of purple, then focused on him.

~~

Waking up now felt no different than waking up from a deep sleep. One moment, Gale had been dreaming of goblins that appeared to be readying for war, and the next, his eyes were opening.

Perhaps this, too, was a dream? It hadn't been the first time his imagination had conjured an awakening, though it had often been short-lived.

Yet the images didn't waver as it did often in his dreams. Instead, he was cradled in the arms of another. His breath caught as he looked into ruby eyes, sharp lines of the elf's face framed by white curls.

Softly, he asked a question, and the elf shook his head. He realized he had slipped back into his own, dead language. With a soft clearing of his throat, he attempted again.

"Apologies," he rasped, voice thickened with lingering tiredness. "It has been some time since I've needed to converse. Who are you?"

A pale eyebrow raised. "Astarion. Apparently, your soulmate."

Again, Gale's breath caught his eyes flickering from those red irises down, to the chiseled chest where tendrils mirrored those on his own. His fingers, shaking, traced the lines, causing the elf to jerk away.

"Don't touch me," Astarion snapped.

"Please, I beg your forgiveness," Gale said, abruptly moving his hand away as if burned. He then attempted to break himself away from the other's embrace. It was then he realized he was entirely nude.

He could feel his face flood with heat, realized this perfect stranger had held him while entirely unclothed. He summoned every ounce of restraint to not begin cursing, even as he tumbled to the ground when he pulled away.

"Shit!" The elf cursed. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, the ground is remarkably soft here. I did not mean to upset you, nor for my rather...unfortunate lack of clothing."

"Well, you startled me. I didn't mean to snap at you. As for clothing..."

Gale turned his face away as those piercing eyes roamed over his body, heating up with such scrutiny.

"My clothes won't fit you," Astarion said, holding out his hand for Gale to take. When he was on his feet, the wizard said an incantation, flowing, white robes covering his body. "Who are you?"

"My name is Gale Dekarios," he replied. He told the elf of Mystra and the Orb briefly, as his eyes scanned the horizon.

"But you're awake now. Does this mean this Orb can...explode or something?"

"That is a most excellent question. Let me ponder that for a moment."

Gale ignored the bemused look his companion gave him, instead focusing on the Orb. The pain and hunger he had felt before was no longer present, a warm hum in it's place. He had been with it for so long, he understood it far better than even the Weave. With a smile, he gently untangled it from himself, setting it down on the ground. It began to change shape, elongating it's form until it took the shape of what appeared to be a kitten.

Ah, but it had wings, so it was a Tressym.

"I always did want a cat," Gale said, tears filling his eyes as he thought of his parents.

The calico kitten stretched, giving little flaps of her tiny wings. She then yawned, before her purple eyes looked up at Gale.

"Somehow, after everything, I really shouldn't be surprised that you just...magicked a cat out of your chest," Astarion said. "This is starting to feel like a very bad acid trip."

Gale's brows furrowed. "I apologize, but I'm not familiar with your terminology."

"Nevermind. Can you get us out of here?"

"I believe so. Give me just a moment."

The little tressym flew to his shoulder, her paws hanging down his back. She gave a tiny yawn. He stroked her head, earning some purring before he studied their surroundings again. There was a faint weakness near them, and he moved towards it.

"It's faint, but I believe there is a slight tear here. I may be able to open the...oh..."

With a slight hiccup from the kitten, a portal opened.

"Ah...thank you, my dear. I appreciate the assistance."

"Welcome," came the small squeak.

"Is that even safe?" Astarion asked, eyeing the pair.

"I imagine it can't be any more dangerous than continuing to remain here. I am not keen to remain on this plane."

Astarion gave a sigh. Together, they stepped through the portal.

[see-arcane]

But as yet you are to be punished for what you have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call. When my brain says “Come!” to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!

He hates her so much like he's never been madder before. Who else ever cornered him this badly? And the thing is, this is also pure intimidation to make her submit to her fate. Just give up, my mind is in your mind, and I can use it to control you, possess you, violate you, and see all through you. I'm inside you forever and ever. For daring to oppose me.

It's a move that's simultaneously hideous, petty, and calculating in the same blow.

Mina was instrumental in pointing the group toward him and having the foundations of his plans chopped at the knees. An enemy. A smart enemy. Mina is worth both punishing and keeping for his own ends.

Mina is the heart of his adversaries' little party. The one they want most to shield, the one they have held up as both a precious thing to guard in her own right, and a belated (foolish) attempt to do right by the last damsel they lost to him. Sweeter still that she is Jonathan's beloved--another defiant party that must be brought to heel. Mina is therefore someone worth snatching away as a matter of insult and personal attack.

Mina is appalled by the thought of joining him, of being part of his undead cadre. So like her husband. All the more reason to not only take her, but force her to be wide awake and aware of every. Single. Second. As he both drinks her and forces her to drink from him--a move that forces her headfirst into the transformation of a vampire whether she is exsanguinated/dead or not. This version of turning means there's not only no escape if Dracula isn't slain in time, it means even if she stays alive, she is already in the process of converting.

(It is already over, wine-press, I've won.)

[richincolor]

New Releases - Week of June 25, 2024

We have four books that we're watching for this week. This week will bring us a romance and a whole lot of fantasy. 

Sleep Like Death by Kalynn Bayron Bloomsbury YA

Only the truly desperate – and foolish – seek out the Knight, an ancient monster who twists wishes into curses. Eve knows this first-hand: one of her mothers was cursed by the Knight and trapped in the body of a songbird. With the unique abilities to communicate with animals and conjure weapons from nature, Eve has trained all her life to defeat him.

With more and more villagers harmed by the Knight’s corrupt deals, Eve believes she’s finally ready to face him. But when Queen Regina begins acting strangely – talking to seemingly no one, isolating herself, and lashing out at the slightest provocation – Eve must question if her powers are enough to save her family and her kingdom.

Crashing Into You by Rocky Callen Henry Holt & Co.

In this fiercely moving YA romance novel, Leti Rivera’s love of street racing is put to the test when tragedy strikes her family and threatens to tear her apart from the boy she’s falling for.

Seventeen-year-old Leti Rivera dreams of becoming a famous female street racer. Her brother taught her how to drive so fast that nothing can catch her.

But when Jacob Fleckenstein crashes into her life, Leti starts to think that running isn’t always the answer. Together, inside her car, they both feel like they’re flying, and Jacob’s gentleness and honesty threaten Leti’s vow to keep her heart tight in her fist and her grief locked away.

Yet after tragedy strikes following a race, Leti blames herself and swears an oath, a juramento, to give up driving. But will she be able to keep her promise when racing could be the very thing that saves Jacob . . . and herself? Perfect for fans of Netflix’s Atypical and I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter.

We Shall Be Monsters by Tara Sim Nancy Paulsen Books

After her sister Lasya’s sudden death, Kajal vows to do whatever it takes to bring her back. No cost is too great, even if it means preventing Lasya’s soul from joining the cycle of reincarnation. But as Kajal prepares for the resurrection, her sister’s trapped soul warps into a bhuta—a violent, wraith-like spirit hell-bent on murdering those who wronged it in life. With each kill, the bhuta becomes stronger and fiercer, and Kajal’s chances of resurrecting Lasya with her soul intact grow slimmer.

Blamed for Lasya’s rampage and condemned as a witch, Kajal is locked away with little hope of escape. That is, until two strangers who label themselves rebels arrive and offer to free her. The catch: She must resurrect the kingdom’s fallen crown prince, aiding their coup to overthrow the usurper who sits the throne. Desperate to return to Lasya’s body, Kajal rushes to revive the crown prince . . . only to discover that she’s resurrected another boy entirely.

All her life, Kajal has trusted no one but her sister. But with Lasya dead and rebels ready to turn her over to the usurper’s ruthless soldiers, Kajal is forced to work with the boy she mistakenly revived. Together, they must find the crown prince before the rebels discover her mistake, or the bhuta finally turns its murderous fury on the person truly responsible for Lasya’s death: Kajal.

Children of Anguish and Anarchy (Legacy of Orïsha #3) by Tomi Adeyemi Henry Holt & Co.

New allies rise. The Blood Moon nears. Zélie faces her final enemy. The king who hunts her heart.

When Zelie seized the royal palace that fateful night, she thought her battles had come to an end. The monarchy had finally fallen. The maji had risen again. Zélie never expected to find herself locked in a cage and trapped on a foreign ship. Now warriors with iron skulls traffic her and her people across the seas, far from their homeland.

Then everything changes when Zélie meets King Baldyr, her true captor, the ruler of the Skulls, and the man who has ravaged entire civilizations to find her. Baldyr’s quest to harness Zélie’s strength sends Zélie, Amari, and Tzain searching for allies in unknown lands.

But as Baldyr closes in, catastrophe charges Orïsha’s shores. It will take everything Zélie has to face her final enemy and save her people before the Skulls annihilate them for good.

[humanpurposes]

Karma is a God

Chapter 14: The God's Eye

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, angst, grief, death

Words: 3.5k

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

It comes to him in a dream first; the ghost. Faceless, colourless and shapeless, he knows it is coming for him. It follows him wherever he goes, until he can hardly tell the difference between waking and dreaming.

He can scarcely remember his burning of Pinkmaiden. He remembers heat, screams of terror and then agony, the light of Vhagar’s fire, burning as bright as the sun and banishing the darkness of night. He was reminded of how his brother had sounded in the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, his raw, throaty screams as his flesh mingled with his melted armour. Which would be a worse fate, dying or surviving to endure the pain for so long?

Where Aegon’s suffering had made Aemond the equivalent of a King, Pinkmaiden had only made him more of the monster that he is.

He feels it, settled on the edge of a cliff overlooking Ironman’s Bay, the empty feeling in his chest, as though the Gods are withholding fragments of his soul.

He doesn’t know where his brother is now. Perhaps Aegon had found some sense after all and crossed the Narrow Sea to seek refuge in the type of life he always wanted, far from the Keep, far from the crown. He doesn’t know why their men fight for a King who could be dead, or who could have abandoned them altogether. And yet he knows his role in this war has been set out for him, one which he follows mindlessly. He is his family’s terror, the only one who can give Daeron and Cole enough time to rally their forces.

He hears so little as of late. He hasn’t seen another person’s face for weeks. For a time he allowed himself refuge in a tavern with his hood over his hair and his sapphire eye hidden in shadow but eventually he decided comfort was not worth the risk.

Daemon is in the Riverlands, he knows that much, hunting him but never able to catch up to him. So far his uncle has not thought to look this far north, where he can see the Iron Islands clustered in the west and Seaguard to the east. Ships pass the sea before him but he remains unnoticed, as does Vhagar, buried on the shoreline amongst dirt, sand and rocks. If she is hungry she will find a flock of sheep or a herd of cows, but for now she is content to lull herself into a long slumber, occasionally letting out a low grumble as she breathes.

He hunts rabbits and does little to shelter himself from the harsh sea air, the rain and the spray of the sea when there is a storm. He is numb to the cold and the discomfort, retreating into his dreams in the hopes he might find some comfort in a vision of his mother or his sister.

More than that, he prays the Gods will show him an image of Lucerra. He would take anything. The small, stubborn girl disturbing him in the library, grinning as she presented him with a winged pig. Her furious little face when he held her by the throat in the cave below Hightide. He would take the tears she shed in the Hall of Nine, her silent, wide-eyed pleas for forgiveness. He would take the woman who stood before him at the Red Keep, at Storm’s End, the feeling of her skin, the sound of her breath.

Her voice is less than an echo in his head after so many moons. The memory is elusive, he fears he will never picture it clearly, but he can remember her words. My blood is precious, uncle, if you want it you shall have to earn it. 

In Rainwood, they say a ghost circled Shipbreaker Bay in the days after his niece’s apparent demise.

When the dragon with pale grey scales finally comes to him, he knows what it means. Not a ghost, not the one he had been imagining. Grey Ghost, the wild dragon, the beast that attacked Daeron and Tessarion in the Reach, now the second mount of Princess Lucerra.

He mounts Vhagar as the sun sets, its light bleeding across the sky like an open wound, spurred on by desperation and something hungry, like bloodlust. Grey Ghost is quick, flying out of his view but he can guess where the dragon is leading him, southeast, towards Harrenhal. Aemond does not know if they fly to death or salvation.

There is hardly any blue left in the sky when the five towers of Harrenhal fade into view. The setting sun burns in the west like dragonfire, licking at the darkened clouds and shining down onto the surface of the God’s Eye.

The black banners of the pretender, Rhaenyra, hang over the gates to the castle. Below its walls, by the lakeshore, is not the opponent he had expected to meet.

Caraxes rears his head to the sky and lets out a shrieking roar, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. He can feel Vhagar lurch in anticipation. All of her battles, save for Rook’s Rest, have been like bloodsport to her. She wants to fight, wants to rip her talons into flesh, sink her teeth around something larger than a farm animal. But he feels something else, a slight hesitation, a sad sort of growl sounding in her throat, 

Daemon has donned his riding leathers and stands beside his dragon. He holds Dark Sister before him, resting his hands on the hilt.

He sees no sign of Grey Ghost, nor his rider. 

He lands Vhagar along the lakeshore, keeping Caraxes out of reach to avoid premature violence. He is determined this will be done properly. His boots land with a crash against the pebbles once he climbs down, his hand lingering on Vhagar’s saddle.

He remembers the night of the dinner, Viserys’ final hours, as his uncle had stood between him and Jace, eyeing him like a parent stares down a petulant child, a faint smile on his lips. It had amused him, watching the bickering of boys.

Now there is no amusement in Daemon’s eyes, no sense of excitement. They have all suffered too many losses for anything other than pure hatred.

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were slaughtered at his order, Helaena left to rot in her grief, to leave her last living child motherless. What were the children to Daemon Targaryen? They were his kin, his brother’s grandchildren. Their deaths didn’t put him closer to the throne, didn’t win him any allies, but it wasn’t about strategy, was it? It was about pain.

Aemond doesn’t care to count the seconds or minutes they spent in a silence, broken only by the rush of the waves and the hisses and growls of their dragons.

It is like standing face to face with a wild animal, anticipating what he may do, which move he may make.

He sees Daemon’s eyes flicker momentarily to the sapphire that sits in his left socket, and smirks. In some cruel twist of fate, a dull pain blooms at the base of his skull, but he endures it.

“You’ve come out of hiding at last,” Daemon says.

An unease pools in his stomach. For a moment he thinks he sees movement in the sky above him, but when he looks, there is nothing. 

“I was under the impression I was being hunted,” Aemond retorts.

Daemon laughs. He means to mock him but it’s not quite careless enough to be convincing. “Do not flatter yourself, boy,” he says. “Your whore said you would come.”

An unsettling feeling washes through him, like he is being watched.

Alys. He had left her in a cell with the bloody remains of the rest of House Strong, evidently not long enough for her to starve before Daemon’s return to Harrenhal. “Did she care to say why?”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Do you still believe you are owed a debt?”

He recalls a cold thrill that had come with killing Rhaenys. It hadn’t been enough to justify the anguish he had seen his family suffer, how they have continued to suffer. He wonders if killing Daemon will satisfy him. 

Still, his uncle is not the reason he followed Grey Ghost to the God’s Eye.

She must be here somewhere and he doesn’t want to wait any longer. He hungers for her like a man starved. He wants to feel her, her heat, her blood, his hand around her throat and her heartbeat under her skin. He wants to see her eyes again, full of fire and fury. 

He can feel Vhagar’s urge to fight beginning to boilin his blood. He welcomes it, lets it fuel his anger and his grief, pounding in his chest like a war drum. “You have lived too long, uncle,” he says.

Daemon sheathes Dark Sister and reaches up to grab at Caraxes’ saddle, ready to mount. His voice is solemn but his eyes are dark with vicious intent. “On that much we agree.”

And so Aemond mounts his own dragon, fastening the chains that secure him to the saddle. He looks to the sky, then to the castle, waiting for a flash of pale grey scales, a dragon’s cry or a girl with dark hair. He finds nothing. Grey Ghost must be here and yet there is no trace of him or his rider. He clenches his fists around Vhagar’s reins and digs his teeth into his lip. His patience is wearing thin.

Caraxes moves first, leaping from the ground with an ear splitting screech, breathing a stream of fire into the air as he flies.

Vhagar is slower to follow, scrambling over the pebbles to push off from the ground. He feels the force of her wings against her own body, hauling her to ascend, pursuing Caraxes into clouds of grey and red, the sea of flame.

He braces against the fire, roaring in his ears as they break through the clouds and come into the vastness of the sky. Daemon and Caraxes are nowhere to be found. Through the spaces in the clouds and the fire below them, the God’s Eye watches, bathed in red by the setting sun. Soon enough it will all be black.

Vhagar roars, deeply and furiously. A bait, a call to battle.

As suddenly as a thunderbolt, the red dragon breaks through the clouds. Caraxes surges towards Vhagar with eager teeth and talons. She breathes a plume fire unlike anything Aemond has ever seen. Caraxes avoids the stream as he goes for her side, slashing at her belly with his claws and screeches as he rears his head, ready to strike her neck.

But Vhagar gets there first. Aemond’s jaw clenches instinctively, the taste of blood pooling on his tongue as Vhagar sinks her teeth into Caraxes’ shoulder. The dragons writhe and thrash in a deadlock, unrelenting in their attacks but determined to escape each other.

They start to fall. It is a chaotic struggle, beating their wings, screaming in agony and rage, pulling away and ripping at each other.

There’s nothing Aemond can do. He tries to urge Vhagar with the reins, tries to scream at her to let go, to obey, but his efforts are all lost to the wind, the spurts of dragon’s blood rushing through the air, desperate bursts of flame.

Until Caraxes wrenches his claws away from Vhagar’s side. His wings struggle as they fall but he scratches at Vhagar’s head, urging her to release the grip on his shoulder. She does, only to close her jaw around his neck with another snap of her jaws.

The lake is getting closer.

For a moment he wonders if he could jump before the dragons hit the surface of the water. He probably wouldn’t survive the fall, and even if he did, his riding leathers and the chains that keep him fixed to Vhagar’s saddle would weigh him down.

They will die with their dragons then.

He hears the call of a dragon, not the aged roar of Vhagar, not the piercing cry of Caraxes.

Through the haze of blood and fire, his eye finds a pale figure on the lakeshore, another dragon.

His heart stops.

Grey Ghost darts into the air, and glides around Vhagar and Caraxes, coming clearly into view.

And he sees her.

He can hardly make out the details of her face and he feels all the more deprived of her. A silver breastplate glimmers on her chest like dragon scales, catching the final crimson glow of the sunset. Dark hair flies behind her with the force of the wind.

Her hands aren’t on the reins, her arms are outstretched. At first he thinks she is reaching for something, until he realises she’s holding a bow when she reaches for an arrow from a quiver strapped to her back. 

He feels frozen, helpless as he watches her position the arrow and pull back the bow string. It would be a quicker death than drowning, and it would be by her hand. He might find peace in it, if only he could see her face on final time.

It is just, surely. He threatened her, demanded she repay her debt with her body and then her eye, pursued her through a storm and watched as she fell through the clouds with the pieces of her dragon.

He tells himself he deserves it, for the way his mother looked at him when he returned from Storm’s End, the way Helaena couldn’t stand to be near him, the screams echoing in his memories, for all the pain he has caused.

The anticipation doesn’t have a chance to set in. He feels himself knocked back by something lodging itself in his shoulder and even then he cannot take his eye from her.

Vhagar lurches, screaming in pain as something hot and wet seeps through his leathers and the shirt underneath.

The shock takes a matter of seconds to wear off, then there is just a searing pain.

His dragon releases her jaws from Caraxes’ neck. Caraxes’ claws continue their assault on her head, aiming for her eyes, but she is almost indifferent to it as she turns her attention to Grey Ghost.

Vhagar can hardly move from underneath Caraxes, but she can drag him with her. Grey Ghost seems to be larger than Arrax was, but it will only take Vhagar a single snap of her jaws to claim both dragon and rider.

He can’t watch Luke die again. He will not.

He can scarcely breathe, can hardly think straight or see anything clearly, but he musters all the force his lungs can manage and wrenches on the reins. “Daor, Vhagar!” he commands. “Ziry daor!” Not her.

Against her desire for blood and her own stubbornness, Vhagar obeys. She turns her head once more to Caraxes. With a slash of her talons, she makes another tear in his belly. Blood gushes from the wound like a river, streaming through the air as the black surface of the God’s Eye comes closer, and closer. 

This will be a battle with no victor. As Vhagar delivers her blow, Caraxes twists his neck and sinks his teeth into her throat. She tries to cry in pain, but it is muffled as she gargles on the blood that floods her gullet.

Aemond tries to look for Luke and Grey Ghost again, but he cannot find them. He sees blood, he sees flames, he sees the colours of sunset in the sky and the lake.

He has to get out of the chains, but he does not know if he has the strength.

He looks up, or what he thinks is up, following along Vhagar’s neck, to where Caraxes’ jaws are clenched around her flesh, along his red hide, to his back.

Daemon is standing in the saddle, Dark Sister unsheathed and poised before him. He should be falling– in fact he is, falling with the dragons, down, down, down, his sword ready to strike.

Daemon means to kill him, before they can meet the water.

He would give his life to Luke, but he will not allow his uncle the satisfaction. 

He doesn’t stop to consider if he has the time, he knows he has to act. First he takes hold of the arrow in his shoulder, snapping off as much as he can of it, bearing his teeth through the pain. Then he heaves the heavy chains to unhook them from the saddle.

As the point of Daemon’s sword comes to meet him, Aemond hauls his body out of its path. With his left hand he reaches for the hilt, and clasps his fingers around it.

With the force of Daemon’s falling, the Princes are dragged from Vhagar’s back.

Aemond has one final chance and seconds in which to take it.

He grips the hilt of Dark Sister as harshly as he can, crushing Daemon’s hand under his grip. He twists his uncle’s wrist, driving the point of the sword into his stomach and driving it forward into his flesh, as far as it will go.

He doesn’t hear a cry of pain, a final grunt or an exhale of breath before the treacherous waters of the God’s Eye consume them.

The noise of their battle, of screaming dragons and roaring fires, are engulfed in a cold, black void. Everything drags him down, his leathers, the force of two dragons hitting the water, and the weight of the limp body run through on Dark Sister. 

Aemond does not fight it. He feels the sting of cold water against his skin and in his nose and throat. On his tongue he tastes blood but cannot decide where it is from, torn between icy numbness and pain. It is everywhere, his shoulder, his limbs, his chest…

Vhagar is gone. For the first time in so long he feels incomplete. 

But even then the thought of grief fades into the cruel quiet of the lake.

Perhaps his end will be peaceful after all. He is not sure he deserves it, but he wants it all the same.

He hears his heart now, pulsing in his ears, echoing through his veins. 

He thinks of Helaena and his mother and wonders if they are being kept together or apart. He thinks of Daeron, fierce, young, vulnerable, the only dragon rider their family will have left. He thinks of Aegon and Maelor and can only hope they are safe. He thinks of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, little white nightgowns seeped with blood, and tightens his grip on the hilt of Dark Sister.

Something disturbs the water above him.

He can see their faces through the darkness, a thousand and one, constantly shifting. Without saying a single word they tell him he is safe.

Something like a limb curls around his torso and grabs him. The pressure on his chest is excruciating but he cannot scream with water in his lungs. It hauls him up. He feels the break through the surface of the lake but he still cannot breathe. 

He wonders if this is the Stranger himself crushing come at last to claim his life and face whatever judgement the gods will pass on him.

Until he lands on solid ground, though not quite solid. It shifts beneath him, cold and sharp under the palms of his hands and the side of his face. With his heart drumming frantically in his ears, his body acts for its own survival, pushing him up onto his hands and knees, retching up blood and water, gagging on the taste it leaves in his mouth.

He hears something land on the ground before him and knows it is a dragon. Through his own struggle he recognises the sound of footsteps against the pebbles, slow and cautious.

His vision is blurry and the only light the sky can offer is a gloomy red. He can see the gleam of it against Dark Sister, the sword of Visenya, Maegor and Daemon, just beyond the reach of his fingertips. 

A hand that is not his own closes around the hilt and brings it out of his line of sight, the point coming to rest at his throat.

Retribution will come with fire and fury…

He drags his body back to rest on his haunches so he can look up at her.

She’s covered in red, her skin under the sunset, her skirt and the sigil of the three headed dragon embroidered on her riding leathers. But she is unmarred by blood, either her own or another’s.

She looks eerily peaceful, a quiet rage simmering under the surface of tired eyes and a soft, rounded face. He does not take his eye from her and she meets his gaze without shame, without fear or pride. He thinks then, he would be content to die at her hand.

He waits for the blade to pierce through his throat, for whatever warmth is left in his body to fade and for the world to go dark again. He waits for the pain to finally end.

… and so it will be your salvation.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling

Series taglist: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarsslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

[stromuprisahat]

Queen Alicent had reluctantly agreed to the betrothal of her granddaughter to Rhaenyra’s son, but she had done so without the king’s consent. Aegon II had other ideas. He wished to marry Cassandra Baratheon at once, for “she will give me strong sons, worthy of the Iron Throne.” Nor would he allow Prince Aegon to wed his daughter, and perhaps sire sons who might muddy the succession. “He can take the black and spend his days at the Wall,” His Grace decreed, “or else give up his manhood and serve me as a eunuch. The choice is his, but he shall have no children. My sister’s line must end.” Even that was thought to be too gentle a course by Ser Tyland Lannister, who argued for the immediate execution of Prince Aegon the Younger. “The boy will remain a threat so long as he draws breath,” Lannister declared. “Remove his head, and these traitors will be left with neither queen nor king nor prince. The sooner he is dead, the sooner this rebellion will end.” His words, and those of the king, horrified Lord Velaryon. The aged Sea Snake, “thunderous in his wroth,” accused king and council of being “fools, liars, and oathbreakers,” and stormed from the chamber. Borros Baratheon then offered to bring the king the old man’s head, and Aegon II was on the point of giving consent when Lord Larys Strong spoke up, reminding them that young Alyn Velaryon, the Sea Snake’s heir, remained beyond their reach on Driftmark. “Kill the old snake and we lose the young one,” the Clubfoot said, “and all those fine swift ships of theirs as well.” Instead, he said, they must move at once to make amends with Lord Corlys, so as to keep House Velaryon on their side. “Give him his betrothal, Your Grace,” he urged the king. “A betrothal is not a wedding. Name Young Aegon your heir. A prince is not a king. Look back at the history and count how many heirs never lived to sit the throne. Deal with Driftmark in due course, when your foes are vanquished and your tide is at the full. That day is not yet come. We must bide our time and speak to him gently.”

Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)

[thetomorrowshow]

febuwhump 13 - "I don't trust anyone else"

title: if i ever said goodbye

fandom: empires smp

trust au baby prequel!!!!

~

Haer knew what was bound to occur, long before it happened.

The thirty-three lesser gods had become jealous of him. He noticed the tensions in their interactions, the sly undermining of him around his creations, the carefully whispered conversations that always sent him side-eyes.

Haer knew, and decided to do nothing.

It had long been prophesied that his time would come to an end, and Haer knew better than to fight prophecy.

The one missing stipulation, however, is an heir.

The prophecy, when speaking of his fall into the unknown, mentions his descendants—"And even the heirs shall forget their origins".

Yet Haer has not borne children, and therefore, the soon-to-be end is moving too quickly. Does he not get enough time to even raise his children?

Haer ponders this, on a day when the clouds seem to silently weep for him, as he walks along the beach of the very ocean that he had split from the firmaments.

His death has to be close.

So where are his heirs?

His answer comes in an unexpected arrival—a giant sea wyrm emerges from the depths of the ocean, just yonder, flicking its fins and calling mournfully.

I am old, it cries. I wish for children, to raise and learn in the ways of the ocean, that the fish and crabs and sharks and whales and scuttling things may have rulers.

Why have you none? Haer asks her, reaching with his godly power to calm the waves.

There are none who can father the children of a wyrm, comes the creature's yearning reply. I have no children.

Nor I, Haer tells her. Yet I have the power to grant your wish, and give the both of us heirs.

It is one hundred years later that the sea wyrm lays a clutch of two thousand eggs, deep in the bottom of the sea, Haer long dead.

And it is many thousands of years later that the wyrm dies, surrounded by its subjects, none of the two thousand eggs hatched.

For more thousands of years, the peoples of the seas protect the clutch of eggs, waiting for their rightful rulers to be born.

But, as always occurs, war strikes. War destroys the ocean, hurricanic and devastating, and when the sand settles, there is no longer an empire to be ruled.

And one of the two thousand eggs cracks.

-

She protects her unhatched siblings with a fervor, baring tiny baby teeth at any who dare draw near, a clear descendant of the great wyrm that many now believe to have been legend.

Blue scales (with the occasional purple stripe) cover the entirety of her body, though she has a vaguely humanoid shape, as many of the sea dwellers have developed. Her arms are long and slender, and fins travel down her legs to streamline her body, a razor-sharp tail longer than she is waving behind her. Her hair is short and dark, and her face is thin and pointed, ears larger than her head for her to grow into.

She doesn't know that she was born to rule the ocean. Not really, despite the repeated gifts brought to her. Despite the praises that the surrounding fish give her.

She has some idea of the sort, of course. If she didn’t, her people wouldn’t recognize her. But none of that matters.

She just protects the clutch of one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine eggs for dozens of years, cooing and chirping and trilling to her siblings in all the different languages that she has picked up from the visitors, waiting for the day that one of them hatches.

She is, however, only a fry, and she can't defend her siblings from everything.

It's a storm, a terrible storm, and those with bad intentions will always use bad circumstances to their advantage.

She's darting from place to place in the nest that she's built around the eggs, waves rocking her little cushions of seagrass as she tries to hold the structure together. It’s a bad storm, yes, but she’s dealt with storms. They’ll be fine.

Then, as she's settling a particularly small egg into the sand, something grabs her from behind.

She fights. Of course she fights, kicking and lashing out with her sharp tail and biting the arms holding her with her little pointed teeth. But two strong dolphin hybrids have her held tight in the tumultuous ocean, and they make her watch as their salmon friends destroy the eggs.

She screams and cries and tries to stop them, but there's nothing she can do. And when nothing remains of her brothers and sisters but their destroyed partly-developed bodies and the shards of their shells, they shove her to the ground and smash a rock against her head until she stops moving.

The storm carries her limp body far away, where it settles in the soft, sparkling sand, under clear, calm waters with the sun shining through, before she forces her way back to consciousness.

And then, head blurry and aching, she frantically calls for her siblings, though she knows that they're dead.

It takes her a week to find her way back to the ancient place where the clutch had been laid. She frantically searches through the wreckage, looking for anything that might have survived the deadly attack, each spurt of hope when she sees an egg poking out of the sand extinguished when she discovers it's only the top of a shattered shell.

In the end, she collapses there on the ocean floor as she sobs, on her hands and knees.

She is alone, just as their mother always was, just as their father always was, and she has no hope left in her heart.

In an unconscious, self-soothing action, she pulls sand up around herself in a blanket, as she has so many times with her baby siblings beside her.

And her hand grazes across something hard and smooth.

She freezes.

She digs, quickly, hands trembling—

And she unearths a small, slightly damaged egg, a thin crack spiderwebbing out from its point.

It’s alive.

It may be damaged, but there’s a tiny heartbeat that she can hear when she presses it up to her ear, and she still has a family.

She holds it to her chest, sobs gasping, and kisses it gently, murmuring in their mother tongue a name for her baby seabling.

Small, found, beloved brother.

-

He hatches a year later, a tiny creature slightly more fish-like than she, but otherwise almost just like a mini version of herself with brown and tan colorings instead of blue and purple. And he really is mini—she can hold him in the palms of her hands, scratch at his little head with the nail of her thumb.

He grows—his first tooth comes in mere days after his hatching, and he gleefully chews on her thumb to show it off.

She's been talking to his egg for a year straight—she had strapped it to her chest in a sling made of sea leaves—so he has a good idea of who she is, with instinct to back it up.

More fish come to visit, bringing gifts and adoration for their newborn king, but she holds him close to her chest and doesn't let them see him. He's just a baby, after all. His scales are still soft.

And now she knows that there are those in this world who have it out for them. There are those who would rather not have royalty, who would govern themselves.

So she hides him, and they never stay in one cove for long, and she teaches him to bury himself in the sand if he ever sees anyone come near. He blends in with the sand perfectly, after all.

He fits in the crook of her arm, and he presses himself up against her stomach in a hug as she cradles him, and he's so small and fragile and she knows she has to keep him safe.

And years pass, and he grows (still smaller than she, but certainly too large for her to hold any longer), but he keeps his name.

Smallbelovedfoundbrother.

It sounds something like Yimecht, in their ancient tongue.

And he names her Protectorbluesafesister, which sounds something like Szise.

They live together, only trusting each other, moving from place to place, for a century. They hide on the outskirts of towns, and slip away if anyone sees them, and they swim and play and take care of one another.

And after many years, Yimecht feels like they ought to be strong enough to try and pull together the Ocean Kingdom, factionized after thousands of years with no rightful ruler.

Szise doesn't like it. Her brother is still so vulnerable, despite his very very sharp teeth and his nicely hardening scales.

But he's right. They are the only heirs of the being that was created to rule the ocean, and the one who created it.

So Smallbelovedfoundbrother and Protectorbluesafesister claim their people.

She is maybe seven centuries old when the salmon split from the uneasy peace that two united rulers brings. They branch off for their own place and begin to grow their armies, making attacks on the united Ocean Kingdom.

Yimecht, of not-yet six centuries, grows angry with them. He comes to hate the salmon, and frequently swims out to check on and reassure their main target—the community of cod, dwindling in size.

He cannot help them in the way that they need. Their land-dwellers are hit the worst, yet neither he nor his sister can breathe land air. He swims along the swampy shore for years, defending his people the best he can, leaving Szise to govern.

The war becomes bloody, and many lives are lost as the years become decades and the decades become centuries. And finally, Yimecht's anger gets the better of him.

He's fifty years from one thousand when he kisses his sister on the cheek and departs, the green in the patterns on his face (some of his scales have grown to be a rich green, just as the purple among her own have developed a dark pink hue to create stripes and patterns across her body) sparkling, his brown eyes determined.

And Smallbelovedfoundbrother leaves to go on land.

Szise waits for him to return (though she knows, in her heart of hearts, that he won't) for many solitary years. She secludes herself from the people, delegating the ruling to a council of fish (who have already been practically running the kingdom for two centuries now, busy as she has been with the Salmon War), and quickly falls into legend.

And one night, when the loneliness is too much to bear, and she dreams of finding that small damaged egg in the sand and it being too damaged to survive, its heartbeat stuttering and fading as she holds it close and begs it to live—

One night, she decides to go find him herself.

And Protectorbluesafesister leaves to go on land.

She comes to an island, takes a deep breath, and crawls on land.

She immediately blacks out.

-

When she blinks awake, the blue sky above is blurry.

And then a reddish face comes into view, frowning at her.

"Are you here to lead us?" it asks, in a clicking and clacking tongue that she can somehow understand. "The prophecies always said a woman with pink scales would lead us."

Does she have pink scales?

"Okay," she responds, sitting up.

"What is your name, our queen?"

"Szise," she says.

It frowns. "Lizzie?"

And that's close enough.

Especially since she can't remember what she said in the first place.

-

Yimecht, however, isn't on the land.

He swims out toward it, and a scouting group of salmon catch him and bring him into custody, lock him up in the darkest dungeons in their part of the ocean.

There he stays for decades, taunted by the salmon guards, his trials extended and extended. He swims back and forth in his five-foot cell, waiting for his sister to save him, like she always has.

But when he is sentenced to death, his sister doesn't burst through the doors.

And Smallbelovedfoundbrother is dragged by four salmon to the surface, where the heavy land air will suffocate him slowly.

They push him onto the land, and he immediately blacks out.

-

He wakes.

He can't breathe.

There's a building, he can see, his vision blurring in and out. Maybe someone can help him.

He crawls to the building, heart pounding in his ears, movements stuttering.

Inside is a . . . a headdress, of some sort.

Something.

It draws him in, and he puts it on his head, and he can breathe.

When the two Cod soldiers find him, they bow instantly.

"Codfather," one says reverently, head down. "What is your name?"

"Yimecht," he says.

The Cod frowns. "Jimmy?"

And that's close enough.

Especially since he can't remember what he said in the first place.

-

A book washes ashore at the Crystal Cliffs, two months after Smallbelovedfoundbrother leaves his Protectorbluesafesister.

A very old, worn book, with unfamiliar letters.

And the old, wizened headmaster of the Crystal Cliffs Academy finds it, and ponders it, and places it in his secret library for further study.

And there it sits, forgotten, as he becomes too old to make the trip up the mountains.

The library, known only to him, is also forgotten when he suddenly passes two years later without appointing an heir.

There lies the only recorded history of the sea wyrm and the god Haer, and the offspring they created.

And within it lies the diary of Szise, picking up where the history book ends, with entries about the eggs, and losing all but one small and damaged, and raising her brother, and finally, her brother leaving to join the fight on land.

And many, many years later, the young ruler of Crystal Cliffs finds a door.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

4th February >> Fr. Martin's Reflections/Homilies on Today's Mass Readings for Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time (Inc. Mark 5:21-43): ‘My daughter, your faith has restored you to health’.

Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

Gospel (Except GB & USA) Mark 5:21-43 Little girl, I tell you to get up.

When Jesus had crossed in the boat to the other side, a large crowd gathered round him and he stayed by the lakeside. Then one of the synagogue officials came up, Jairus by name, and seeing him, fell at his feet and pleaded with him earnestly, saying, ‘My little daughter is desperately sick. Do come and lay your hands on her to make her better and save her life.’ Jesus went with him and a large crowd followed him; they were pressing all round him. Now there was a woman who had suffered from a haemorrhage for twelve years; after long and painful treatment under various doctors, she spent all she had without being any the better for it, in fact, she was getting worse. She had heard about Jesus, and she came up behind him through the crowd and touched his cloak. ‘If I can touch even his clothes,’ she had told herself ‘I shall be well again.’ And the source of the bleeding dried up instantly, and she felt in herself that she was cured of her complaint. Immediately aware that power had gone out from him, Jesus turned round in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my clothes?’ His disciples said to him, ‘You see how the crowd is pressing round you and yet you say, “Who touched me?”’ But he continued to look all round to see who had done it. Then the woman came forward, frightened and trembling because she knew what had happened to her, and she fell at his feet and told him the whole truth. ‘My daughter,’ he said ‘your faith has restored you to health; go in peace and be free from your complaint.’ While he was still speaking some people arrived from the house of the synagogue official to say, ‘Your daughter is dead: why put the Master to any further trouble?’ But Jesus had overheard this remark of theirs and he said to the official, ‘Do not be afraid; only have faith.’ And he allowed no one to go with him except Peter and James and John the brother of James. So they came to the official’s house and Jesus noticed all the commotion, with people weeping and wailing unrestrainedly. He went in and said to them, ‘Why all this commotion and crying? The child is not dead, but asleep.’ But they laughed at him. So he turned them all out and, taking with him the child’s father and mother and his own companions, he went into the place where the child lay. And taking the child by the hand he said to her, ‘Talitha, kum!’ which means, ‘Little girl, I tell you to get up.’ The little girl got up at once and began to walk about, for she was twelve years old. At this they were overcome with astonishment, and he ordered them strictly not to let anyone know about it, and told them to give her something to eat.

Gospel (GB) Mark 5:21-43 ‘Little girl, I say to you, arise.’

At that time: When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered about him, and he was beside the sea. Then came one of the rulers of the synagogue, Jairus by name, and seeing him, he fell at his feet and implored him earnestly, saying, ‘My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well and live.’ And he went with him. And a great crowd followed him and thronged about him. And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, and who had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was no better but rather grew worse. She had heard the reports about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his garment. For she said, ‘If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.’ And immediately the flow of blood dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. And Jesus, perceiving in himself that power had gone out from him, immediately turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my garments?’ And his disciples said to him, ‘You see the crowd pressing around you, and yet you say, “Who touched me?” ’ And he looked round to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling and fell down before him and told him the whole truth. And he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’ While he was still speaking, there came from the ruler’s house some who said, ‘Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?’ But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the ruler of the synagogue, ‘Do not fear, only believe.’ And he allowed no one to follow him except Peter and James and John the brother of James. They came to the house of the ruler of the synagogue, and Jesus saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. And when he had entered, he said to them, ‘Why are you making a commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him. But he put them all outside and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him and went in where the child was. Taking her by the hand he said to her, ‘Talitha cumi’, which means, ‘Little girl, I say to you, arise.’ And immediately the girl got up and began walking, for she was twelve years of age, and they were immediately overcome with amazement. And he strictly charged them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.

Gospel (USA) Mark 5:21-43 Little girl, I say to you, arise!

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a large crowd gathered around him, and he stayed close to the sea. One of the synagogue officials, named Jairus, came forward. Seeing him he fell at his feet and pleaded earnestly with him, saying, “My daughter is at the point of death. Please, come lay your hands on her that she may get well and live.” He went off with him and a large crowd followed him. There was a woman afflicted with hemorrhages for twelve years. She had suffered greatly at the hands of many doctors and had spent all that she had. Yet she was not helped but only grew worse. She had heard about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak. She said, “If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.” Immediately her flow of blood dried up. She felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. Jesus, aware at once that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who has touched my clothes?” But his disciples said to him, “You see how the crowd is pressing upon you, and yet you ask, Who touched me?” And he looked around to see who had done it. The woman, realizing what had happened to her, approached in fear and trembling. She fell down before Jesus and told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has saved you. Go in peace and be cured of your affliction.” While he was still speaking, people from the synagogue official’s house arrived and said, “Your daughter has died; why trouble the teacher any longer?” Disregarding the message that was reported, Jesus said to the synagogue official, “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” He did not allow anyone to accompany him inside except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they arrived at the house of the synagogue official, he caught sight of a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. So he went in and said to them, “Why this commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but asleep.” And they ridiculed him. Then he put them all out. He took along the child’s father and mother and those who were with him and entered the room where the child was. He took the child by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum,” which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise!” The girl, a child of twelve, arose immediately and walked around. At that they were utterly astounded. He gave strict orders that no one should know this and said that she should be given something to eat.

Reflections (8)

(i) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

When Jesus set out walking to the house of Jairus in response to Jairus’ urgent plea for this daughter, his urgent journey was interrupted by a woman who approached Jesus furtively for healing. Yet, Jesus gave himself fully to this interruption. He could have kept walking when the woman touched his clothing, but he attended to her in a very personal way. That was the call of the present moment for Jesus, even though he was on an urgent mission. In answering that call, he was doing God’s work, and the task he initially set out to accomplish did not suffer. Jairus had his daughter restored to him. The gospel reading encourages us to pay attention to the interruptions in life. What can seem like distractions can be where the Lord is calling us to be. When matters don’t turn out as we wanted because of some unexpected turn of events, it may not be the disaster that we think it is at the time. When what we had planned doesn’t quite come to pass, it can create the space for something else to happen that we did not plan for but which can have great value for ourselves and for others. Sometimes we need to embrace the interruptions, rather than just driving on with our head down towards the goal we have set for ourselves. We can misjudge where the real work lies. Sometimes the interruptions are our work, especially when they involve responding with compassion to the needs of others. When we set out on a journey, what happens on the way can be just as important as what happens at our destination.

And/Or

(ii) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

There are two stories in this morning’s gospel reading. There is the story of Jesus healing the daughter of Jairus and the story of the healing of the woman with a flow of blood. The woman’s condition not only cost her a lot of money on physicians but would have left her on the margins of the community. In virtue of her condition she would have been considered ritually unclean and would not have been able to attend the synagogue. On his way to the house of Jairus, Jesus is interrupted by this nameless woman who furtively touches the cloak of Jesus and, as a result, experiences healing of her condition. Although he is interrupted while on an important mission to heal Jairus’ daughter, Jesus looks to engage this woman in a very personal way. She simply wanted the most secretive and impersonal of contacts, the touching of Jesus’ cloak. Jesus wanted more. He sensed a woman of faith had touched him and had opened herself to the life-giving power of God’s kingdom at work within him. Jesus wanted to acknowledge this woman’s faith publicly; he wanted her to witness publicly to her own faith in him. When she comes forward to do so, Jesus assures this woman who had been excluded from the community that she belongs; he addresses her as ‘daughter’. She is as much a daughter of Abraham as anyone else. Jesus also acknowledges that while many people were touching him, her touching him was an act of faith that was life-giving for her. The story suggests that when we are heading somewhere and we are delayed or interrupted, the interruption can be just as important as the destination towards which we are journeying.  Jesus shows us that the interruption can often be an opportunity to reach out to someone in a way that leaves them with a greater sense of belonging.

And/Or

(iii) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

In this morning’s gospel reading, two people approach Jesus for help. One was a synagogue official named Jairus, a person of some standing in the community, who approached Jesus very publicly on behalf of his dying daughter. The other was a nameless woman who would have been excluded from the synagogue because of her condition and who approached Jesus very privately on her own behalf, discreetly touching the hem of his garment. For all their differences, these two people had something in common. Their need was great, and they approached Jesus in their need. They also shared a great trust in the power of Jesus to bring life where there was death. Faith in the Lord can bring together people who otherwise might have very little else in common. The church, the community of believers, is very diverse. All of humanity is there. The gospel reading also suggests that the Lord wants to engage with each one of us in our uniqueness. He wants a personal relationship with each of us. That is why he wanted to meet the woman who touched the hem of his cloak. He needed to look into her eyes, to talk to her, to confirm her faith that led her to him. The woman who wanted to be anonymous found herself addressed by Jesus as ‘my daughter’. The Lord calls each of us by name; he relates to us as the unique individual that we are.

And/Or

(iv) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

This morning’s gospel reading gives us two stories that are interconnected. At the centre of the two stories are two adults who differ greatly from each one. We are given the name of one, Jairus; he was a synagogue official and, therefore, a person of reasonably high social status and probably well to do. The other person is a woman, whose name we are not given; she had a condition which excluded her from the synagogue and had become impoverished because of her illness. Here we have two people from opposite ends of the social and religious spectrum. Yet, they have something in common and that is their trusting faith in Jesus as the Lord and giver of life. Jairus fell at Jesus’ feet in a very public way; the woman came up behind Jesus and secretly touched his cloak. One didn’t mind being noticed; the other didn’t want to be noticed. They approach Jesus in very different ways but their faith is equally strong. Yet, it was the woman that Jesus challenged to be more public about her faith, with the question, ‘Who touched me?’ The Lord looks to us to publicly witness to our trusting faith in him. Our public witness is a support to the faith of others.

And/Or

(v) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

Jesus asks many questions on the pages of the four gospels. It can sometimes be worthwhile to notice the questions he asks and to sit with them. In this morning’s gospel reading we have one of those questions, ‘Who touched me?’ The disciples found this a very strange question, ‘You see the crowd is pressing round you and yet you say, “Who touched me?”’ The disciples were saying, ‘how can you ask that question; there are dozens of people touching you’. Yet, Jesus knew that one person touched him in a way that was different. Many people were brushing up against him; one person took the initiative to make personal contact with him. When Jesus discovered who it was, he said to her, ‘your faith has restored you to health’. The woman was seeking him out in a way that was not true of others who were around him. The Lord is always passing by; he is always among us. Sometimes we can brush up against him without paying him much attention. The woman shows us the value of a very personal and very deliberate reaching out towards the Lord. The gospel reading suggests that this is how we will experience his life-giving presence in our lives.

And/Or

(vi) Tuesday, fourth week in Ordinary Time

In this morning’s gospel reading, two people approach Jesus in their need, one a well-to-do synagogue official and the other an impoverished woman. There is quite a difference in the way that each of them approaches Jesus. The synagogue official approaches him in a very public way, falling at Jesus’ feet and pleading with him earnestly before the crowd that was gathered around him. In contrast, the woman approached Jesus in a very private way, coming up behind him through the crowd and touching his cloak. She didn’t have the self-confidence of the synagogue official. Perhaps she felt unworthy to be approaching Jesus. After all, she was a woman; she was penniless; she had a physical condition that, under the Jewish Law, rendered her ritually unclean and prevented her from entering the synagogue. Yet, Jesus wanted a personal encounter with this woman; he wanted to engage publicly with her, just as he had engaged publicly with the synagogue official. That is why he asked aloud, ‘Who touched me?’ When the woman eventually came forward, Jesus addressed her as ‘My daughter’ and commended her for her faith. The gospel reading reminds us that the Lord does not make distinctions between people. He wants each one of us to approach him in trust as beloved sons and daughters regardless of where we find ourselves in life. There is nothing that need block us from confidently coming before the Lord in our need and opening ourselves to his personal presence to us.

And/Or

(vii) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

This morning’s gospel reading presents us with two interlocking stories. Two desperate people approach Jesus in their need, a man and a woman, a prominent person within the synagogue community and someone excluded from that community because of her physical condition. Both stories make reference to touching. Jairus pleads with Jesus to come and touch, lay his hands, on his seriously ill daughter, and Jesus goes on to take Jairus’ daughter by the hand and lift her up. The woman reaches out and touches the hem of Jesus’ cloak. In both stories, the act of touching brings life where there was death, healing where there was sickness. Both stories can speak to our own faith lives. The Lord wants to touch our lives in a healing and life-giving way, as he touched the life of Jairus’ daughter. The Lord does not relate to us at a distance. As he entered the home of Jairus and took his daughter by the hand, so he enters our homes, our lives, and takes us by the hand. He has entered fully into our human condition and meets each one of us where we are. The Lord who comes to us also desires us to come to him, like the woman in the gospel reading. As he touches our lives with his presence, he looks to us to touch his presence with our faith, like the woman. Michelangelo’s masterly painting of God creating Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel comes to mind. The Lord reaches out to touch our lives and, in doing so, moves us to reach out in faith and touch his presence to us.

And/Or

(viii) Tuesday, Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

The grief of David in the first reading is very moving. Even though his son Absalom had led a rebellion against his father, he was still David’s son and on hearing the news of Absalom’s death David grieved bitter tears, as any father would for a son, even a rebellious son. In the gospel reading, we hear of the death of a daughter, not a rebellious daughter but a young girl of twelve years of age. Her death causes people to grieve, to weep and wail unreservedly, in the words of the gospel reading. The death of children is especially heart-breaking, especially for the child’s parents. In the gospel reading, Jesus takes the child by the hand and restores her to life and instructs that she be given something to eat. The evangelist is showing us that the power of Jesus is stronger than the power of death. This became very evident to the early church in the light of the resurrection of Jesus. As believers in a risen Lord, we continue to grieve when a loved one dies. Yet, there is hope in our grief because we are convinced that the Lord is stronger than death. If we open ourselves in faith to the Lord, like Jairus and the woman with the flow of blood in the gospel reading, we will experience his life-giving power just as they did. Jesus remains the life-giver for all who turn to him in faith, both in the course of this earthly life and, especially, at the hour of our death.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[sleepvines]

Let's give Reed and Koda a proper introduction shall we?

Buckle up, this will be a long one.

(characters belong to @acewarden and I!)

Once, sailing on the crests of a great dark sea, there was a young man who inherited the ship and crew of his retiring mentor. He was a fine captain, surely, but he managed to invoke the crew's wrath through his thin facade of bravado and never-satisfied hunger for company. In truth, he was just lonely, and clumsily copying what he saw in the former captain's success.

A mutiny led to Captain Reed being confronted with his arrogant behaviour. The sheer anger and indignation drove the crew to throw him overboard The Albatross. This emotional swell was enough to curse him as he plummeted below the waves, twisting him into something piscine and forsaken. Thankfully it's what saved his life in the end. A captain should never know how to swim, lest the sea make him do it. And rarely, she teaches him how.

The crew would assume him dead and move on with their lives as he fled the scene, fear and rejection pushing him as far as he could get.

...But that's only the first half of his curse, with the second blooming out of acceptance and a true selfless act. The story of a strong friendship in motion and how he came to be who he is today.

~~~

Reed managed to drag himself to the shores of his coastal home: a dingy port town where goods and precious cargo passed through, but never stayed. He was unrecognizable in his new body, and took to drowning his emerging dysmorphia in drink and impersonal pleasure. Things that only made his pockets drain and his heart sink deeper than any hope of returning to life on The Albatross' deck. In desperation...he ached for any familiarity.

One of the crew, a lass by the name of Koda, happened to live in this town. Word was it that she left to find more stable work with the ship's tumultuous change in management, as she wasn't keen on working under those who would toss a man to the sea. Reed decided it was possible she could help him get on his feet again.

He sought her out one night. Reed a stranger, Koda a warm face. Though intimidating in appearance, she gave him a home to stay at without much question. She...had never had anyone ask to spend time with her in earnest. To be as tall and as bestial as she was made others keep her at an arm's distance. Her heart glimmered with hope when he didn't flinch, nor recoil. Still, he was a broken man these days, who had given up on his old persona and was left vulnerable. Koda kept him around, enjoying his company in his happier moments. Reed kept his old identity hidden, not wanting to be seen with resentment. They soon became friends.

It was one day out on the water, sailing in a small boat, that the two found themselves caught in a storm. It wasn't the kind of vessel that could withstand the danger. A wave crashed into the side of it's humble hull, and unable to brace herself, Koda fell into the sea.

Rather than flee with the boat...Reed cast off his coat and dove into the water to save his friend. She was heavy, and barely able to push an arm through the current. Listless, fading. Yet he still did not leave her behind. He pulled and kicked and wriggled until he felt the water give way and her body slump back into the boat. He barely had time to register how he had managed it until he himself succumbed to the unconscious.

The next morning, he awoke back at their home, in bed. Reed felt tremendously sore, and Koda had clearly been tending to him in the meantime. He was glad to see she had come out of the storm alive. Strangely enough his curse had extended further, which had granted him the strength to drag her to safety. The changes were...conflicting to say the least. But feeling it was the right time, he told her exactly who he was. Full story, start to finish.

And Koda? She didn't mind. If anything, to meet her former captain again as his genuine self was both a fulfilling experience and a decent closure to what she considered witnessing a murder. For Koda, it was even healing to harbor someone in her home who didn't fear her, no matter who it was. The truth only strengthened their bond, and as of now they remain close knit.

And that is that, the tale of a disgraced captain who learns to be himself, and an intimidating deckhand who learns she will not always be judged by her cover.

~~~

(Koda illustration by my friend @spearxwind! )

(headshot by me)

[glasyasbutch]

What Gets Left Behind (D&D Homework Week 1)

After James D'Amato's RPG Character Backstory Guide.

The last piece of Break that Day has left is the remains of her god piece. The shard of bone chipped off from the dead god's fossilized body that every Aegis gets implanted in them to bring their clay to life, and provide their magic, and link them to their past memories, and to the consciousness of every other Aegis.

The problem, of course, is that God may be infinite, but God's dead body is still a finite resource. Maybe they're not going to run out tomorrow, or soon, but they're going to run out eventually, and what happens then? The refusal of the Aegis to answer that question is what caused Day and Break to walk away the first time, and their stubborn refusal to acknowledge that Break had ever asked it is what caused Day to leave the second time.

A shattered god piece represents just about everything he found fault with in the Aegis, everything Break spent her life fighting against, which makes it all the more ironic that it's the only thing of hers that survived her destruction.

Former Flame

This object is related to a former passion. There was once something that moved you the way wealth, glory, or righteousness moves you now. Choose two five, then describe the detail in your own words: - I could not take this with me on the road. - My interest slowly waned over time until my heart had fully stolen away. - I could hold it in my hand and feel pride. - There were many in my life who smiled when they saw this. - Even now, I sometimes think of it during wistful nights. - This was crafted specifically for me with love. - I made this with my own hands.

"Her name, her full name, is 'Only once you break all earthly bond and dissolve into the astral sea shall you truly know god's fullness'. She went by many shortenings in the time I knew her. Earth, Bond, Sea, Full, True. Astral.

"Break.

"They were first created, the same as the rest of us, in a moment of pure divine desperation, by a god so angry at not being able to do anything that the earth itself rose up to enact His love for the mortal existence. They were created, the next five or so times, by His will as well. Struck down and melted into nothing but mud, only to reform in moments.

"After He was destroyed, we had to rely on each other for our creation. We took to building each other new forms each time one was lost, working together with careful eyes and hands to make sure all the details were just right. Whoever held them dearest would take the lead, their Sculptor. They had aid from the others, of course, we all cared a great deal for each other, and we'd spend a year working to get every last marking perfect. Then, on the final day, the ones among us with the steadiest hands would chip away a sliver of divinity from where he fell, sized to fit perfectly in your hand.

"We'd place it in their chest and stand by as the clay writhed and shuddered with new life, organs forming in the hollow chest cavity, blood pumping for the first time through empty veins, nerves exploding with sensation all at once. That was the most painful part, for them as well as their Sculptor, who would stand by and watch but know better than to touch them, as much as they might want to give comfort, as it might mar the clay that had not yet set.

"But it would pass. It would pass, and they would stand up and greet you with life in their chest again. You would know that you had done well when they smiled that same smile you'd been missing for a year and a day, and nothing had changed in a way that mattered.

"I sculpted her almost more times than I can remember, as she had sculpted me. Not every time, certainly not every time, but enough times that no one would challenge either of us for the role once we had claimed it. Hundreds of years of memories poured into her clay each time.

"She was everything to me - my mentor, my lover, my best friend, my protector, my partner, my guide, my creator, my creation. They were worth so much that I left our world with them, walked away from our demiplanar home and our life's work, just so that I would not have to leave their side.

"And there were no regrets in leaving. We found a new home, full of love and laughter even amongst the strife of adventure. Champion's Call, obviously. Everyone got along with her instantly, like she was meant to be there all along.

"Though my name is the one that evokes light, they were truly our beacon. Always the optimist, cool and calm against any threat, convincing the rest of us that we were going to fight and win and live through sheer will power. Outside of battle, the truest, kindest friend you could ask for. He was … our Break.

"She gave herself up for us, in the end. She stood between the planes so that we could all get out safe, running between two losing battlegrounds. They knew they could be rebuilt. They trusted me to remake them. And I did.

"But the things that allowed her to leave home the first time were … not quite so in this new form, and time had altered a few key factors in the social situation as well. So when I stepped back to rejoin my friends in retirement, she chose to remain behind."

Day sits for this interview, one of the few they ever managed to get pinned down for, formally describing their relationship with Break to some young and curious reporter with a notepad. It's uncomfortable, mostly because he's not used to this kind of attention the way the rest of the Call were. They all had the year after the planar split where they were hounded by people like this (and other, far less respectful ones) to get used to the questions and scrutiny. But Day had been doing as he described, a year and a day in the Aegis home plane, and only now was he facing the effects of his fame.

It feels strange to answer these questions, baring open the secrets of the Aegis. But then again, they've been around for hundreds of years, the legend is nothing new, and it's not like he's shared any details that people didn't already know at some point or another. Hopefully, he can end up correcting some of the truly egregious bits of misinformation out there.

Everything they say is all very formal, very planned (they sat down with Kez to practice their interview voice all of yesterday), just enough to make this reporter think they're getting the whole story. Just enough omission that they don't know where to ask the kind of prying questions that will really hurt to hear.

She fiddles with something in her hand as she talks, turning it over and over and over and over to keep calm. It looks like a stone, perhaps. Off white, rubbed smooth and shiny with wear. Sized perfectly to fit in her hand.

The reporter had eyed it when he slipped it out of his pocket before they sat down, but hadn't asked anything outright. "Just a worry stone," Day had told them, to keep them from getting curious later. "I'm not used to fame quite yet, still get anxious doing things like this - off the record, of course." This last bit said with a coy grin on Kez's advice, to imply that they're already quite comfortable, giving away perhaps a few extra details, so the reporter wouldn't feel the need to press for any.

"And I assume you miss her?" the reporter asks, eyes flitting up from their notepad for the first time in several minutes.

"You would assume correctly," Day answers, squeezing the item in her hand so tight it threatens to leave permanent marks in the clay of her palm. "Though, of course, I understand why she had to stay. And time has helped close the wound, at least part of the way."

"Do you think you'll ever see her again? That she'll leave - or that you'll return home?"

"Perhaps," and it's everything he can do not to shatter it, but he doesn't, he can't, it's all he has left of her. "I doubt she'll leave, but I may go back. Not any time soon though, I've got plenty of years still to keep the rest of the Call company out here before I go anywhere. And who's to say what will happen in those years to change my plans. We've already got one little one to see grow up, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were more soon."

Mention Callie getting pregnant if you need to change the subject, Kez had said. They'll drink that shit up like it's elvish firewine.

As promised, the reporter's eyebrows raise. "Are you implying the Edlynne family is expecting a second child?"

"No, no, not yet - at least as far as I'm aware." Day laughs, casually. The item is back to being turned, gently, between their fingers. "I'm just saying, Arthur and Callie have only fallen more in love in their retirement. Anything could happen."

The rest of the interview floats by, mostly questions about what it felt like to talk to a god as someone who was a direct creation of a god (intimidating, still), and whether they've visited any of the now-missing planes in any of their lifetimes (about half of them), and who in the Call would win at charades (Kez, not because of skill, but because of stubborn rules lawyering).

The interviewer stands up to shake their hand, Day returns the favor, and then quickly ducks out of the room, leaving them alone to gather their things in the parlor of Kez's tower. She's waiting for Day just up the stairs, arms ready for a hug that Day practically falls into. There's no tears, but there is a heaviness to it, enough that Kez has to guide them over to a chair and settle down across Day's lap, or else she wouldn't have been able to hold on to him.

"Why does it hurt so much to talk about?" Day mutters into their shoulder.

"Because it was everything, and now it's over." Kez's tone is soft, despite the matter-of-factness of their words. They've already had this conversation, several times, it's not like Day needs to hear the message. Just their voice.

"How on earth did you sit through so many of those things without losing it?"

"I was on WAYYYYYYY more drugs than you are right now, Daisy. Or drunk. Or both. Do you want something?"

"No. Maybe. No. … Later." Day repositions her head, unburying her face from his shoulder, turning sideways to press her cheek to his chest. She can hear his heartbeat, steady, strong, alive. "Can we just sit here for a bit?"

"Of course," Kez murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Day's head before threading a hand into their hair, keeping their head close.

They lightly squash and reform the locs beneath their fingertips, methodically working one of the more mold-able areas of clay in that way Day's always found calming. He hums contentedly, almost on cue. The godpiece is still in his hand, slung around Kez's back and resting near their hip.

He starts turning it over again, spinning with the same rhythm as Kez's fingers in his hair. He knows there's nothing there, really, but he can swear he feels a bit of energy sparking through it, into his hand. For a moment, just a moment, he can pretend all three of them are in one room again.

.

.

Broken Shackle

Before your life on the road, you suffered a persistent dread that you would end up condemned to a life of unnoticed misery. You were reminded of this fear every time you touched this object. Roll a d6 or choose, then describe the detail in your own words: - This was part of a profession you are glad to have escaped. - It was a way for society to punish what it did not understand. - Every detail whispers the dark promise of tedium. - Its delicate features make your strong hands feel ugly and unworthy. - It looked old and broken before you ever touched it and it looks much the same now. - This was given to you by someone with love in their eyes and pride in their heart.

The second to last look that Break ever held on her face was fear.

Fear that it would all be for nothing, that their little family would be torn apart if Thorn and Kez couldn't scramble through fast enough, that the cracks she could already feel climbing up her arms as she baked in the radiation of the space between planes would give out too soon and the rift would collapse and something devastating would happen.

Fear that she would not be strong enough to commit herself to this.

But that look faded quick enough, as she manged to stretch her hand out and yank Thorn through the portal, collapsing under the weight now borne on only one shattering arm.

They were all safe, she had kept them safe, she had kept the world safe. The planes were going to rip apart, and she was not going to get out in this last half a second, but that didn't matter in the slightest. She could see them all standing together, staring at her, in various stages of horror as they figured out what was happening.

Don't worry, she wants to say, but there isn't time. It doesn't hurt, she promises. I know what I'm doing, she thinks.

I chose this. I chose you. Every day I chose you, and I would never not choose you.

Do you believe me? I need you to believe me.

Everything I feel for you, it's written in my heart, in my core. If it's the last thing I do, I will give it to you, to make sure you believe me.

It's here, in my chest, Day put it there years ago. It's under my sternum. I can feel the cracks forming. The air's already hitting it, three inches deep.

Someone catch it, when I go.

Take it, hold it, feel it, so you know how much I cared for you, what I would have done for you, how I would have stood here crumbling for a thousand years for you, if it came to it. Take it and know, and let those sad, scared looks fall off your faces.

Don't worry. It doesn't hurt. I know what I'm doing.

I chose this. I chose you.

The last look Break ever held on her face was love.

.

.

Ghostly Comfort

Even if you despised your former life, there was at least one bright spot. What purpose did this serve? Choose one, then describe the detail in your own words: - It helped me sleep. - It reminded me of those I have lost. - It was a glimmer of beauty lost in ugliness. - It eased my pain.

They were in love until they weren't, because Day became too different of a person in the aftermath to feel those feelings the way he used to, they way they were expecting him to, like nothing had changed. He could fall back into the routine easy enough for a moment, a day, a week. But it was never going to be permanent. It was never going to be the way it used to be.

In the years since, you have tried unsuccessfully to recreate what you derived from this object. Write about the moment when you decided to discard your most recent attempt.

He tried pretty recently to reconnect, then ended up scrapping it and throwing it away: https://glasyasbutch.tumblr.com/post/748899769588596736/findings-in-the-waste-paper-basket-of-a-particular

Alternate answer, he tried pretty recently to reconnect, then ended up scrapping it and throwing it away:

"It really made me realize something, Kez, and you need to hear it. But you're going to hate it, so it's a good thing I'm telling you now, because I'm about to walk out that door and leave so you can get mad and strawman me as much as you need until you really process what I said to you ..."

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: Belief in The Hereafter: Part 1

What is the hereafter?

It is the eternal world to go to after this world.

Belief in the hereafter is one of the six fundamentals of belief.

1. Stages of Life in the Hereafter

There fourteen stages in the life in the hereafter:

1- Life in the grave

2- Blowing of the trumpet

3- Qiyama (Apocalypse)

4- Resurrection

5- Gathering

6- Delivering the book of deeds

7- Reckoning

8- Scale

9- Kawthar Pool

10- Sirat

11- Shafaat

12- Purgatory (Araf)

13- Hell

14- Paradise

1. Grave / Barzakh Life

A verse: “Then, He causeth him to die, and putteth him in his Grave; Then, when it is His will, He will raise him up (again).” (Abasa, 21-22).

The stage from the death of men in the world till they are resurrected after the apocalypse is called the life of grave. This life is also called “barzakh life or barzakh world” because it expresses the transitional period between the world and the hereafter. Barzakh means a drawback, barrier, or curtain between two things.

It is not necessary to put the body of a man in the grave for him to live the life in the grave. Whether the dead person is put into the grave or his body is eaten by wild animals or it is eaten by the fish in the sea or it is burnt to ashes, his life in the grave starts. It would be better to use the term barzakh life in order to prevent misunderstanding because grave means a place dug in the ground.

Our Prophet Hazrat Muhammad (PBUH) describes life in the grave as “the first stop of the hereafter” in a hadith (Tirmidhi, Zuhd, 5). In another hadith, our prophet Hazrat Muhammad (PBUH) says: “Grave is either a garden from the gardens of Paradise or a hole from the holes of Hell” (Tirmidhi, Qiyama, 26) , stating that there will be torture or reward in the life in the grave.

In yet another hadith he says;

“After man dies and is put into the grave two angels called Munkar and Nakir will come and ask him questions like “Who is your Lord? Who is your Prophet? What is your religion?…. The believer answers these questions easily. As for the unbeliever, he cannot answer them and suffers grave torture” (Tirmidhi, Janaiz, 70), informing us about the life that will last till the day of resurrection.

2. Soor (Trumpet) and Blowing of the Trumpet

The trumpet is an instrument blown by the angel Hazrat Israfel to start the apocalypse and after the apocalypse to resurrect people and to gather them in the gathering place. According to what the Quranic verses tell us Hazrat Israfel will blow the trumpet twice. During the first blowing everything on the earth and in the heavens, except what Allah wishes, will be shaken fearing it and die and the apocalypse will take place. With the second blowing, everything will be resurrected and will run towards their Lord in order to gather in the gathering place. Let’s give two of these verses as an example:

“The Trumpet will (just) be sounded, when all that are in the heavens and on earth will swoon, except such as it will please Allah (to exempt). Then will a second one be sounded, when, behold they will be standing and looking on!” (Zumar, 68).

“The trumpet shall be sounded, when behold! from the sepulchers (men) will rush forth to their Lord!” (Ya Seen, 51).

3. Qiyama (Apocalypse)

Qiyama has two meanings: the first one is the breakdown of the order in the universe, everything turning upside down, destruction of everything and the end of the world.

The second is the resurrection of dead people and their walk towards the gathering place. Qiyama in the first sense will start with the first blowing of the trumpet by Hazrat Israfel, in the second sense with the second blowing. So qiyama is a very important event that involves the death of all men and their resurrection.

The Quranic verses inform us about it. Allah states the following in one of the verses about qiyama:

“O mankind! fear your Lord! For the convulsion of the Hour (of Judgment) will be a thing terrible! The Day ye shall see it, every mother giving suck shall forget her suckling-babe, and every pregnant female shall drop her load (unformed): thou shalt see mankind as in a drunken riot, yet not drunk: but dreadful will be the Wrath of Allah.”(Al-Hajj, 1-2.).

"He (man) questions: "When is the Day of Resurrection?” At length, when the Sight is dazed, And the moon is buried in darkness. And the sun and moon are joined together―That Day will Man say “Where is the refuge?” By no means! no place of safety! Before thy Lord (alone), that Day will be the place of rest” (al-Qiyama, 6-12).

Although the Quran mentions qiyama often, it does not answer the questions about the time of it and emphasizes that no one except Allah has any knowledge about it. Our Prophet (PBUH) gives some information in his hadiths that there will be some signs of the qiyama when it approaches.