#the solitary castle in the mirror

[drink-n-watch]

The Solitary Castle in the Mirror - Manga First Impression

Once you decide that fan translations are ok, it’s difficult to stop. Yup, The Solitary Castle in the Mirror is another manga that hasn’t quite been officially licensed yet. It’s actually based on a novel that might have an official translation. I’m afraid I didn’t do my homework there. The original title is Kagami no Kojou so there’s a chance the official English title might not be the same as I…

[r0ugesun]

The Great War

Beta read by @moonstruksandco 👩🏽‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏾

Chapter 1 (1/?)

Synopsis: On Dragonstone, tensions rise as war looms on the horizon and the Targaryen family braces for conflict. Jacaerys discovers y/n, his enigmatic stepsister, secretly training with their formidable father, Daemon Targaryen. Initially at odds and harboring deep seated resentment, Jacaerys and y/n’s relationship evolves from adversaries to reluctant allies. As they confront their shared secrets and familial expectations, they find themselves drawn to each other.

Warnings: slow burn infidelity(sorry baela)period accurate misogyny eventual smut

Jace Velaryon x Reader

Drāñe aōha nykeōragon! (Widen your stance!)

Adere! (Faster)

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting an amber glow across the gardens of the Red Keep. The air was rich with the fragrance of blooming roses, their petals kissed by the evening dew. Within the shadows of the castle walls, a solitary figure moved with grace and precision, the sound of clashing steel echoing through the corridors.

Y/n targaryen, the last daughter of Daemon and Laena, had grown accustomed to the isolation her father's overprotectiveness had imposed. As the youngest and final remnant of her mother's legacy, she bore the weight of her father's undying devotion and his refusal to let her be betrothed. Unlike her sisters, who had dragons and betrothals to occupy their thoughts, y/n had been denied these privileges no her rights, her father's fierce love turning to a cage of golden bars.

In the stillness of the training yard, she faced her father, their swords a blur of motion. Daemon, the Rogue Prince, had been her mentor for years, y/n held a sword in her hand before she even learned to walk, his rigorous training instilling in her a mastery of the blade that rivaled the finest knights of Westeros. Their practice sessions were a secret kept from prying eyes, a testament to Daemon's belief in her strength and his desire to keep her hidden from the suitors who sought her hand.

"You must be quicker, daughter" Daemon admonished, parrying her strike with ease. "Your opponent will not grant you the luxury of hesitation."

Y/n's eyes narrowed, her lips forming a determined line as she pressed her attack, their swords ringing out in the twilight. She was a vision of fierce beauty, her movements a dance of deadly elegance. It was in these moments, away from the court's scrutiny, that she felt truly alive.

She stepped back, adjusting her grip on the hilt, her muscles taut with effort and determination. Each clash of their blades sent vibrations through her arms, but she did not falter.

"Ao vāedis!" (You hesitate!) Daemon's voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding. His eyes, a mirror of her own, bore into her with intensity.

"Ao rūs!" (You retreat!)

Y/n growled, a sound of frustration and resolve mingled, as she advanced once more. This time, she let her instincts take over, her body moving with the fluid grace of a dragon in flight. Her sword sliced through the air, a deadly arc aimed at Daemon's side. He barely had time to deflect it, his lips twitching in approval.

"Better" he murmured, their swords locked together in a struggle of strength.

With a swift movement, he disarmed her, sending her blade skittering across the stone floor. Y/n stumbled back, her chest heaving with exertion.

"Again," he commanded, not giving her a moment's respite.

Y/n retrieved her sword, her mind racing. She needed to find a way to break through his defenses. The moon had risen high, casting a silvery light over the training yard, illuminating their fierce battle.

As they resumed their sparring, Y/n could feel the burn of fatigue creeping into her limbs, but she pushed it aside. This was her chance to prove herself, to show her father that she was not just a daughter to be protected, but a warrior to be reckoned with.

Their movements became a blur of speed and precision, the clang of steel filling the night air. With a final burst of energy, Y/n feinted to the left and then swung her blade in a wide arc, catching Daemon off guard. The tip of her sword rested against his chest, a triumphant smile curling her lips.

Daemon looked down at the blade, then up at his daughter, a rare smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "Well done." He said “but-”

and Daemon’s smile was fleeting, quickly replaced by a serious expression. voice carrying both pride and challenge, "-not quite enough."

Before Y/n could react, Daemon moved with a sudden burst of speed. He sidestepped her blade, bringing his own sword up in a sweeping arc that left her no room to maneuver. With a flick of his wrist, he disarmed her once more, sending her sword spinning away.

Y/n fell to her knees, panting heavily, her body drenched in sweat. She looked up at Daemon, her face a mix of frustration and respect. "You *pant* beat me… again" she said, her voice trembling with fatigue. No matter how skilled a warrior she thought she was, six men or sixty, he is still Daemon Targaryen. Or so the saying goes.

Daemon extended a hand to her, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "I know what you’re capable of. You have the blood of the dragon, but you need to hone it into something more than mere fire. Strength alone won’t win battles."

Y/n took his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. Despite her exhaustion, a flicker of determination sparked in her eyes. "I understand" she said, her voice firm. "And I will continue to fight, to become better, until I surpass even you."

Daemon’s gaze held hers, a mixture of challenge and pride evident. "Then keep fighting" he said.

—————————————

Jacaerys sat in the grand common room of Dragonstone, his attention flickering between Baela’s animated chatter and the expansive view of the island’s rugged landscape through the window. The day had turned gray, with clouds rolling in over the sea, casting a dim light over the stone walls. Baela’s voice, though pleasant, faded into a gentle murmur, its rhythm lost against the backdrop of his restless thoughts.

“...and then Ser Greyjoy said—” Baela’s words trailed off as she noticed Jacaerys’s distracted gaze. She studied him for a moment, a hint of concern in her eyes. “Jace, you seem miles away. Are you feeling unwell?”

Jacaerys shook himself from his reverie, offering a polite, if lackluster, smile. “Uh yes, Baela. Just….a bit weary. I think I’ll take a stroll before dinner.”

Baela’s brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you later.”

With a polite nod and a murmured farewell, Jacaerys rose from his seat and exited into the cool, dim-lit corridors of the castle. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of salt and stone as he meandered through the labyrinthine passages. His footsteps echoed softly against the ancient walls, a rhythmic counterpoint to his wandering thoughts.

Jacaerys continued his aimless wander through Dragonstone, seeking solace from his mounting boredom. His footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone, the castle’s grandeur lost on him as he drifted through its labyrinthine corridors. The chill in the air hinted at the coming of a storm, and the gray light seeping through the narrow windows did little to lift his spirits.

As he rounded a particularly dim and winding corridor, he stumbled upon a concealed door, partially obscured by a heavy tapestry. Curiosity sparked, he pushed it open, revealing a hidden staircase descending into shadows. He stared at the weathered stone, its been abandoned for gods knows who how long, should he leave? Alert a guard maybe? Driven by a sudden intrigue, Jacaerys made his way down, his steps echoing softly underfoot.

At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in a secluded training area, its walls lined with worn, wooden dummies and scattered practice weapons. The room was illuminated by a few flickering torches, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone floor. The sound of clashing swords filled the air, sharp and rhythmic, each strike echoing with the intensity of a serious duel.

Jacaerys edged closer, his heart quickening with anticipation. Through a narrow opening, he glimpsed the source of the commotion. Y/n and Daemon were engaged in a fierce training session, their swords moving with a fluidity and precision that left Jacaerys utterly breathless.

Y/n’s form was a revelation—her movements were both powerful and graceful, each strike and parry executed with a mastery that belied her royal status. Sweat glistened on her brow, and her violet eyes were alight with fierce determination. She wielded her sword with a natural ease, her skill evident in every fluid motion.

Daemon, for his part, matched her with his usual blend of skill and intensity, his focus unwavering as he guided her through the relentless practice. The dynamic between them was electric, a testament to both their expertise and the depth of their training.

Jacaerys watched from the shadows, utterly mesmerized. The sight of Y/n, a princess so adept in the art of combat, was both astonishing and captivating. She moved with a raw, unrestrained energy, each clash of swords sending a thrill through him. Her dedication and strength were palpable, breaking the mold of what he had expected from someone of her rank.

Unable to tear his eyes away, Jacaerys remained hidden, his fascination growing with every moment. The intensity of the training session unfolded before him, leaving him awestruck by Y/n’s sheer skill and determination.

the clashing of swords continued, Jacaerys remained concealed in the shadows, his eyes never leaving Y/n. The way she moved was almost hypnotic, she seemed to embody the very essence of a warrior of a dragon, each movement fluid and deliberate. The torchlight cast flickering patterns on her face, highlighting the fierce concentration in her eyes as she parried Daemon’s relentless attacks.

Daemon, despite his usual stoic demeanor, displayed a rare warmth in his gaze as he watched Y/n. It was clear that their training was more than just a lesson, it was a mutual respect, a shared passion for the art of combat. Jacaerys could see the bond between them, an unspoken understanding that transcended mere instruction.

Y/n’s breaths came in measured bursts, her face flushed with exertion but her spirit unbroken. Each time Daemon disarmed her, she would swiftly retrieve her sword, her resolve unshaken. It was as if she was fueled by an inner fire, a drive to prove herself beyond the constraints of her royal title.

Jacaerys could scarcely believe what he was witnessing. The sight of a princess so engaged in combat, with such raw and unfiltered skill, was both shocking and awe-inspiring. His admiration grew with each passing moment, the image of her unwavering focus and strength imprinted on his mind.

As the training session drew to a close, Y/n’s movements slowed, her fatigue evident. She took a moment to catch her breath, wiping the sweat from her brow. Daemon approached, his expression one of quiet pride, and extended a hand to her. Y/n grasped it, allowing him to help her to her feet with a tired but triumphant smile.

Jacaerys, still hidden, felt a pang of regret that he had not revealed himself. The moment was too intimate, too profound, to intrude upon. Yet he was overwhelmed by the urge to learn more about this remarkable new side to the princess who defied every expectation.

As Y/n and Daemon walked away, Jacaerys emerged from his hiding place, the hidden training ground now feeling like a precious secret he had stumbled upon. He retraced his steps, his mind racing with the revelation of Y/n’s skill and the realization that she was not just a mere princess but a formidable warrior.

________________________

As Jacaerys took his place beside Baela, the grand dining hall was alive with the clinking of silverware, the low murmur of conversation, and the rich aroma of the feast. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her regal presence commanding respect, while Daemon loomed at the far end, his imposing figure a constant reminder of his authority.

But Jacaerys was anything but focused on the feast. His mind was a whirlwind, consumed by the revelation of Y/n’s true nature. Seated a few places away, she engaged animatedly with Daemon, her relaxed demeanor concealing a fierce intensity that left Jacaerys utterly stunned. He struggled to maintain his composure, his heart racing as he tried to anchor himself in the present, focusing on Baela beside him.

Baela, clearly noticing his distraction, leaned in with a hint of irritation. “You’re unusually distant today, Jace. What’s on your mind?”

Jacaerys forced a strained smile, his mind still reeling from the discovery. “Just a bit distracted, Baela. Nothing to worry about.”

Baela’s gaze followed his distracted line of sight to Y/n. “You seem particularly absorbed in Y/n. You’ve hardly interacted with her before.”

Jacaerys’s mind was in turmoil, grappling for a coherent explanation. “She… she seems different tonight. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.”

Baela’s expression grew sharper. “Y/n has always been somewhat aloof, and her attitude towards you has been especially cold. So what’s changed with her my prince?”

Jacaerys’s cheeks burned as he struggled to compose himself. “I didn’t realize… I suppose I’ve never had much reason to engage with her.”

As if on cue, Y/n glanced up from her conversation with Daemon and caught Jacaerys’s gaze. Her eyes narrowed, and a sneer formed on her lips. “If you’re going to stare, might I suggest you find a less conspicuous way of doing it?”

Jacaerys’s heart raced, and he quickly looked away, his face flushed crimson with embarrassment and panic. He cleared his throat, his voice shaky. “My apologies, Y/n. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Baela’s tone was clipped as she observed his reaction. “It’s clear she’s not fond of your attention. Maybe you should focus on our conversation.”

Jacaerys shifted in his seat, his mind still reeling. “Yes, of course.”

As the evening progressed, Jacaerys struggled to stay present. His thoughts kept spiraling back to the shocking realization, Y/n was not just the aloof youngest sister of his betrothed but a fierce warrior who could likely best the finest knights. The weight of this revelation was almost too much to bear. His heart pounded, his mind raced with questions, and he felt an overwhelming sense of urgency and confusion. Balancing his engagement to Baela with this newfound, intense fascination for Y/n was a struggle that left him grappling with a storm of emotions, trying desperately to appear calm while his internal world was anything but.

_______________

Jacaerys lay in his bed, the luxurious sheets offering little comfort as he stared up at the canopy, his mind a tumultuous storm. The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of a solitary candle, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Despite the late hour, sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of Y/n swam before him, a relentless tide of thoughts he couldn’t control.

He had seen Y/n countless times over the years, always regarding her as inconsequential, just another member of the extended family. But tonight had shattered that illusion. The memory of her fierce intensity, her casual yet commanding presence, played over and over in his mind. His heart still raced with the revelation that she was so much more than he had ever imagined.

“Seven hells,” Jacaerys muttered, turning over in bed for what felt like the hundredth time. The shock of seeing her sparring, her skill and strength evident, had turned his world upside down. How had he missed this? How had he been so blind?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the thoughts, but they only grew stronger. Her fierce eyes, the way she had sneered at him, the effortless grace in her movements—these images were seared into his mind. He realized that her aloofness, her distance, had all been an act. The real Y/n was formidable, a force to be reckoned with.

The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying. His mind raced with questions. Had anyone else known? Had baela and rhaena? How long had she been hiding this side of herself? And why?

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being an intruder, someone who had stumbled upon a closely guarded secret. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that his perception of her had been completely wrong. She wasn’t just the youngest sister of his betrothed, she was a warrior, and he had to know more.

He had an insatiable desire to understand her, to learn more about the real Y/n. The very thought made his heart pound even harder.

———————-

Rolling out of bed, jace knew he couldn’t wait until morning. He had to confront her, to get answers. Pulling on his clothes with a sense of urgency, he left his chambers, navigating the dimly lit corridors with purpose.

He made his way to the same tapestry from earlier and pulled it back to reveal the hidden stairwell. It was eerily quiet, the moon casting a silvery glow through the cracks of the ceiling illuminating over the grounds. His heart raced as he approached, hoping to find her there.

Sure enough, there she was. Y/n stood alone, her sword in hand, practicing her forms with a precision that took his breath away. She moved with the fluidity of a dancer and the deadly intent of a warrior.

Jace ventured forth, his footsteps hesitant yet purposeful. His heart pounded in his chest, driven by an insatiable curiosity that would not be quelled. He watched her, mesmerized, as she wielded her sword with a grace that belied its lethal intent.

He stepped forward, the gravel beneath his feet betraying his presence. Her head snapped up, eyes widening in shock before narrowing into a glare of cold fury. "Jacaerys!? What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice a mix of surprise and irritation.

"I-I couldn't sleep" he stammered, advancing tentatively. "I saw you slip away and... I followed you."

She blinked, the incredulity plain on her face. "Why? What possesses you to intrude upon my solitude?"

"I just... I had to know," he mumbled, his gaze faltering under her scrutiny. "Why you're training like this. Why in secret."

"It is none of your concern" she retorted, lowering her sword yet maintaining a stance of wary readiness. "Leave, jacaerys."

But he remained steadfast, words tumbling from his lips in a desperate attempt to explain. "No, I mean... I want to understand. This side of you... it’s different."

Her eyes flashed with a tempest of anger. "You ought not to be here. How did you even find me?"

He shrugged, still fumbling for coherence. "I just... I was talking with baela and then took a walk and the tapestry was there and you-, and... I don't know, I followed it down. And, um... I saw you training with Daemon the other day, you were incredible really" he added, an awkward laugh escaping him. "I didn't mean to spy, but—"

She cut him off, her voice seething with fury. "You spied on me with father? You have no right—"

"I know, I know" Jace interjected, hands raised in a gesture of placation. "But I was curious, I had no idea I would find you here. You are….exceptionally skilled, and I wanted to comprehend why you kept this hidden."

Her grip tightened on the hilt of her sword, knuckles white with anger. "You had no right to follow me or to spy on me. This is my business, not yours. Leave at once."

"…No," Jace said, though his voice quivered with uncertainty. He reached for a sword from the rack, clutching it tightly. "I… I want you to train with me."

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a scowl. "You think you can match me? Very well. But if I win, you leave me alone. Forever."

Jace nodded, determination flickering in his eyes despite the apprehension. He took his stance, readying himself. As they squared off, he was acutely aware of the disparity in their skills. He had been trained by Ser Harwin and his father, Ser Laenor, both formidable fighters. Yet, the difference in their skill became glaringly apparent as soon as the duel commenced.

She moved with a fluidity and precision that seemed almost effortless. Jace, while not unskilled, found himself struggling to keep up. Her blade was a blur of motion, each strike landing with an ease that belied her skill. Jace’s attempts to block and parry were clumsy in comparison, his sword heavy in his hand, his movements less coordinated.

With a deft sidestep, she evaded his clumsy counterattack, her blade flicking out to land a sharp, stinging blow against his side. Jace grunted, stumbling back as he tried to regain his footing. He tried to press the attack, his strikes intended to be forceful and precise, but she anticipated and dodged each one with practiced grace.

Her training under Daemon was evident in every movement. Her speed and control were extraordinary, a product of years of rigorous instruction. Jace, despite his own solid training, was outmatched by the sheer finesse of her techniques. His blade wavered as he fought to keep pace, his breath coming in short, labored gasps.

She continued her relentless assault, her strikes not only precise but delivered with a speed that left him barely able to react. He attempted to anticipate her moves, but she was always a step ahead, her sword flashing through the air with a deadly grace that rendered his defenses ineffective.

Finally, with a decisive strike, she disarmed him, sending his sword clattering to the ground. He fell to one knee, panting heavily, his face flushed with exhaustion. Her blade hovered above him, a clear indication of her superior skill.

"Stay away from me" she commanded coldly, her voice laced with a fierce finality.

Jace, still on the ground, looked up at her with a mix of admiration and frustration. He nodded, breathless and defeated. "I’ll let you be…. For now."

With a final, disdainful glance, she turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the stillness. Jace remained where he was, his resolve both tested and strengthened by the encounter. The duel had not only shown him the breadth of her training but also deepened his determination to understand the enigmatic warrior.

[deancashorrorfest]

We're Baaack... And Bigger than Ever

Come one, come all to the third year of Dean🔪Cas Horrorfest! We've got ghouls and gore, gays and theys! Cannibalism as far as the eye can see! Truly a feast for the senses.

This year I tasked these horrific creatures with a reverse round and they really ate the competition. Below the cut, you'll find things beyond any human comprehension.. Viewer beware, you're in for a scare.

Any Way That You Want Me | M | 10,455 It should have been a cake walk. Get in, investigate the haunted house, and figure out where to dig, salt and burn. But when Cas somehow gets cursed - trapped inside the house's mirrors - Dean finds himself in a race against time. Each day Cas' strength is fading. It's up to Dean to find a solution by digging through the house and the belongings of the former owner.

What he uncovers in the house may change everything. Link to Fic | Link to Art Wicked Muse | E | 15,673 Castiel Novak is a solitary creature. Corporate engineer by day, serial killer by night, and always by himself. Just the way he likes it. Until a new coworker's long, bowed legs, green eyes, and crooked smile catch his eye. He's certain he'll have to kill Dean, at first. He can't afford distractions, living the double life that he does. When the time comes, though, he just can't bring himself to do it. Artistic inspiration, long dormant in Castiel's life, replaces murderous intent.  As his obsession grows, so too does a newfound wish that he could share the deepest, darkest depths of himself with Dean. That Dean would understand, would accept, would even celebrate Castiel's bloody inclinations. But that's absurd. Unthinkable. Dean isn't like that. Is he? Link to Fic | Link to Art Herbicidal | T | 8,249 Dean is settled. His relationship with Cas is going strong, he has a place to call home, and his biggest problems are run-of-the-mill cases and unruly teenagers who think they know everything there is to hunting. Hell, he even plays with the thought of retiring. But then something starts killing people left and right in Lebanon, and Dean and Cas are faced with a case and a foe they have no idea what to do about. Link to Fic | Link to Art Oubliettes of Stone and Sky | T | 9,214 Dean is trying to sacrifice himself for his country like any good king would, and Cas has been sent to stop him. Cas has to keep Dean hostage while journeying through a dust storm and a castle with a mummy inside. Dean is waiting for the chance to escape--and Cas is ready to capture him again. Link to Fic | Link to Art Angel in the Ivory Castle | G | 20,074

Castiel's family is royalty in another world that has lived in peace for many years until recently a darkness has started to spread which has slowly overtaken the beautiful green fields they'd once walk through. Creatures have become corrupted, twisted and turned into something grotesque. Castiel was sent to the other world to find the being he is bonded to in which it's been rumored to save their world but in reality they know what's left doesn't look worth the risk. Link to Fic | Link to Art

Dean and Castiel vs. Evil | E | 31,451

Castiel is trying to survive a camping trip in the Appalachians with his annoying fraternity brothers. At a nearby cabin, Dean is trying to clean up the remains of his and Sam’s recent vamp hunt. Both Dean and Castiel wouldn’t mind exploring their mutual attraction.

But there’s a problem: due to a series of misunderstandings, Castiel’s friends are convinced that Dean and Sam are serial killers. The fact that Castiel's friends keep dying in increasingly grisly ways doesn't help matters. Is there really a killer on the loose? And will Dean and Cas ever manage to score some alone time? Link to Fic | Link to Art

Vacation Interrupted | M | 9,158 Dean can’t remember the last time he took a vacation. Fighting monsters is basically all he’s ever known. They’ve defeated Chuck and Dean finally grew a pair and confessed his feelings and Cas reciprocated. The two of them, along with Sam and Eileen, decide to dip their toes in the sand and take a vacation since the world is relatively monster free. Or at least they thought it was until a Kraken decided to ruin their vacation and start killing people, almost taking Dean for its next victim if Castiel didn’t rescue him in time. So much for a relaxing vacation. Link to Fic | Link to Art Communion | E | 53,639

Few areas in the world are subject to the polar night phenomenon, a period where the sun never rises above the horizon.

When Castiel Novak reaches out to the Winchesters for help, convinced that vampires are about to descend upon one such town during the upcoming polar night, the boys head up to Point Hollow, Alaska to clear the nest before night falls.

What was meant to be a three-day stay devolves into sixty-five days of bloodshed and darkness as resources dwindle and bodies start dropping. Overwhelmed by the calculated organization of the creatures and the size of their nest, it quickly becomes clear that there’s more to the ‘vampires’ than initially seemed.

They’re cunning, they’re ancient, and they’re powerful—and they’ll stop at nothing to be satisfied. But between the starving people and starving creatures, Dean manages to find solace in Castiel—who just might be holding a secret himself. A secret that is key to destroying the creatures and their master, once and for all. Link to Fic | Link to Art Romancing the Exit Sign | E | 125,370

A teenage boy is left to die in a shallow grave and something slithers into his bones. Devotees of an ancient god work to bring Her into the world, as with equivalent fanaticism, a man on a mission picks them off one by one. A lonesome drifter crosses paths with a mysterious stranger and finds himself inexorably drawn into the middle of it all.

Dean Winchester is adrift. All he has is his car, the next hunt, and a conversation he doesn’t want to have waiting for him in California. Then a case involving mangled bodies washing up on shore in an idyllic lakeside community puts him on the trail of a man calling himself Castiel, and the dangerous web he’s entangled in. Dean is used to living in a world of monsters, but the End of Days is a little out of his wheelhouse. Especially when his only ally is determined to keep his secrets behind his teeth, even as they draw closer together. Still, he intends to see things through, no matter how dark the path ahead gets.

It’s either that, or call his brother. Link to Fic | Link to Art Survivalism | E | 14,067

Genetic engineers Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are on the verge of a breakthrough in cancer treatment and possibly even a cure, using genetic manipulation and incredibly, shark DNA.

Following a devastating diagnosis of brain cancer, and amid growing pressure from his boss, Dick Roman, for results, Castiel is pushed to an act of desperation. He tests the cure on himself with disastrous and violent results.

He has never been so hungry. Link to Fic | Link to Art

These Hallways Echo | M | 10,290 Loneliness. Previously, Dean Winchester had thought he knew the definition of the word, the way it felt to be isolated. That was wishful thinking. It’s here and now, in these never-ending corridors of winding walls and this damn carpet with the nauseating pattern, where Dean discovers the true meaning of being alone. Solitary. Detached. The man hears ghosts, echoes of conversations long since over, but there’s nobody for him to speak to. Dean sees the phantoms of late vacationers stepping through doorways or occupying beds but he can never get anybody’s attention. No one stops to hear him. Not a single soul has looked him in the eye or acknowledged that he, too, is trapped here. Caught in this unending hallway where time means nothing and waiting for tomorrow is fruitless. Link to Fic | Link to Art Ground Control to Major Tom | E | 21,506 Dean Winchester dreamed of being a mechanic all his life, but he never thought he would end up working as a mechanic for NASA and going into space. He is thrust into his first ever space mission after a strange lunar body, dubbed Luna-b I, mysteriously appears in Earth’s sky. Teams of astronauts scramble up to the permanent lunar base and begin analysis to determine if the blue orb is any threat to mankind. Most of the first team is sent home after a few months, nearly all of them having fallen ill with devastating cases of space sickness. As time goes on, it becomes clear that something altogether unnatural is going on here. Dean feels like he’s losing his mind as he and his crewmates also begin to succumb to sickness. He races to figure out what could possibly be the root cause. Is Luna-b I really just some weird, deep space rock that got caught in the Moon’s orbit by chance? Or is it something much more sinister, watching and waiting for the opportune moment? Link to Fic | Link to Art The Forgotten Halls | T | 9,337 A long time from now — maybe decades, maybe centuries — there are only the Halls, and the Entity, and the Angel. They exist in harmony, mostly. When an outsider changes their routine, a routine so long-standing that the Angel remembers nothing that had come before it, the disturbance will threaten the fabric of their entire universe. Link to Fic | Link to Art It's Got A Death Curse | E | 19,101 Dean and his friends have been coming to Camp Garrison for years, first as campers, then as counselors. Their last summer together kicks off with a bang when a figure from their dark past reappears and buried secrets from a near-forgotten tragedy threaten to resurface. It only gets worse when a storm rolls in, and the night becomes a gory fight for survival. The camp may not have electricity, but it's got a death curse. Link to Fic | Link to Art ghost, zero, suitcase & the moon | M | 19,433

Dean has always known it was ending. The world, that is. He knew it when he was three, awake and screaming in the middle of the night with the image of fire leaving an afterburn behind his eyelids. He knew it while he learned to ride a bike, while he went to his first school dance, had his first kiss, tipped back his first beer with his dad. He knew it when dad left, too. When Sammy died. When it all began to crumble.

He has always known it was ending. Now he's alone in a cabin somewhere so far north and so far west that he thinks half the continent never knew it existed in the first place, and he's got the same damn nightmares, the same burn behind his eyes, and the sense that ending is a verb that goes on and on into eternity and outside of time. Link to Fic | Link to Art Rosewood | T | 5,099

Dean believes a lot of things.

He believes the manner of his death was decided by his father the very night that yellow-eyed demon ripped his mom away from him.

He believes he’ll die, broken and bloody and alone on a hunt, and anything Cas does only delays the inevitable.

He believes he doesn’t deserve to be saved.

Dean knows Cas will do it anyway.

Months after Mrs. Butters leaves the bunker, intent on finding a home of her own, a peaceful section of pines set deep into the American heartland becomes anything but. Haunted by Purgatory at every turn, and forced to confront the consequences of decades of torture and abandonment at the hands of his predecessors, Dean and Cas set off to solve a string of disappearances in the forest where they stumble across a familiar face -- and an all-too-familiar feeling. Link to Fic | Link to Art MAW | M | 8,575

The world is full of sorrow, of sadness, of pain. The people within it deserve better than what Castiel's father gave them. They deserve peace and contentment, security and love. They deserve a New World.

And there is no safer place than inside Castiel. Link to Fic | Link to Art hold my hand until it bleeds | E | TBD The five years that Alistair did nothing but beat him. The feeling of no longer having skin. The feeling of no longer having flesh. The feeling of being nothing but bone and blood. Link to Fic | Link to Art The Possession of Jimmy Novak | E | 16,952

Dean Winchester was surprised to learn that when his father died, he left behind a beautiful house in the suburbs of Illinois, complete with neighbors who welcomed the newly arrived Dean with casseroles and invitations to join them at church.

It all seemed so very normal.

But there was something about Jimmy Novak that Dean couldn’t put his finger on, something not normal, and when Dean became an unwitting accomplice to Jimmy’s crime he discovered the horrifying truth:

That wasn't Jimmy Novak. Link to Fic | Link to Art It Will Come Back | E | 13,164

Senior Special Agent Castiel Novak and Special Agent Dean Winchester are partners within the FBI's Criminal Investigation Division. For the past several months, they've been investigating a string of murders, all resulting in cold-cases from what they believe to be the same killer. Despite being one of the best minds in his division, Castiel can't find a link between cases, and it's driving him to his wits' end.

As the cases begin to pile up, Castiel's confidence plummets, the chances of catching the killer are growing smaller, and other members of the division are beginning to contribute to Castiel's decreasing faith in his detective skills. As time goes on, Dean is there to help Castiel, but a final case relating to a horror film might be the start of Castiel's unraveling. Link to Fic | Link to Art Someone to Punish Me | E | TBD

Dean's chasing another lead for his old man, this time ending up in Maine, searching for the town of Silent Hill. Residents of nearby Cushing tell him to stop looking, but he can't help it. He's got a job to do, after all. After a resident finally points him in the right direction, Dean finds his way up the mountain to Silent Hill. But there's so much more to the town than John let on. And so much more that Dean needs to learn about himself. Link to Fic (TBD) | Link to Art 1 | Link to Art 2 Night Shift | E | 67, 758

As far as job opportunities go, replacing the previous night guard of fifty years at the Nebraska Museum of Natural History wasn't Dean's first choice, but a job was a job. Especially considering he got fired from his last job and was in need of the money. However, said job proves to be more difficult than described.

Faced with strange events revolving around one of the exhibits he was tasked with guarding, an angel statue that was more than what it seemed to be, he must unravel the mysteries that arise as a result. Why did the angel statue come to life each night? Why did an unknown number keep messaging him the same sequence of numbers? It was a race against the clock and Dean's dwindling sanity to find answers to these mysteries. Link to Fic | Link to Art A Word in the Mists | M | 23,968

Mist as far as the eye can see. A gloomy ocean that seems to swallow up the sunlight like broken dreams. An old, rusty ship that creaks with every inch of movement. And a crew that could compete in an award for grumpiest people alive.

Dean really hates pretty much everything about this case, and would love nothing more than to call it quits and turn this ship around... if there wasn't the little issue of the disappearance of thousands of people across ten different ships on the open sea.

Saving lives is what he does. But he has to question if he isn't doing more harm than good when the disappearances begin on his own ship—and he still hasn't even figured out what kind of monster they're dealing with. Link to Fic | Link to Art Terror As Sharp As Pain | M | 10,815 After Jack brings Cas back from the Empty, everything almost returns to normal. Cas moves into The Bunker, they go back to hunting, and they do not talk about his confession. With the number of hunts dwindling, Team Free Will takes up a case in Derry, Maine, a town terrorized every 27 years by disappearances and violent deaths. Even though the cycle isn't due to repeat for another 19 years, they will have to face fear itself to free the town. Link to Fic | Link to Art no spill blood. | M | 7,217

A witch hunt becomes far more than that when Dean rescues an unassuming, innocent, harmless stranger. But Castiel is more than he seems, and as the lines of their unlikely connection blur, so does the truth. Revenge, plain and simple. Surviving to see it through, not so simple. Link to Fic | Link to Art You can find the complete collection over on Ao3! Happy Haunting, folks! See you next Halloween 👻🎃🤡

[rogueshadow1124]

DARK TERRITORY

Tom riddle x reader

Summary: After a hard day, Y/N pays a visit to the girls restroom to freshen up, only to find an open passage way.

Word count: 2325

Warnings: mentions of blood/injury.

"Stupid potions always blowing up on me." A Y/H/C haired girl stumbled through one of the long corridors within the castle, dusting off her robes. Her face was contorted into one of annoyance, a low grumble setting in her throat before she let out a long exaggerated puff of air. This was the second time today a potion had blew up in her face, Professor slughorn had assured her that all she needed was practise but she was very uncertain, even when she read of the instructions- multiple times at that- nothingvseemed to go right and she for sure was nothing like the boy who was top of the class. Tom riddle.

Riddle. There was no one quite like him. He was considered the top of all his classes, he was practically a high class genius. Y/N had known Tom for a long time, she had observed him from a far and even had the guts to not only approach him but actually interact with him on several occasions and although at first he hadn't been too keen on her breaking his bubble of solitary and peace, she had somehow managed to catch his attention in other ways. What the girl hadn't seemed to notice was how Tom also observed her but he was sneaky, he stayed in the shadows, in the corners, watching her when she was in her own little world not even noticing the prying eyes that pierced her being from a day to day basis.

Y/N came to a stop outside the girls restroom, pushing through the heavy wooden double doors clumsily. She stompted towards the sink, and turned the brass tap roughly making it squeak at the harsh pressure that she applied. She leaned over slightly at a hunch, cupping hands under the stream of water and splashed her face to refresh herself and get off the excess dust that had cast over her cheeks and chin. A sudden clicking noise caught her attention, her head slowly turning at an angle in the direction of what sounded like the churning of locks and tics was coming from.

She squinted her eyes at what looked to be a now open passage way, the inside dark and eerie as it looked like an endless void of nothingness, there was no single slither of light but only the dimly lit yellow casting through that the restroom had. She stood straight, hands dropping to her sides and fisting at her robes, she couldnt help but step closer towards the crack between the two mirrors on the circular row of sinks. She reached out a hand, grasping at one of the frames on the side, the tip of her shoes just at the edge of the opening and just as she had gone to step inside she suddenly slipped, a scream erupting from her throat as she slid down into the darkness.

Her hands reached out in an attempt to grip onto anything in a panic, this didnt at all feel safe. She felt herself glide off of what felt like a step and landed on a stack of hard stick like figures; her eyes were screwed shut, breathes ragged and heavy as her body shook lightly among the masses beneath her. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth in a motion to steady her breathing, her hands pushed down on the sharp hard lengths so she could push herself up and onto her feet.

Only then when she came to a stand did she open her eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the dim and brisked room that she ended up in. It looked like a widely open space but something like a sewer at the same time. Her eyes moved down to the ground cement floor, bright Y/E/C orbs widening when she spotted what she had landed on, a gasp past her lips as she stumbled back only to hit a wall that she was sure hadn't been behind her before- whilst wide eyes stayed cast on the pile of bones a loud hiss broke the silence, making Y/N lurch forward with a jump, she took one glance behind her shoulder, screeching when she saw an oversized serpent covering above her.

Flight or fight kicked in, adrenaline surfacing to her blood stream as she set off into a sprint, tears coming to her eyes as she pushed her burning legs to take her away from the giant creature. Around the corner was a large stone opening where she had to climb through and over a step to get inside, there she saw a walkway that had staues of snakes along the length, leading to a wall that was in the shape of a man with an open mouth, he looked familiar too her almost an exact replica to who she had seen only in books and pictures. Salzar Slytherin.

Another hiss echoed through the room, followed by a crackle. She stumbled forwards quickly and set into a run again, but she ended up tripping over a crack on the floor, falling face first on her hands and knees, crying out at the heated pain that now spread through her palms and knees from the fall. She pushed up, turning so she sat on her backside, looking up at the serpent that stood stiff only feet away from her, Y/N started to push backwards, open wounds pushing against the floor leaving droplets and stains of her red blooded essence behind.

Out the corner of her eyes she spotted a figure, standing tall and dressed in a familiar robe that was similar to her own. Blurry eyes set on none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle- she hushed out his name but he seemed to take no notice of her, his lips moving slowly in motion but she didnt hear words at all, she could only make out long demeanering hisses and a hint of sharp tone that shone through a different language. At that the overly sized snake hissed back lowly, but didnt move an inch.

Tom turned to the girl, dark eyes looking down at her shaking form. A small smile twitched at his lips when he noticed her teary eyes but not at all did it seem kind, more so mocking and smug. She met his gaze, with wide doe eyes, looking like a deer caught in headlights more so a little bambi, small, innocent, scared. His shoes clicked against the stone geou d as she moved in her direction, crouching at her feet with his head tilted towards her.

"What are you doing down here Y/L/N." His voice rung in her ears, a shiver shooting through her spine at the cold motionless tone. She let out what sounded to be a whimper when she leaned back on her hands pulling them up and into her lap quickly, looking down at the irritated skin that was covered in the warmth of her blood that pooled to the surface slightly.

"Tom..." she whispered his name with a shake in her breath.

His eyes squinted, the way his name flowed from her tongue sounded so good- he enjoyed the shake in her voice, the scarce in her body language. It's what he craved, he wanted people to be scared of him, to he at his will but with Y/N, oh she intrigued him, he wanted her to be scared and at his will but not like others, no. He wanted her by his side almost as a companion, she made efforts to speak to him, even at the times he had pushed her away, she came back the next day more determined for him to give any kind of response; she was innocent, sweet but also cold and quiet, calculating and captivating, he didnt understand how someone like her could be a slytherin, he was very much so invested. He wanted to know every little detail about her, he had never been interested in anyone even merely but Y/N Y/L/N, she was one of a kind, someone with so many hidden secrets. He wanted to taint her, ruin her, in a way that he would have full control and she would need to rely on him in every way. "You shouldn't have been snooping, darling."

"I-i wasn't snooping, I sw-swear." She went to reel back as his hand rest on her ankle, but he had gripped her fast and roughly allowing her no room to remove his grip. He tugged her towards his crouched form, her robe sliding up her legs at the movement when she was pulled to him, her lower thighs resting at his legs, his hand hovering up and over her body until it reached up to her neck, his fingers feathering a touch on her soft skin just before his hand grasped her jaw, tilting her head to look up at him.

"If you wasn't snooping as you claim, then you wouldnt be down here. You would have ignored the open passage and minded your buisness." She pushed her face away, standing tall again begrudgingly reaching out his hand which she stared at with furrowed brows and a frown. Her eyes switched quickly to his gaze, meeting dark stern eyes as he rose a brow and nodded at his hand expectantly, Y/N sighed with a shake reaching up to his hand, letting out a noise when he pulled her up suddenly.

"Ouch.." she groaned, tugging her hand away from him and to her chest. Tom looked at her unammused but something behind the cold, darkened gaze softened, he hummed and pulled his wand from his robe pocket reaching for her hand but this time he didnt wait and took it in his hold in an instant. He pointed the tip of his wand down at the open skin of her hand grumbling out the word 'Episky' and in seconds Y/N watched as the wounds started to close up, sending a tingling sensation through her hand. Her eyes darted up to Tom's but he was looking down, her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, gaping before she uttered a "Thank you."

"Mhmm.." his eyes flickered up to her face, taking in her features; sure he had done this plenty of times but never had he been so close. He noticed how her eyes, they had a certain shine to them but not at all did they seem fully happy, they were vibrant, carrying some form of lonesome appeal behind a built surface, metaphorically she was an iceberg there was only so much that was in the open, at the top, the surface- however there were so many things that nobody knew, or understood, buried deep behind closed walls. He studied her every chance he got and all he had been able to figure was that she kept to herself, most of the time anyway but for some reasosn she chose to interact with him, sit by him, even if it was in silence nothing between the two was uncomfortable. "Why are you so fixated on being around me?"

It was more so a question to himself really, something that he spoke without thinking. She narrowed her eyes for a second, raising her brows softly with a hum. "I find solace in your company. Sure you're mysterious but I like that you keep to yourself, your not like anyone I have ever interacted with." Her eyes were quick to shift to the serpent that still hovered away from them, noticing how it never even left but stayed only watching from the short distance-

"Don't. Don't look into its eyes.." Tom's hand reached up and moved her face to look up at him instead, her face contorted into a look of confusion. "Wouldn't want you to be petrified, hmm?" Y/N's eyes widened slightly, her breathing picked up within seconds of hearing his words, suddenly becoming scared again after calming herself prior this moment, he smirked down at her. "You'll be fine. Just don't look into it's eyes."

"W-what is it?" Her eyes stayed focused of Tom's dark ones, air stuttering in her lungs.

"She is a basilisk- Nagini." He hushed out, the last part sounding with an elongated hiss at the end which made the creature let out a guttural hiss at his words but it still only stayed in its spot, standing stiff in place. His smirk widened when he saw the girl gulp, eyes being trained on his as she didnt know where to look- he enjoyed the fact she hadn't looked away, the feeling was so intense yet it was so good at the same time. "Y/N..." She seemed to snap out of the state she was in at the call of her name, beckoning her back to reality. Her eyelashes flickered as she allowed herself to blink, moving her eyes so she was no longer gazing up at Tom but over one of his shoulders the one opposite to which the basilisk was on. "You're going to forget about this..."

"I-I dont understand?" She tilted her head, leaning into his hand as he placed it on her cheek lightly, shifting so he could rest his lips against her forehead, not in a kiss but just hovering over. He turned her head to the side, moving his face to rest beside her own so his lips were now in line with her ear. "T-Tom?"

"Shhhh..." his hand trailed down over her neck and to rest against her collarbone. His other hand that was free brought up his wand, pointing it directly at her- the only thing was, it was out of sight so she couldnt exactly know what he was doing- he placed a delicate kiss on the skin beneath her ear before whispering the words 'obliviate' making her world turn black.

[cuubism]

I keep thinking abt the Threshold vs the Dreaming, since we don’t see much of the Threshold besides the gallery (did u notice Desire’s sigil in their gallery is a mirror?) but there’s no way the entire Threshold is glossy latex hallways, right? There’s gotta be … furniture? Rooms? At least a bed somewhere? A sitting room? What’s it like in there!!!!! Why doesn’t Desire have their own castle like Dream does???

I have some answers to this actually! Since I just read the relevant comics issue.

In Doll's House the Threshold is described thus:

There is only one thing to see in the twilight realm of Desire. It is called The Threshold. The fortress of Desire. Desire has always lived on the edge. The Threshold is larger than you can easily imagine. It is a statue of Desire, him- her- or it-self. (Desire has never been satisfied with just one sex. Or just one of anything--excepting only perhaps the Threshold itself.) The Threshold is a portrait of Desire, complete in all details, built from the fancy of Desire out of blood, and flesh, and bone, and skin. And, like every true citadel since time began, the Threshold is inhabited.

There is only one occupant, at this time. Desire of the Endless. The Threshold is far too large for just one person. It contains two eardrums larger than a dozen marble ballrooms. And empty, echoing veins, like tunnels. You will walk them until you grow old and die without once retracing your steps. Given Desire's temperament, however, there was only one place in the cathedral of its body to make its home. Desire lives in the heart.

So basically, the idea is that Desire lives within the body, and the rooms we see in the show are the inner chambers of a heart. While dreams are made of fantasy and hopes and stories, Desire is physical to the point of literally being represented by a body -- meanwhile we often interpret Dream as not even really having a body in the first place. And there's a self-consumed, self-referential sense to the Threshold, such that Desire literally lives within itself, and is consumed with and preoccupied by itself, solitary, hidden, shielded. The end of the edition contains the following lines -- Desire walks the chambers of its heart. It walks the Threshold, its citadel and its protection--

The solitude and hard edges of the structure are a shield so Desire does not have to admit outside influence, does not have to admit lack of control -- "Human beings are the creatures of Desire. They twist and bend as I require it -- if I thought otherwise, I would crack, like Delirium; or I would abandon my realm, like our lost brother" -- "Desire walks the endless pathways of its body, certain that it is in sole and only control of its destiny" -- the thought of being subject to outside forces or not being in control is frightening to Desire. Which is ironic, considering how out of our control the feeling of desire is, how it happens regardless of choice, and how hard it is to wrangle back. But the Threshold is also representative of desire as a concept, how one will wander through wanting for one's whole life, always finding new things to look for as each one is satisfied; how frightening it can be to reveal a deeply-held want or relinquish it to another person's control (by revealing feelings for example); how closely we hold our desires to ourselves and how they guide our actions; how desire is usually a very personal and solitary and internal experience.

(I don't know if the Threshold even has furniture, actually. I think it's possible Desire spends a lot of time wandering the many isolated empty halls. Interesting too, how the veins are described as empty and echoing, the heart, presumably, not actually beating at all.)

This comics edition also has that line love is in the realm of Desire and desire is always cruel -- which I'm not sure I agree with conceptually, I think that may be more of Dream's perspective, and that really love might be shared between Dream and Desire's domains, and that the Endless's domains overlap more than they might think -- but that's just my feeling. In the end, I think Dream and Desire's respective realms just reflect their sense of their own domain. They're both holding themselves apart from humanity in different ways - Desire thinks humanity should be subject to them, theirs to play with and manipulate. Dream just thinks that he himself isn't really a person, so he's overseeing and shepherding things, but locked away in his tower, not really connecting or admitting himself any humanity. The fact that their interaction with humanity is so different - Desire localized in the body, in the real, Dream in the mind and the abstract, isn't helping with their strained relationship either.

At least, that's how I like to read it :)

[agentrouka-blog]

do you think the meereenese blot guy is right when he says that jon will come back darker and might not care about civilians deaths?

The Meereenese Blot Essays are excellent reads and I recommend them so much!

I don't think that what you describe is necessarily the conclusion/prediction presented in the final Jon essay. It's more of a very potential path that heavily depends on how Jon will react to several potential variables (the situation at the Wall, Melisandre's influence).

My personal take is that GRRM will probably not veer too far into that direction.

The essays give three factors that might influence a dark turn: 1) conditions at the Wall becoming catastrophic, 2) a turn toward prophecy, 3) Ghost's influence.

We can't yet know how 1) will turn out, but Jon has been investing in institutional structures outside his own person even if the wildlings have sworn their oaths to his person. They are manning castles together, training people together. The assassins do not represent a known large mutinous faction that Jon has been oppressing all this time. Like with Caesar, the "liberators" may soon discover their act to be unwelcome by the "masses". The destructive chaos may not be as huge as the essay anticipates. We're likely to see a mirror to Meereen in Dany's absence.

Regarding 3), Ghost specifically is a remarkably chill direwolf with a pronounced solitary streak and a gentleness with various humans. The human-eating exploits of Summer and Nymeria specifically mirror their human counterparts rather than negatively influencing them. The same went for Grey Wind. Ghost represents escapism rather than abuse of power but probably also a strong reminder of his wolf and human families.

Regarding 2), Jon already knows that Melisandre has magical and prophetic powers (Mance's glamor, the murdered rangers), so the mere fact of the correct prediction of his assassination attempt will not suddenly make him trust her. He already took steps based on trusting her and learned to question the reliability of her predictions/interpretations of her visions.

Jon's ethical troubles have always been tied to concepts of identity, rather than destiny. Always "Who am I, who do I want to be", rather than "this is a goal I must inevitably achieve, no matter the cost". So given his always ambivalent relationship with Melisandre and Stannis, I don't suddenly see him outsourcing his ethical grounding to a prophecy.

He'll more probably be torn between harmful personal desires (impulsive wrath, the peace of freedom as a wolf) and competing frames of identity (man of the Night's Watch, a Stark, a human) and through those pick a path forward that will likely culminate in leaving the Watch and fully engaging in Northern politics against the Boltons who threaten the Watch and the North and the wildlings combined.

None of those options tie him to Azor Ahai or to a sudden disregard for innocent human life. That one is (to me) likely to remain Stannis's story, all the way up to the senseless burning of Shireen, which will end the influence of that storyline in the North for the foreseeable future and release its focus over towards what the Essosi slaves see in Daenerys.

So that would be my opinion. 😊

[apricotopera]

there’s an interesting trend in kh of worlds and the way they change mirroring characters and the way they change that i really love - destiny islands which tends to be in and out of danger depending on how sora, riku, and kairi are doing, hollow bastion’s revival happening as riku gets away from ansem’s influence and starts slowly doing better, castle oblivion being a blank slate until aqua comes home (which there’s a mechanical reason for, sure, but the land of departure returning alongside the wayfinder trio also has a real thematic resonance), aquas exploration of the castle of dreams in 0.2 mirroring her view of the things that just happened to her, daybreak town not destroyed when its group is scattered but instead becoming the invisible scaffolding that the future is built on…etc etc! there’s a lot of cool examples of this! and the thing i’ve been thinking of all morning is that it makes the vision of scala in kh3 kind of devastatingly sad.

it’s…unclear at best if the scala we visit in kh3 is the real city, or some sort of dream or memory projection from xehanort (being literally inside the generally-not-well-understood kingdom hearts makes it a bit complicated) but it’s so strikingly empty and quiet. again this is partially mechanical - it’s a boss arena - but still. all the little details of life in the environment design, the little market you visit in remind, the chairs and cafes and posters make it feel lived in, but there’s no one there. it’s just xehanort. this final, terrible reflection of his childhood home, preserved perfectly, and he is the solitary person in it. it’s so fucking sad!

i think the end of kh3 does a decent job of humanizing xehanort even before we know him in dark road and even while he’s at his most villainous, and i think scala is a big part of that. like that intro cutscene of him just walking slowly through the streets…..gah. peepaw :(

[agelesslibrary]

In the quiet corners of my mind, there’s a secret place where time stands still. Abandoned castles overlook vibrant gardens, and rivers run clear as crystal. Here, I reside—a solitary cottage, my sanctuary, where I devour the words of Dostoyevsky and pen verses about the dreams that visit me at night. These dreams paint the life of a girl, my counterpart, whose existence mirrors yet opposes my own. I drift into her world, where she, like me, finds solace in books—not for the love of stories but as a refuge from her reality, a world that is unkind and relentless. Although surrounded by the constant hum of people, she seeks not their company but the distraction they offer from the echoes of her own thoughts. Her diary, a vault of penned emotions, traps memories not to relive but to encage. Each entry locks away a piece of her life, transforming recollections into distant stories—observed but no longer felt. She often murmurs apologies, too many and too frequent, as though she bears the burden of her very existence. Her life oscillates between torrents of words and profound silences—her voice either a flood or a drought. Though she lives when I dream, and dreams when I live, in our moments of sleep, our worlds overlap, meeting in a dreamland where the lines between reality and imagination blur. I wander through the maze of her mind, an unseen companion. We meet in the quietest corners of her thoughts, places so deep within her that she convinces herself I'm just a figment of imagination. A thin veil of doubt separates us; she can't see or feel me as I do her, and I often wake with a tear slipping down my cheek, grieving the distance between her disbelief and my existence. Unseen and unbelieved, I can only weep quietly for her sorrows under the silent watch of the stars.

[librosamarillos]

passed down like folk songs

chapter 39: i will just let you down

Maegor Targaryen x OC

Also on Ao3

chapter index

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, angst, mature themes, targaryen incest, violence, Maegor is a red flag himself, characters are ooc probably, MINORS DNI

“Please bring more pillows. Her grace will need to be comfortable.” Rowan asked one of the maids preparing the rooms for their upcoming guests. She had already seen to Aenys and Viserys’ rooms being prepared, and all that was now left was to ensure the expectant Queen’s comfort during their stay. 

“Right away, my Lady.” the maid closest to her said, heading out to get more pillows. She wasn’t sure if it would be too many, but then Alyssa could remove them as she saw fit.

“Thank you.” Rowan smiled, looking around the room, seeing the bath being prepared with lukewarm water, as per the maester’s suggestions. All was done. She could feel the servants taking discreet looks of her and she tried to not mind it too much. She knew she looked ridiculous, so she could blame no one. 

“My Lady, the King and Queen have arrived.” a young pageboy announced as he ran through the door. Rowan’s breath was stuck in her throat for a second, before she thanked him and began to leave the Queen’s room.

She took a quick, final look in the mirror, taking a moment to straighten her skirts and make sure she looked presentable, trying to ignore her horrid hair framing her face so unevenly, and made her way down to the front entrance, where Aenys, Alyssa and Viserys were stood.

Aenys looked pale, far paler than he’d ever looked before, as well as significantly thinner. He had dark undereye bags that betrayed his lack of sleep, that she could only assume was weeks long. Alyssa, thank the gods, looked far healthier, as well as little Viserys who was looking around curiously. 

“Welcome to Dragonstone, your Graces. I hope your journey has been a smooth and safe one.” Rowan greeted them with a warm smile and a polite curtsy. Aenys returned her smile and opened his mouth to reply, but Alyssa seemed confused.

“Has the Dowager Queen not been made aware of our arrival? Why is she not the one here to greet us?” she asked, looking beyond Rowan, to see if perhaps Visenya was about to make a late entrance. Aenys bit his lip, and Rowan straightened her back.

“She has been made aware, your Grace. She… did not wish to greet you and has sent for me to do so.” she explained, giving the Queen an apologetic smile as she repeated exactly what Visenya had told her to say, albeit without the condescending tone, but Aenys at least seemed to understand that it was implied.

Alyssa seemed displeased with the response and looked at Aenys almost expectantly, but it was clearly not a battle that Aenys wanted to fight at the moment. Instead, he smiled at Rowan, and she could swear his lilac eyes seemed bloodshot.

“Thank you, Lady Evergreen. Our journey has been smooth.” he said, looking down at Viserys, who was looking up at the sky. Rowan assumed he was looking to spot dragons flying over the castle, and she knew he did not have to wait long. While Vhagar enjoyed a more solitary day, most of the unclaimed dragons liked to fly around. Rowan still found them all unnerving despite all the years she spent around them.

“I’ve had the maids draw baths for all three of you. I am sure you must be exhausted from your travels. Please, allow me to show you to your rooms.” she said, leading the way through Dragonstone’s all too familiar halls. 

After showing Viserys to his room and showing his nursemaid where everything was, she showed Alyssa to hers, which was just across the hall from her son’s room. Alyssa seemed happy to rest, though she did not seem to let go of Visenya’s slight. Rowan was certain this was going to become an issue, but she knew the Dowager Queen would love for the fight to break out. Before she could say farewell to Aenys, he stopped her.

“May I have a moment, Rowan?” he asked before she left the room. His servants had just finished unpacking a few of the many cases of things he had brought, but he had stopped them, asking them for privacy. She could only nod.

“Of course, your Grace.” she replied, earning a smile from the King, who let his silent complaint against formalities be known. “Of course, Aenys.” she corrected herself, now earning a nod from him.

He seemed exhausted and Rowan wanted to ask him why not fly to Dragonstone on Qucksilver, who true to her name, would’ve been here a lot quicker than a ship. But then she rationalised it by thinking that after the attempt on his life, he would not wish to leave Alyssa and Viserys alone, and perhaps she would be uncomfortable to fly with him, even though she was still early in her pregnancy. Rowan decided not to bring it up at all.

“Can I ask?” he asked, almost shyly, looking at her face, or rather, her hair. “What happened to your hair?” he asked again, trying to not offend with an amused tone. She appreciated the politeness, but still looked away in shame.

“I…” she sighed. “I just had… a lot of emotions about being back here, and I somehow gained an incredible confidence to make a change to my appearance.” she gave a very watered down answer, trying to fight the embarrassment. “And yes, I regretted it immediately. I know it looks awful. It’ll… It’ll grow back. Eventually, I mean.” she mumbled, praying for that time to come soon so that she’d finally not have people stare. 

“A lot of emotions?” he asked, his tone full of empathy. “About… him?” he asked once more, almost hesitant to scratch Rowan’s open wounds. She took in a slow breath. She understood that he’d want to know, that he was curious. She just didn’t expect it to come up so quickly, but then again, her sudden change of appearance warranted questions.

“Coming back here after what he did… I don’t know. All I could think about was that just outside the castle, he chose to marry another woman.” she finally said out loud. “I thought I was calm, sad but calm, but when I was done with my duties and I was all alone with my thoughts, it all became overwhelming. As if all the memories we had together here have been tainted with grief. As if I have the right to such grief.” she said with a shaky breath. “We… we used to play out there when we were small, you know?” she added, even though it felt like rubbing salt on her wounds. She was not his wife. She was not the one he betrayed. Yet no matter how many times she repeated that to herself, the worse it all hurt.

“Hey, don’t say that.” he approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder, his tone comforting. “You’ve every right to feel that grief. He hurt you.” he frowned, as he thought for a moment. Rowan took another deep breath, trying to shake her head, to pretend she was fine and that it was all fine. “Have you… heard from him?” he asked slowly, like he was unsure of what her reaction would be. Perhaps he was afraid she’d cut her hair again.

“I… yes and no.” she answered truthfully. “He keeps a correspondence with his mother and she sometimes tells me how he’s doing.” Rowan explained, leaving behind the fact that he indirectly addressed her in his letters. It was just too much to talk about with his brother, who he planned to dethrone. “Do you wish to write to him?” she asked, wondering if his question was trying to pry at how easy it would be to send a message to his exiled brother.

“No.” he said a bit too quickly. “No, I do not. I have nothing to say to him, I was only worried about you.” he explained further, as if his defensive tone didn’t betray him. Rowan returned his look of sympathy and bit her lip slightly.

“May I… May I be candid with you, Aenys?” she asked, trying to approach the subject lightly and carefully, so as to not scare him off.

“Of course you may. You always may!” he replied with a small smile. Rowan wanted to return it, but she felt too guilty. She felt there was a genuine foundation for friendship between them despite the formalities that held them back, and they were able to be really vulnerable with each other. Yet, now, she couldn’t be fully honest with him.

“Why not call for him? Ask for his help? Let him bring things back in order?” she asked slowly, hesitantly. Aenys seemed taken aback by her questions for a moment, but he shook his head, a small smile of disbelief on his lips as he walked away from her.

“Of course you’d suggest this.” he sighed, almost disappointed. “Do you wish to see him?” he asked, his tone suggesting this was an accusation. Rowan shook her head, ashamed for bringing it up.

“I am angry.” she started. “You have no idea how angry I am at him for all the grief he has brought upon me, for all he did to Ceryse. But Aenys, you cannot keep doing this. They made an attempt to kill you! How long until they try again? And Aegon and Rhaena? What if they become targets?” she asked, trying to get him to see reason.

“You think I don’t know this? Is it not clear as day that I do not sleep?” he snapped, his voice still low, trying to not shout. Rowan frowned, ashamed at the implications of her tone. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be sharp.” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“But you’re not taking any action! So let Maegor do it. Ask for his help, and then when things are calm again, you can see what to do about his banishment. The city will fall apart if you don’t do something.” she pleaded with him, trying to swallow her guilt.

“You think he’ll actually do it? Come back after I exiled him; after our shouting match?” he mumbled, contemplating for a moment. “He’d sooner laugh in my face for failing than ever complying with my orders again.” he frowned deeply. His relationship with his brother was clearly a very sensitive subject at the moment. It was something they both shared it seemed, a big sensitivity to the topic of Maegor Targaryen.

“He’s your brother. No matter how angry he is, he will not ignore your call for help.” she approached him, trying to reassure him that his brother would return if he called for him to. Yes, she knew that he had much bigger plans than to just help his brother, but she knew that deep down, Maegor also wished their relationship was better. 

“I think if you call for him, he’ll do it. He’d fly here as soon as he had your letter in his hands.” he laughed dryly. Rowan hated how her heart fluttered at his words. It hurt, it all still hurt so much, but she’d be a huge liar to say she didn’t love him with every fibre of her being. “How humiliating that I’d go running back to my little brother, after such a scandal.” he sighed again. “I see them all, you know, my Kingsguard, and how frustrated they are with me. How they’re all silently comparing me to him, and sometimes, I cannot help but do it too. I hesitate, I know, and he does not. The one time he did hesitate, it cost him you, and he won’t hesitate again. That’s why they all would rather have him here instead.” he confessed, his voice slightly above a whisper, leaving Rowan speechless.

Her heart was in a twist, hearing Aenys speak out loud about that fateful day. It was true, Maegor told her himself, that he hesitated to argue further with his father in order to please him, and it cost him their life together. It hurt further to also hear that it was the reason he became so ruthless, even though she knew it deep down. It was too much for both of them.

“Please rest. Have your bath and sleep. Please sleep.” she patted him on the back. He looked so frail up close, it was worrying. She would tell her worries to the maester as well as the ladies in the kitchens. Some more hearty meals, something to give him more energy, it would do him good. Aenys appreciated the kind gesture and offered her a kind smile.

“Let me think about it.” he said. “Thank you once again for your honesty, Rowan. And I’m sorry about your hair.” He escorted her out of his room and offered one last smile before closing the door. 

Rowan felt horrid for knowing about Visenya and Maegor’s goals and knowingly urging Aenys to make a decision that would help aid those goals. She found herself walking the familiar route to Visenya’s rooms to let her know that the King, Queen and young Prince were settling in, all the while she contemplated her own actions. 

Would it not be for the best if Maegor returned? She had to think of the stability and safety of the people, and the huge political and economic unrest that these rebellions would bring to everyone. While yes, her house had the utmost privilege of being well protected, what of those who weren’t? What of all those caught in the crossfire? And the effects all of this would have on the smallfolk, who depended on all the houses to make good decisions?

She hated to think about what would come next, about the conflict between the two brothers once Maegor’s plans became real. Because in what way would there be a smooth transition of power? Still, she thought that Aenys would be much happier without the heavy burdens of the crown. He’d get to sleep calmly and not worry about the safety of his children, perhaps travel around the seven Kingdoms… Perhaps Rowan was deluding herself into justifying Visenya and Maegor’s plans. 

She entered Visenya’s room with a heavy heart, finding her lounging on her chair, a letter in her hands. A sight that was very common these days. She looked up, urging her to come in and sit as well, before passing the letter to her.

“Your father wrote to me. He worries about you, says you haven’t written back to him, or to Erin and Finn.” she explained as Rowan read over her father’s letter. “What’s wrong, my girl? You normally write to them all the time.” she said, cupping her cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan felt ashamed. She had tried to write to her family, and yet when she was alone in her room, all she could do was wallow. She’d lie in bed trying to rationalise all her emotions, and then her mind would take her right back to that altar outside the castle gates and all she’d think about was that day, that decision, that ceremony, that she did not even witness the same way she did Ceryse’s, and yet it hurt a thousand times more.

“Why are you apologising to me?” Visenya asked with a gentle tone. When Rowan did not answer, she patted the space next to her. “Come here, sit.” She complied, and was welcomed into Visenya’s embrace. 

Neither said anything.

She felt that Visenya was, once again, being extra gentle with her, like she was made of glass. She could not protest, as she was sure that she was acting like a nervous wreck. And her father, her sweet father, whose letter to Visenya was full of care and concern for her, his only child? Gods, she felt so guilty. Normally she’d write to her family so often, that her lack of letters now had raised concern. But what would she write? ‘Forgive me father, I was a wreck because I am haunted by memories and I also cut my hair and I look ridiculous’?

Visenya did not need her to say anything at all. She knew. And Rowan could not be more grateful to have her in her life. She gave her the space to wallow and cry, and she hugged her and played with her hair. It was everything she wished her mother could do if she were still alive. Thankfully, Visenya had gladly taken the role. 

“How about tonight you write to your father, hm?” she asked softly, as she moved stray hairs out of her face. Rowan nodded. She had to write back eventually, better start now. “Then you can tell me what Alyssa’s face was like when she saw you instead of me.” she japed, rubbing her shoulder and trying to get a smile. 

Aenys paced around his room. He was restless and even after a bath, he could not wind down to sleep, for there was far too much happening in his mind. He felt everyone’s eyes on him, something he used to relish in before all this mess, looking on expectantly, ready to be let down once more. He found himself on the desk, staring at a bank parchment, quilt in his shaking hand.

It could be a horrible idea, to unleash Maegor in all his anger and resentment onto the realm, to burn all those not fiercely loyal to the crown. It was everything his parents told him to never do, but as he stared at the parchment and thought about the fact that his children were in danger, that his wife could be next, that everything could crumble beneath their feet, what choice did he truly have?

How could he even begin to address his little brother? How could he put into words all the dread that consumed him? Would his brother even accept his plea of help? Perhaps it would be best if he asked Rowan to write to him. He would never hesitate to come to her aide if she were to ask, while Aenys was unsure he could claim the same. 

Dear brother,

Then what? What could he even say that wouldn’t be awkward? He felt like a dog with its tail between his legs, running back to his brother who he exiled for his help. He sighed. Then what was to come if he accepted? Would he bring Alys Harroway back to King’s Landing with him and force him to acknowledge her as his wife the same way Ceryse was? That would cause an even bigger rift between the crown and the faith, along with his good sister’s family. Perhaps if he asked him to return alone? Or even better, if he asked Rowan to write to him and ask him to return alone? Surely he would.

His attention shifted from the parchment to the door, when his guard announced the arrival of his wife. Aenys was surprised to see her walking about, as he had expected her to relax and rest after their long travels. Alyssa looked concerned as she approached him, her eyes searching his face, looking for something.

“I thought you would like to rest, my dear, why are you all dressed up?” he asked, reaching for her hand to place a kiss on when she came close. She was much more dressed up than he was, looking like a proper Queen, while he was dressed down as he felt exhausted.

“I could say the same about you. I thought I’d find you sleeping.” she smiled. He felt guilty as he nodded. He was not fully honest with her about losing sleep. They did not share a room on most nights, much less now that she needed all the comfort she could get, so she did not see him lying wide awake at night. She did not need to worry about him as well. Alyssa’s smile fell as her eyes darted to the parchment in front of him, as she realised who he was planning to write to. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m… I’m not so sure myself.” he confessed. “I thought I could ask my brother to return, to help us. But I fear I cannot find the words.” he explained further, looking back down at the letter, partly avoiding his wife’s gaze. She looked upset.

“Aenys, have you really thought this through? Why not send an army, or call our bannermen? This cannot be the best option.” she protested, looking at him like he was crazy. She looked bewildered that he would actually consider it, as did he.

“He is my brother, Alyssa.” he said, trying to find the right words to explain how he felt, but he could not. His mind was such a mess that he could not trust himself fully.

“Your brother who disrespected and undermined your word? The son of the woman who mocks you and cannot hide her disdain for you, despite the fact that you are King?” she asked, her tone still bewildered. She was right, of course she was, but still…

“I’m thinking of our family, of our children, of you and the babe! Believe me, I would love a better, easier solution, but as every single person keeps reminding me, I am running out of time!” he snapped, immediately regretting his tone, but Alyssa did not waver. Instead, she took his face in her hands, placing a kiss on his forehead.

“We will find a solution, one that will not make the realm hate and ridicule us.” she reassured him as she cupped his cheeks. “But now we must go speak to your aunt. It was a huge slight, what she did this morning. Sending her lady in waiting instead of greeting us herself. No matter how she feels regarding Dragonstone being passed to Aegon, you are still the King. She should not disrespect you like this with no consequence.” she said. 

“I do not have it in me to fight with my aunt.” he sighed, looking away from her eyes. It was already hard enough knowing his aunt still frightened him, just as she did when he was a child, and the fact that he was now here because it was safer, because she made Dragonstone safe, he could not handle any arguments, or her cold comments. He was tired.

“If you do not, she will only get worse. My love, let us go see her and at least hear what she has to say about her actions.” she insisted, and Aenys could do nothing but relent.

She called for the servants to come dress him, as he could not make a statement in his plain clothes. The fine purple robes felt heavy, everything did. His wife was right, he could not keep accepting disrespect, but he was in no mood to make a fuss. 

Accompanied by his Kingsguard, they made their way to the chamber of the painted table. His aunt was dressed regally, a statement of her own, but she was not overlooking the table, rather preferring the window. As always, her lady Rowan was by her side, writing down what she was telling her. Rowan looked up, surprised to see him and Alyssa, and curtsied promptly. Visenya remained unmoving, not acknowledging the King and Queen, a silent challenge to see if he dared to speak. 

“Your grace-” Rowan spoke up, ready to fill their cups, but Alyssa stopped her.

“We would like some privacy, lady Evergreen.” Alyssa said, offering Rowan a kind smile. Rowan did not leave straight away, instead looking up to Visenya, to see what her orders would be. His aunt did not move from her place, but nodded at Rowan to dismiss her. 

She offered them all another curtsy before leaving the room, but Aenys could swear she shot him a worried look, one that told him to watch his step, to not make enemies.

With Rowan gone, the room had an eerie silence. He could hear his own heart beating in his ears. He felt like a child about to be scolded, but Alyssa was angry at his aunt’s blatant disrespect. His wife shot him an expectant look, telling him to speak up. He took a breath and wished Rowan was not dismissed, as she could perhaps keep the peace between them.

“I hope you’re not feeling ill. I could only assume so, since you did not come to greet us.” he tried to sound confident, the way Alyssa needed him to be. His aunt still did not move to face them, but her face hardened. He could feel a lump in his throat as he braced himself for impact.

“Did you find my lady’s greeting lacking?” she asked coldly, her tone harsh. The question was ironic, as it was another challenge to push him further. He felt Alyssa shift next to him.

“It is customary to greet your King and Queen in person.” she said, her voice moving dangerously close to passive aggressive. His aunt, once more, refused to turn. Her eyes were pinned somewhere outside, in the yard.

“Is it now?” she asked coldly. “As you can see, I am terribly busy preparing the castle for potential attacks- I know the concept is completely foreign to you both, but it is a demanding task.” her words dripped with condescension. Both Aenys and Alyssa stiffened, as Visenya slowly turned to face them, looking down at them as if they were but bothersome children and not the King and Queen. “Tell me, how did you manage to humiliate yourselves even more, then come running here demanding I come say hello to you?” she asked.

“What happened in King’s Landing was… unfortunate. As you know, the Red Keep is not yet finished and…” he trailed. It was a lie. What happened shook him to his core, but he had to stand tall, or at the very least try to. “I can only hope your feelings toward me need not be made public. I do not wish to reprimand you for disrespect.” he managed to say, before his aunt let out a cold laugh.

“Reprimand me?” she laughed. “Where did this nerve come from?” she challenged him, but Aenys did not know how to respond, so she went on. “You exile my son, you grant his title to your brat of a son, and yet what do you have to show for it?” she spat, her anger no longer masked. He did not have time to react to the insults before Alyssa did.

“Aegon is the heir to the throne.” she stated, her tone hiding an almost threat, like she was trying to put his aunt in her place. “It is only natural that he is the Prince of Dragonstone. Your husband was the one who planned this.” she said that last sentence with a pointed look, like she wanted to hit her where she knew it would hurt, angered by the insult hurled at their son.

Aenys froze completely when she brought up his father. Alyssa was never this bold or fierce before. She was lively and charming and kind, but never quick to anger. He assumed it was because she was with child, her instincts to defend her children being heightened. Not to mention all the stress of the past moons. He wanted to admire her, had this not been the worst possible thing to say to his aunt.

Visenya’s eyes hardened and if looks could kill, they’d be dead where they stood. Her gaze was ice cold and he could feel himself shrinking in fear as she slowly walked closer to them, until she was standing right before them, towering above him like he was still a small child.

“Strong words coming from a fool. Do you think your boy will even have a throne to inherit with how you’ve been running things? Where is he now? Being chased down by rebels?” she asked, staring Alyssa down. Aenys just wanted to disappear.

“Is this amusing to you?” his wife demanded when she saw the smirk on his aunt’s face.

“Hilarious.” she spat. “It is hilarious to me that you come to my home demanding respect you’ve done nothing to earn, but I suppose it cannot be helped, since you’ve both been spoiled rotten.” she crossed her arms as she stared them both down. Alyssa went to answer, but this time, he interrupted.

“I do not wish to fight, or argue with you.” he said, his tone almost pleading. He could not say the same for Alyssa. “I wish to protect my family from rebels. I’ve tried asking them what they want, to come to me with their concerns, but they only hurl insults at me-” he began to explain, before he saw the flash of anger in Visenya’s eyes.

“You are a fool and a weakling, nephew. Do you think any man would’ve ever dared speak so to your father?” she asked. Aenys did not even have to answer, they all knew no one would dare. “You have a dragon. Use him. Fly to Oldtown and make this Starry Sept another Harrenhal, or give me leave and let me roast this pious fool for you.”

Her words hung in the air and he found it hard to breathe. His first instinct was to say no, to deny her call to violence. But was this not why he was considering calling for Maegor to return? His aunt was right, no man would dare speak to his father the way the rebels spoke to him, and neither would they speak so to Maegor. They knew better.

He could not imagine himself flying into battle with Quicksilver. He flew often, at least he used to, before his father’s death. His mother would take him flying on Meraxes when he was small, until his Quicksilver was big enough to ride, and then they’d take to the skies together. He was no warrior, and neither was his dragon. He could not risk her getting hurt by his own foolishness. He loved Quicksilver, she was a part of him. She flew above their ship the whole time it took for them to sail here.

“Do not speak to him like that!” Alyssa’s voice snapped him back to reality. Her first instinct was to defend her husband, another trait he would admire if he was not worried his aunt would strike them both down with Dark Sister, which she carried everywhere. 

“Or what? What will you do?” Visenya asked, her tone almost amused, like she was arguing with a child throwing a tantrum, which only angered Alyssa more. 

“Please, enough of this!” he pleaded, standing in between them. “The hour grows late, let us all rest. We shall discuss this tomorrow.” he looked at his aunt, trying to silently ask her to see him and not ignore his presence.

“Very well.” his aunt concluded. 

The tension was still thick in the air, but the guard’s announcement of Lady Rowan’s return brought a sense of relief to Aenys. She rushed in the room, not offering any pleasantries or curtsies, instead walking up to his aunt, her face flushed with worry.

“Your graces, forgive me for interrupting, but the news I’ve just received are rather urgent.” she apologised, showing the raven scroll in her hands. Aenys could feel his heart stop- had something happened to his son and daughter?

“What happened?” his aunt asked promptly, meeting her lady halfway across the room. It was then that he recognised the opened seal on the scroll, green, a Hightower seal. He shared an alarmed look with Alyssa, the realisation that something could’ve happened to their good sister hitting them. Rowan took in a shaky breath.

“Lord Manfred Hightower is dead.” she announced to them all, but her eyes were on Visenya, whom she handed the scroll to. “A fever has taken him.” she added, with worry clear on her face. Her mind was clearly going to her friend, Ceryse. “His eldest son, Lord Martyn Hightower is now the Lord of the Hightower, the head of his house, beacon of the south, defender of Oldtown and the Citadel and Lord of the Port.” she finished the announcement, trying to sound as proper as she could.

Aenys was once again speechless. 

taglist:@heartstalked@stupidocupido@discowizard88@slytherisstuff

[modern--nights]

Verily, the Lasombra stand as chieftains and seers, monarchs and sages, warriors and holy men. They weigh with care who merits the Embrace, yet show no mercy to those of their ilk who prove unworthy. Indeed, the sole menace to the dominion of clan Lasombra may well be clan Lasombra itself. Montano, eldest childe of Lasombra, now governs from the distant Castle of Shadows in Sicily, his rule extending as a shadow over his Sire's troubled repose, haunted by visions of darkness and the Abyss.

Deep-rooted in religious fervor, perchance due to their profound affinity with shadows, many among the Clan tread the Path of Heaven. This fervent piety kindles strife within the Clan, turning their gaze inward. In Iberia, the Shadow Reconquista rages—a clash between Christian and Muslim Cainites, dividing the Clan. Its echoes reverberate far beyond Iberia, ensnaring distant allies. Christian Lasombra within the Church rally resources for Christian forces, whilst Muslim brethren seek alliances, especially with the Assamites. They implore their Jewish kin to join their cause, for fear of dire reprisal should Christians seize power in Iberia.

Yet, the schism without mirrors the schism within. The Cainite Heresy festers within the Church, a heretical cult dominated by Lasombra priests and bishops. These apostates claim Cainites, marked by God, akin to angelic beings, with the Curse of Caine sanctifying them. Naturally, even non-Christian Lasombra decry this doctrine as blasphemy, striving to expunge such heresy wherever it takes root.

Moniker: Magisters Visage: The Clan of Shadows boasts a diverse assembly, with members hailing from Spanish, Italian, Jewish, North African, or Arabian lineages. Most Lasombra garb themselves in opulent attire, bedecked in silks from the Orient, sumptuous French brocades, or the resplendent fabrics of Arabia. Even those within the Church, though it eschews worldly riches, often don regal vestments befitting their high station.

Refuge and Quarry: Some affluent Lasombra opt to dwell amidst their familial estates, masking their true nature to retain control over their holdings. Here, they find ample sustenance amidst kin, servants, and retainers. Others, averse to the complications of concealment amongst throngs of mortals, establish solitary abodes of opulence, sacrificing convenience for secrecy and security. Some adherents of the Cainite Heresy feed upon their congregants, veiling their actions as sacred rites. Nonetheless, such practices demand utmost discretion, lest they incur the wrath of more orthodox Christian Lasombra.

The Embrace: Lasombra often select their progeny from among the affluent, powerful, or politically astute. Yet, Magisters may equally embrace those of humble origins, whose ambition and intellect shine bright. Birth alone cannot gauge one's mettle or capacity for leadership.

Clan Disciplines: Dominate, Obtenebration, Potence Weaknesses: Lasombra cast no reflection in reflective surfaces, rendering it arduous to conceal their supernatural essence from mortals. Moreover, they recoil from bright light, suffering additional harm from sunlight.

Organization: Within the Clan exists the Amici Noctis, the Friends of Night—an exclusive fraternity admitting only those who have proven their worth to the Clan. Presiding over the Courts of Blood, the Amici Noctis grants leave for Amaranth, serving as the final arbiter of its application. Unsanctioned Amaranth invites swift retribution, as decreed by the Amici Noctis. Predominant in central Europe, Montano staunchly opposes the Friends of Night, forbidding their presence in Sicily and the Castle of Shadows. In Iberia, the Shadow Reconquista impedes the Amici Noctis's authority, rendering it powerless to quell the discord.

Stereotypes: High Clans: A meaningless distinction, espoused by the equally pointless. Our ascendancy stems from merit, not lineage. Their classification as High or Low speaks volumes of their discernment. Low Clans: Let other High Clans spurn them. Only a fool rejects a valuable asset or indispensable ally. Assamites: More akin are we to the Children of Haqim than to most others. Let prejudice blind others. They are honorable and worthy allies. Ventrue: The Scions misconstrue power and position, to their detriment. Let them pursue lofty ambitions; it renders them pliable. Followers of Set: Let them strive to revive worship of their defunct deity. Time marches on, and those who resist progress are trampled beneath its stride. Tzimisce: Godless pagans, one and all. They spurned the chance to forsake their heathen ways. While we acknowledge their might, we cannot place our trust in them.

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

About to go to bed, but had this weird dream about Ganondorf last night- like idk really how to explain it but it was sort of like a videogame? And you had to choose different worlds (the different game versions of Zelda) to like- help out and save the specific world in it- I remember going to WW, TOTK and TP but then I woke up to my cat in my face-

Yo, buddy, Imma need to know what you did before sleep cuz I want that dream. So can I have it? Please? Like did you drink anything? Did you medatate? Didja take melatonin? SHARE PLEASE-

Here, a freebie ->

______________________________________________________________

How does the Ganondorfs (Wind Waker, Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Hyrule Warriors, and Tears of the Kingdom) & Demise wind down for the night and get ready for sleep? What is their night routines?

Wind Waker Ganondorf (Wake)

Routine: After a long day of ruling and training, Wake enjoys a quiet evening. He often takes a stroll on the deck of his ship, gazing at the stars and listening to the gentle waves. This helps him clear his mind after the chaos of the day.

Wind Down: Once back inside, he lights a few candles and prepares a simple meal, often something like a hearty stew. While eating, he reflects on his day and plans for tomorrow. Afterward, he’ll read a book or practice his swordsmanship in a more relaxed manner, allowing the movements to soothe him.

Preparing for Sleep: Before bed, he takes a moment to meditate, focusing on his breathing and centering his thoughts. He prefers to sleep in comfortable but loose clothing, finding peace in the rhythmic sound of the sea as he drifts off.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf (Bandit)

Routine: After a busy day filled with political maneuvering and combat training, Bandit prefers a more social approach to winding down. He gathers with his close advisors or allies, sharing a drink and stories about the day’s events.

Wind Down: He often indulges in a fine drink, savoring the taste and letting the alcohol relax his muscles. Bandit enjoys playful banter and laughter, finding comfort in camaraderie before retreating to his private quarters.

Preparing for Sleep: In his room, he takes a moment to reflect on the day, sometimes writing in a journal about his thoughts or strategic plans. He wears light, comfortable clothing, and as he settles into bed, he often finds himself gazing at the ceiling, contemplating the future and his ambitions until he drifts off.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf (Noctis)

Routine: Noctis thrives on intensity and has a more structured routine. After a long day of ruling and battling, he often spends time in the castle’s library, poring over ancient texts or strategies.

Wind Down: He enjoys solitary moments, perhaps with a glass of wine, reflecting on his lineage and the weight of his legacy. Occasionally, he’ll practice meditation or martial arts to release the day’s tension.

Preparing for Sleep: Before bed, Noctis bathes to cleanse himself, finding it helps relax his mind and body. He dresses in a simple, yet elegant nightshirt, ensuring he’s comfortable. Lying in bed, he sometimes lets himself imagine scenarios where he can break free from the chains of his past, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf (Hedony)

Routine: Hedony has a more flamboyant approach to winding down. After a lively day filled with battles and celebrations, he often throws a small gathering in his chambers with music, food, and drink.

Wind Down: He enjoys entertaining, telling stories, and perhaps even engaging in some playful sparring with trusted allies. Hedony thrives in the energy of others, which helps him wind down from the day’s excitement.

Preparing for Sleep: Once the festivities die down, he takes a moment for himself, enjoying a warm bath filled with aromatic herbs. He slips into luxurious silk nightwear, admiring himself in the mirror for a moment before settling into bed, often falling asleep to the sound of soft music.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf (Vendettas)

Routine: Vendettas has a more intense, brooding routine. After a day filled with strategy and power plays, he often takes time alone to process his thoughts. He walks through the castle’s grounds or the nearby wilderness, allowing nature to soothe him.

Wind Down: He might light a fire in his chambers, sitting quietly and contemplating the weight of his ambitions. Sometimes he writes letters to those he cares about or practices his magic to release built-up energy.

Preparing for Sleep: Before bed, Vendettas performs a cleansing ritual, ensuring his space is charged with positive energy. He dresses in a simple, comfortable tunic, often surrounded by the faint glow of his magic as he falls asleep, dreaming of battles yet to come.

Demise

Routine: Demise has a darker, more ritualistic routine. After a day of exertion and plotting, he often retreats to a private chamber filled with relics and symbols of his power.

Wind Down: He may spend time meditating in darkness, reflecting on his past and his desires for the future. He revels in the energy of hate and ambition, using it to fuel his thoughts.

Preparing for Sleep: Before resting, he performs a ritual to reaffirm his strength, sometimes invoking his darker powers. He wears minimal clothing, preferring to feel unencumbered. Lying in bed, he often stares at the ceiling, contemplating his existence and waiting for the moment to unleash his wrath upon the world once more.

In summary, each Ganondorf and Demise has their unique way of winding down, influenced by their personalities and experiences, creating a rich tapestry of routines that reflect their individual natures.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

What are your thoughts on Suren?

thoughts on Suren.... thoughts. on Suren.... okay.

not everyone is going to like this and probably even less will agree, so keep in mind that this is just my opinion because you asked for it and i'm willing to give it. please take whatever measures you need to protect yourself and not start discourse about my opinion on my post.

i actually didn't like Suren for a good majority of the book. and not in a "i don't like you as a person" sort of way.

it was more that i didn't quite believe that i was meant to believe she was real. she seemed disorganised in a slapdash sort of way. captivating from far away, and yet nearly unremarkable once you got up close. what i mean by this is that the concept for her character was gorgeously unique, but the execution of her character didn't seem all that unique from Holly's other wild feral forest fae girls with an angry streak.

every book is an essay. it's the author's job to convince the audience. and i was not convinced of Suren's character—her skills, her magic, her fear, her anger.

some of her skills seemed too conveniently and hurriedly shoved into the narrative.

like her sudden uncanny ability to solve riddles with complex language when we had not been told prior to this that she had any previous interest in riddles. she had been living a mostly solitary life for years before this. when Oak and Tiernan first speak to her, they literally can't understand her because she hasn't spoken in so long and everything comes out garbled and scratchy and unintelligible.

how am i to believe she goes from that to solving complicated riddles to break people out of prison in a matter of days?

or her knowledge of the exact right passageway in the Court of Teeth. two years isn't a long time and she was a prisoner in the Citadel for most of it. prisoners don't run about the halls finding hidden corridors and trap doors. and if she did, why was it so casually mentioned right before the hidden passage was introduced?

why not make all of these things a bigger part of her backstory, her personality?

i.e. She liked figuring her way out of things just to see if she could. And also because it pissed off Lady Nore and Lord Jarel. She liked solving mazes and puzzles. She'd often make up riddles in her head when she was feeling lonely or bored or scared. A distraction in a life that wanted to swallow her whole. Her lifeline to sanity.

Best of all, Suren liked ruining things. She wasn't sure what it was, but something inside her revelled in chaos, in pulling at the threads. In watching a great and terrible unravelling.

If her unsister, Bex, built a tower of blocks she would find the best and swiftest way to knock it down. It had always been this way. It's why she sucked at Jenga. She just never got the point. Why would anyone want to build such a teetering thing on such uneven foundation? Suren would always find the brick most likely to topple the tower, just to delight in its fall. To feel the sweet relief of watching something fraught and all-consuming turn to nothing, right before her eyes.

When she got to the Citadel, she was a scourge upon the palace. If they tied her up she would be out of her stays in mere hours. If they locked her in a room she would worm her way out, hiding in the spaces between walls, the small crawl space of a turret, or the castle's many hidden passageways.

Whatever that thing was, the thing inside her that craved to break things, to watch things fall, Suren knew it couldn't be good.

this would give Suren a quirk that fits with her character, is useful to the plot, and distinguishes her as different in tone and experience from Jude/Charlie/Hazel/Kaye. "breaking her way out of things" would also act as a satisfying mirror to Oak's "charming his way out of things". and "that thing inside her chest that liked to break things" would be a nice bit of foreshadowing.

or! why not lean the other way?

i.e. Suren had a secret. Which was that she hadn't discovered the palace secrets while being held captive at the Citadel. She hardly left her rooms apart from when Lord Jarel and Lady Nore paraded her around like an animal. She was terrified. And sometimes, when all the world feels overly terrifying, the great maw of it open wide and yawning over your head, you become frozen. Trapped in a brittle, trembling version of yourself. Waiting to be tipped over the edge. Waiting for everything you once were to shatter on the floor like glass.

So Suren became more animal than girl. That's what happens when you are told over and over again what you are. When you are treated again and again like that very thing. You become it. Suren gnashed her teeth and growled at those who came too close. And yet, when Lady Nore was sent away from Elfhame with her promise of obedience to Suren, and Suren was sent back with Lady Nore, as if Lady Nore hadn't spent the past two years manipulating and abusing her child, Suren shattered anyway.

Picking up the broken shards of herself, she ran. Into the woods where she hoped no one would find her. Where she hoped, if they did find her, she could turn those shattered pieces outward, become something sharp to draw blood with. Where she hoped to hear the birds sing, and maybe find the occasional patch of sunlight.

She knew nothing of the Citadel. It had never been her home. She was not useful in the ways that Oak or Tiernan desired she would be. She only let them believe she was. But she'd be damned if she let the opportunity to bring her bitch of a mother down slip through her fingers.

this could be an "inverse of Jude" moment. a "let them overestimate me and despair in what i become" moment. a "sorry mummy did i come back wrong?" moment.

i also would've liked to have seen more of Suren learning to use the tools at her disposal.

for instance, if she's good at riddles, tell us she has always been fascinated by them! show us why she is fascinated by them! is it because she likes them or is it because she learned it was a way in which she could survive her abusive parents? show us that solving riddles/puzzles/knots is a part of her every day life before you have her jail-breaking everyone in a pivotal moment of the plot.

if she likes breaking spells and curses, show us more of her learning to use her magic apart from the prologue. tell us that she has a fascination with knots, with undoing them. that magic, to her, feels like a bramble of knots, and she can't help but pull the strings until they are undone.

but the focus seemed to be largely on Suren's "monster girl" persona, which would be fine if she actually acted like a monster. instead, she does pretty much the Morally Sound thing for the majority of the plot, is pretty decent at socialising, and goes along with the others a little too easily for someone who has been betrayed by most of the significant figures in her life.

the only way we are to know that she is a "monster girl" is that she tells us this over and over. tells us that she is ashamed of her physical appearance, that she's Made of sticks and snow, that that's why she's a monster. all of which does naught to convince me that she might actually be one.

TLDR: for most of the book, Wren seemed like she was extremely lucky, all bark, and no bite (which is ironic considering those teeth).

until the VERY end, when Madoc (bless him) encouraged her to sink her teeth into something. and when she did, only then did she finally become delicious.

and then the book ended.

so i can't really say what i think about her. i went from being intrigued to being bored to being unconvinced to being intrigued again to being positively tickled for about one chapter. i can only say that my attachment to her does not run deep at this point.

–Em 🖤🗡

more theories and analysis

[denimbex1986]

'Tower blocks in Britain could have been what villages once were to this cramped little island: humble concentrations of community amid the greenbelts and the farms and the swaths of land marked out for the haughty upper class. The midcentury model of the council housing estate centered on high-rise developments of boxy apartments, piled and clustered tightly enough that everybody in them knew everybody else. In London, this neighborly ideal harked back to a past version of the city, which, long before it was unified as a sprawling metropolis, was once a patchwork of separate villages. Many estates sprang up on sites razed by bombing during the Second World War, brutalist symbols of stoic survival and renewal.

But ideals rarely endure in a country quick to settle for austerity—there’s no nation-defining British dream to speak of here. And so the perception of the tower block shifted, with every man’s tiny home becoming his castle, fortified by suspicion, marginalized by government neglect. If the tragedy of the 2017 Grenfell Tower fire signified the worst-case outcome of a crumbling social-housing model, the glossier, glassier private high-rises now mushrooming around Britain’s major cities mark their own sort of societal decay. Priced to exclude and designed to divide—many of the ones with a government-mandated quota of “affordable” apartments offer separate entrances and facilities for the poorer residents—they’d be hard-pressed to evoke village life even if many of them didn’t stand pristinely, echoingly empty.

In All of Us Strangers (2023)—Andrew Haigh’s exquisite, twilit tangle of lives and loves separated by space, time, and personal defenses—such isolation suits London screenwriter Adam (Andrew Scott) just fine. Gay, single, and somewhere past forty, he is one of a scarce few residents to have moved into a sheeny, geometric new block in an unloved stretch of the East End. The lighting in the building’s lengthy corridors sets an intimate mood for nobody in particular; the mirrored elevators dizzyingly multiply the reflection of anyone who steps inside, perhaps so they might feel less solitary. At the outset, cinematographer Jamie D. Ramsay shoots the skyline as seen from Adam’s lofty living-room window, its familiar silhouettes toy-sized beneath a huge, heavy dawn sky. We’re in the city, yet it looks so far away.

Adam cultivates distance. If he has any friends, we don’t see them. His apartment, compact and chicly furnished, is fitted entirely for one. Even then, the place doesn’t look wholly lived-in: he may spend his days within its walls, watching real-estate TV shows and procrastinating over a new screenplay, but he’s never quite at ease, at home. When we eventually hear him speak, it’s as if he is out of practice, surprised by the sound of his own voice, itself a hesitant, placeless thing, with Estuary English edges softened by an Irish lilt. His gaze is long and his posture unyielding. This is not a man between relationships, taking time out from the world; Adam is proficient, even expert, in his solitude. He was born lonely, he explains, even before his parents were killed in a car crash when he was just eleven. First as an only child and then as an orphan, he feared he would be alone forever; as an adult, he says, the fear “just solidified.” The great, mournful beauty of Scott’s performance is in its bodily evocation of loneliness as daily routine: from the way he walks to the way he sleeps, he makes no room for others—though that will change.

If one could cross-pollinate Haigh’s films, it would be tempting to matchmake Adam with Russell (Tom Cullen), the similarly handsome, withdrawn protagonist of the director’s 2011 breakthrough feature, Weekend—a heartsore queer romance on a tight schedule, chronicling a one-night stand that stretches to a second night, and then to the brink of something altogether deeper, only to be thwarted by the calendar. Russell lives in a Nottingham tower block, in an apartment less stylish than Adam’s, with a view less expansive. But it offers him an equivalent refuge—way up on the fourteenth floor—from a world he reticently holds at arm’s length. He is younger than Adam, his routines less rigid. Venturing into a nightclub, Russell connects with the more outgoing Glen (Chris New), sampling for one weekend a life of unfamiliar companionship, before being left in his shabby flat once more. In both Weekend and All of Us Strangers, Haigh maps out the simultaneous security and insecurity of urban high-rise living, the way it functions as quiet sanctuary and solitary confinement for characters pushed to the margins by their queerness, their reserve, or both.

“How do you cope?” The question comes from Harry (Paul Mescal), Adam’s only visible neighbor, mere seconds into their first meeting—after a fire drill exposes the scant population of their building. It’s not a typical chat-up line, but Harry, who has shown up drunk at Adam’s door with a bottle of Japanese whiskey begging to be shared, hasn’t time for small talk. Besides, he already knows the answer, as someone who isn’t coping much at all himself. Another gay man adrift in this unoccupied space, albeit twenty-odd years younger, Harry identifies in Adam both a kindred spirit and an anxious vision of his future. Mescal’s performance, with its plaintively flirtatious delivery and piercing eye contact, articulates a kind of loneliness that hasn’t yet settled and hardened. But Adam, not given to letting people in, shuts the door, and with it, their only chance at a life together. He won’t know this, of course, until they’re very much in love.

All of Us Strangers, like Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s The Ghost and Mrs. Muir and Anthony Minghella’s Truly Madly Deeply, is a ghost story in which the uncanny merges so fluidly with the everyday that one might easily forget it’s a fantasy at all. There is no horror here in the afterlife. Adam either sees dead people or imagines them so vividly into being that they become independent spiritual entities; either way, he accepts their presence without confusion or protest. Perhaps this sixth sense is a natural consequence of his own partial retreat from the land of the living. Deftly and inventively adapting Taichi Yamada’s 1987 novel Strangers, Haigh isn’t preoccupied with the rules and regulations of this strange dimension but rather with its emotional truths.

In this existential hinterland, ghosts can’t necessarily identify one another as such, while Adam can only really differentiate a member of the deceased if he recalls the death in question. Such is the case when, on a memory-stoking trip to Sanderstead, the very ordinary outer-London scene of his early childhood, he spots a man he recognizes, and follows him home. Leather-jacketed and neatly mustachioed, the man (Jamie Bell) is a little younger than Adam, and for a charged, uncertain moment, we think perhaps they’ve cruised each other. But it’s his father, fresh-faced and frozen at his age of death; back at the family home, his mother (Claire Foy) is likewise undead and well, still in her eighties perm and loose pastel sweats. They’re pleased but not overly surprised to see him, and the reunited trio settles comfortably into catching up.

That Adam has moved the dozen-plus miles from Sanderstead to Stratford—from London’s dowdy outskirts to one of its throbbing urban centers—is a point of pride to his working-class parents, who hail from the era when Margaret Thatcher demonized poverty, encouraging the hoi polloi to transcend their roots. Adam’s writing career may not have made him famous or glamorous, but it nonetheless strikes his parents as a step up from their ordinary, wage-earning lives: something to brag to the neighbors about.

His sexuality, revealed on a second encounter, is another matter. “They say it’s a very lonely kind of life,” says his rattled mother, echoing a line heard by many gay people in a period when the powers that be explicitly aimed to isolate them, no matter how much queer communities rallied against it. For his parents, locked forever in 1987, the reality of gay life is the one presented by the mainstream media, with panic-inducing headlines about the AIDS epidemic, and Thatcher’s openly homophobic government, then on the brink of bringing Section 28 into law and thereby banning the “promotion of homosexuality” by local authorities. Why wouldn’t Adam’s admission strike fear into his mother’s heart? Foy pitches her aggrieved tone perfectly, her voice terse and tightened, not merely with ingrained prejudice but also with a parent’s dismay at a child’s identity having formed outside her sphere of influence.

But the 2020s are a brave new world, Adam explains, even if he doesn’t quite share in it: to the question of being lonely, he responds, “If I am, it’s not because I’m gay, not really.” Like much of what he tells his parents, it’s a half-truth, meant to make his life sound fuller than it is. Adam can be more honest with Harry, after correcting his earlier error and inviting him inside. When they eventually fuck, in velvety half-light, Adam must remind himself to breathe. Because he came out and of age in a more paranoid time for gay men, erotic abandon doesn’t come easily to him.

As in Weekend and his HBO series Looking (2014–16), Haigh himself doesn’t take gay physicality for granted. All of Us Strangers is a film that evokes the heart-quickening voltage of a hand boldly planted on an inner thigh, a film whose sex scenes are marked by the sweat and friction and curiosity of two unfamiliar bodies discovering each other’s sweet spots. The pinched bearing of Scott’s performance loosens in dialogue with Mescal’s portrayal, which in turn gains something of the former’s tense vulnerability.

Harry, for his part, fears his generation approaches sex too cleanly. Noting how his peers identify more readily as queer than as gay, he wonders if there’s a sterile politeness to the former label, “like all the dick-sucking has been taken out of it.” The men find in each other something realer and closer than they have hitherto been offered by this vast city and by a scene that has been clinically compartmentalized by hookup apps, as well as the gradual decimation of London’s queer social spaces over the last two decades. (The gay club is a pivotal point of movement and exchange in Weekend and Looking, and in All of Us Strangers, it’s the one location that draws Adam into present-day society.) Mutual intimacy doesn’t heal all the wounds of these two wary souls, but it at least allows them to be lonely together—even if, as we come to learn, only one of them is alive.

As the film unfolds, it shows how the dead can pull restlessly at our hearts. In this way, it calls to mind Haigh’s 2015 film 45 Years, which is not a ghost story (at least not in any conventional sense) but a portrait of a marriage undone by unresolved grief. When devoted wife Kate (Charlotte Rampling) sees old vacation images of her husband, Geoff (Tom Courtenay), with his late, pregnant lover, the projection of a life that could have been—one that would not have included her—cuts as deep as any betrayal. In All of Us Strangers, Adam is stymied by memorabilia of a family life stopped cold: the vintage Christmas decorations he pores over in his room, and the eighties records he has seemingly never moved on from, snared up as they are with parental associations and childhood tragedy. One of them, Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s fiercely devotional ballad “The Power of Love,” bridges his relationships to his parents and to Harry, with its pledge of “death-defying love” and its commitment to “keep the vampires from your door.”

Who will protect Adam, however, from a life lived among specters? In Scott’s devastating performance, the character’s initial, unreadable composure slowly crumbles: the more time he spends with his parents, the more he reverts to his preadolescent state, until, lying between them in patterned pajamas, he somehow becomes his middle-aged and eleven-year-old selves all at once. In bed, he cradles himself like a fragile boy; when his father says something he doesn’t want to hear, Adam shushes him with a child’s strident bossiness. His parents insist he must stop seeing them, that they must voluntarily close this afterlife portal. Returned to the reality of his hollow tower block, he has one ghost left to cling to. Back in his own adult bed, he holds Harry’s body close, expressing the same intense need with which he held his parents. Romantic and familial loves reflect one another throughout Haigh’s film, all filling the same void for our affection-starved hero.

And so All of Us Strangers ends in limbo, somewhere between life and death, reality and delusion, comfort and despair. Adam and Harry lie in an embrace so tight their spirits might merge, as the unmistakably sonorous vocal of Holly Johnson commands the viewer to “make love your goal.” Hitherto a master of very English understatement, Haigh has never previously flirted with this volume of sentiment or spirituality, but this ending is the right crescendo for a film about allowing oneself to feel. Much of the movie is shot in a dusky, smoke-blue afterlight, against which human flesh sometimes appears ablaze, like the brilliant last gasp of a scarlet sunset. Fittingly, in the closing frame, the men’s entwined bodies burn so brightly as to become a supernova in the night sky—or a single, hopeful light on in an otherwise dark high-rise.'

[kingsdespair-if]

King's Despair: In a Heartbeat - Short Stories. 5.

[Veleena Heredon]

What Lies Beneath The Calm Waters

Beneath the calm waters, lies a world teeming with mystery. The serene surface of the water hides the bustling activity happening below. Buried beneath the surface, emotions remain suppressed and unheard. A solitary heart's cries are muffled by the calm waters.

You better learn how to swim.

~

The sun is just starting to rise on the horizon, yet Veleena has already been awake for hours. She diligently tends to her bruised knuckles and sore fists, watching as drops of blood fall to the floor. However, the pain from her bruises and open wounds no longer bothers her. It has been years since she last felt any physical discomfort enough to make her cry or even whimper. Her skin has grown so numb from countless hours of training, stabbing, and beatings that she no longer feels anything.

She lifts her eyes to the sky, observing the fading stars in the sunlight. Her father's words echo in her mind, reminding her of a fundamental truth. "The brightest light will always overpower the weakest light, just as the strongest will always overpower the weakest," he tells her. "You must become stronger, but not surpass your brother. You were born to obey, to serve and protect him. He is the future King, the reason for your existence. Never forget that."

And forget, she could not. She had tried countless times before to find another purpose in life, something to fill the emptiness within her. She pleaded with the gods, begging for anything. But her prayers went unanswered. Of course, why would they? She was not special, not unique, just slightly more than useless.

If the day comes when she can no longer wield a sword, throw daggers and shoot arrows with perfect aim, or if her target spots her before her blade strikes, or if she loses her sight, hearing, or even her sense of smell, she will lose everything. Losing the ability to serve her brother or falling into disgrace and no longer wearing the Royal Guard emblem would reduce her to nothing. She would be mere dust, or worse.

Her father constantly belittled her until the day she thwarted an assassin's attempt on her brother's life. She vividly recalls the feeling of her blade piercing deep into the assassin's abdomen. The scent of his terror, his blood dripping from the wound, her hands stained crimson, his desperate eyes begging for divine intervention. Yet, no deity heeded his call, just as they had ignored her many times before. For he was only prey playing pretend, while she was a predator protecting her master, and no smaller creature would ever harm her master. That's what she's been trained to do, and that is what she will do. Even if it takes all her strength, even if it takes her life. She will not fail her task, for she was born for it. Her only reason to be alive is to protect her brother, the Crown Prince.

Veleena doesn't deserve love, nor does she need it. Her father doesn't love her, and her mother never wanted her. While her siblings treat her decently, there is no genuine love involved. She does not need another reason to live; all she needs is within reach: her sword, her bow, her daggers. That's what her father says, that's the truth.

"A King never lies."

That's her mantra every morning, as her eyes hurt from holding back tears, overwhelmed by emptiness. The hardest nights are when she can't stand the loneliness of her bedchambers, when her reflection in the mirror is unbearable, and her heart feels numb. On these mornings, she escapes the castle before dawn and seeks solace in the woods.

When she feels too sad, she hides her face behind a hood and walks around town, observing people as they begin their day. Bakers prepare fresh bread, fishers return from their night shifts, and their partners wait on the docks, holding lamps to guide them safely home. Veleena also finds joy in witnessing couples finding love and comfort in each other's embrace, especially young couples and their tender moments at dawn.

She wonders if, someday, someone will escape their own house to meet her in a secret spot, and she will finally experience something. A gentle touch, a delicate kiss. A heartbeat. Something to fill the emptiness in her chest.

But those are the things that happen during her sad nights, and today is one of those angry nights. When she curses herself for being weak. For dreaming about love, about something that she was not born to have. She will never be pursued by a lover, and no one will ever hold her hand, she will never feel the softness of another person's lips against hers. She already has the love of her cousin Veldon, and she knows he loves her dearly. This is more than what she deserves, and she should be thankful. This should be enough. Love was never meant for her, and it never will be. Even her own parents were incapable of loving her. And why would they? Who could possibly love a creature like her, bred solely to protect her master and attack any potential threats? Who will ever love a broken beast, full of scars both inside and out?

Those nights where she if filled with anger, she seeks solace deep within the woods, wandering until she finds the ancient and solitary oak. Its bark bears countless scars, standing apart from any neighboring trees. It resembles her in many ways. She unleashes her frustrations upon the trunk, relentlessly pounding until her knuckles bleed and her fists ache. When she finishes, the trunk is stained crimson, her knuckles revealing the pulsing veins and strained muscles beneath her bruised skin. The ground beneath her feet is covered in a carpet of red grass. This is her signal to return, not home, for she does not have one, but back to the castle. Before she does, she always makes her way to the waterfall. It is there that she watches the sun rise as the stars fade into oblivion.

This is the sacred place where she dares to dream of being loved.

[galacticsavage-blog]

Twilight Bonds

In the mystical realm of Vaeloria, under a perpetual twilight sky, stood the ominous silhouette of Castle Moravia. It was here that Lord Draven, a vampire of ancient lineage, ruled with a blend of terror and awe. Unlike the folktales that painted him solely as a creature of the night, Draven was also a being capable of deep, undying love.

Lana, a spirited mortal woman, had found herself inexplicably drawn to the castle one fateful night years ago. That night, a bond formed between her and Draven, one that transcended the natural enmity between human and vampire. Over the years, their connection deepened into a passionate and complex love.

Tonight, as a gentle rain whispered against the stone battlements, Lana walked the echoing halls to find Draven in their shared chamber, a sanctuary adorned with dark velvets and flickering candlelight. Draven stood by the window, watching the rain, a figure both commanding and solitary.

“You’re distant tonight, my love,” Lana said softly, her voice a comforting melody in the vast room.

Draven turned towards her, his gaze softening. “The rain... it reminds me of the night you came to me. Fearless, even as you stood at death’s door.”

Lana smiled, stepping closer. “I was never afraid of you, Draven. From that first night, something in your eyes beckoned me, not as a predator to its prey, but as one soul calls to another.”

Draven pulled her into his embrace, his voice a low murmur by her ear. “And still, you are here, heart bound to my darkness. Do you ever regret it?”

Lana tilted her head, her eyes meeting his, fierce and unyielding. “Never. To regret our love would be to deny my very heart. I am yours, wholly.”

As they stood intertwined, Draven whispered words like silk, “You are mine, Lana, as I am yours. Give in to me tonight, as you did that first night. Let us forget the world.”

His hands traced patterns on her back, evoking shivers that were matched by her quickening breath. Lana’s response was a whisper, “I am here, by your side, in shadows and light. Always.”

Their dialogue faded into the night as they moved together toward the bed where shadows played across the sheets, mirroring the storm outside. The candle by their bedside cast a warm glow, illuminating their figures as they explored the depths of their bond.

As dawn approached, heralded by a lightening sky, Lana lay in Draven’s arms, her head resting on his chest. “What is eternity without you?” Draven mused aloud, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability.

“An eternity alone is no eternity at all,” Lana replied, her fingers tracing the lines of his face. “With you, time is timeless, and love is a constant, renewing itself each night.”

Draven kissed her forehead, a gesture filled with tenderness. “Then let us renew our vows with each sunrise, my heart. For as long as the stars watch over us.”

In the quiet that followed, wrapped in the sanctuary of their castle and the calm after the storm, Draven and Lana remained, two souls entwined by love as enduring as the night itself, each surrendering to the other, forever bound by heartstrings woven through the tapestry of eternity.

[boredtechnologist]

Infocom's Moonmist for the PC-9800

Analyzing Infocom's "Moonmist" from a philosophical perspective requires delving into its narrative structure, thematic elements, and gameplay mechanics, interpreting them in light of broader existential, ethical, and epistemological themes.

1. The Search for Truth in a World of Illusions: "Moonmist" is a detective-themed text adventure game set in a haunted castle, where players must uncover the truth behind a series of mysteries. This quest for truth in a world filled with secrets, lies, and illusions echoes the philosophical journey of discerning reality from appearances. The game's emphasis on gathering clues and making deductions parallels the philosophical inquiries of epistemology – the study of knowledge, its nature, and how we come to understand truth.

2. The Nature of Identity and Deception: As players interact with various characters, each with their own secrets and agendas, "Moonmist" invites players to contemplate the nature of identity. The characters’ hidden motives and the masks they wear to conceal their true selves resonate with the philosophical exploration of authentic versus artificial identities. The game challenges players to consider the extent to which identity is a construct, shaped by social interactions and personal secrets.

3. Ethical Decision-Making and Moral Ambiguity: Throughout the game, players face choices that require ethical decision-making, often in situations where the moral implications are ambiguous. This aspect of "Moonmist" aligns with moral philosophy, challenging players to navigate complex ethical dilemmas where the distinction between right and wrong is not always clear. The game encourages players to weigh their decisions and consider the ethical ramifications of their actions.

4. The Ghostly and the Supernatural as Metaphors: The ghostly and supernatural elements in "Moonmist" can be interpreted metaphorically, representing unresolved past issues, hidden fears, or repressed emotions. From a philosophical perspective, these elements can be seen as manifestations of the subconscious mind, exploring how unaddressed aspects of our psyche can haunt us, much like the ghosts in the game.

5. The Role of Perception in Shaping Reality: "Moonmist" requires players to rely heavily on textual descriptions to navigate and interact with the game world. This reliance on descriptive language to construct a mental image of the setting and events highlights the role of perception in shaping our understanding of reality. The game serves as a reminder that our perception of the world is often based on incomplete information, subject to interpretation and personal biases.

6. Solitude, Isolation, and the Individual's Journey: The game's setting, a remote and eerie castle, creates a sense of isolation and solitude. This setting can be philosophically interpreted as a representation of the individual's journey in seeking truth and understanding. The solitary experience of the player, navigating the mysteries of "Moonmist" alone, mirrors the solitary nature of philosophical inquiry and the personal quest for knowledge and self-understanding.

In conclusion, Infocom's "Moonmist" is a text adventure game that offers more than just entertainment; it serves as a medium for philosophical exploration. Through its narrative and gameplay, the game engages players in themes such as the search for truth, the nature of identity, ethical decision-making, the metaphorical significance of the supernatural, the role of perception in shaping reality, and the solitude of the individual journey. It prompts players to engage with deep philosophical questions and reflect on the nature of knowledge, reality, and self.