#the wheels of fate from going any further. which is what her eternity was! it is in the single still moment that wouldn't move them further

[gonguji]

it took me 200 years but I finally understand why there are no new Electro Visions given out...

[bradchap]

I made the mistake of not taking a photo of myself experiencing the art but I did include a screenshot of my payment from my bank showing that I was indeed there!

My chosen work is : The Mystery of Life - 1879 ; Carl Marr, 1858-1936

This painting is oil on canvas. This work is of what I would consider to be average size; about the size of a poster from your nearest poster retailer and would fit nicely in any kitchenette or privy room. The focal point of this work is an illuminated figure of a deceased woman positioned in the center of the frame. Above her a distraught man stand clutching his forehead. This work is composed with a non-linear perspective; the vanishing point appearing to be the dimly lit dot of the moon or a star in the background. Visually the non-action of the deceased woman resigned to the bottom rectangle of the frame balances with the rocky background, moonlit night, and the anguished man are kept in the upper half rectangle. Subdued earthy tones and a rich dark blue sky surround the deceased woman; herself bathed in ghostly white glow that exaggerates her fair complexion. Her fair complexion provided further contrast with the old man's darkened skin. This contrast is used to great affect when the story behind this painting is revealed. The anguished man, is a representation of a sinner, who, having cursed Jesus, was damned to live an eternal life. The fair woman, appears to be young and angelic, revealing the tragedy of her fate and therein the cruelty of this man's eternal suffering.

This work has stood out to me for as long as I have known of it. I've been a life long regular of John Ringling's museum and recall seeing this painting when I was barely weened off of training wheels on my bike. I am not religious. My family was never the church going type and I myself have lived firmly in the secular world. To me there is nothing after death. Which itself is a horror of incomprehensible measure. Seeing this painting truly makes me contemplate my mortality. Perhaps death is not a curse but a blessing? Life is good for me and I have no intentions of making it any shorter. However, perhaps death should be seen as a part of life and not a finality to it?

The artist, Carl Von Marr, was an American born German artist. Marr apprenticed in the US before immigrating to his family's country of heritage, Germany. There, Marr was part of the prolific " German Realist" movement; a style that eschews expressionism in favor of depicting reality in an unrelentingly accurate way. Marr's other works depict people and places as the would exist in reality without adding to the drama or flair. Marr in his later life was appointed as a director to The Royal Academy; an institution that he had studied under prior to him immigration to Germany. Another of his notable works " Flagellants" carries a common religious theme to my selected work and is used to show the importance of religious devotion. " Flagellants" depicts yet again the pure and holy devotees as pale and fair skinned; each shirtless figure has outstretched arms in exaltation and one figure is seen lacerating himself in penance/ praise. I believe that Marr was a pious man, having depicted two striking religious works. One showing the consequences of sin and the other showing those cleansing themselves of sin. Much like the murals of grand chapels of the renaissance era, I believe Marr to have painted these to tell important stories within the greater Christian culture.

Personally, I chose Marr's work for the way it challenges my perception of mortality. The curse upon the man depicted is to me a blessing. Immortality would be a gift.

Why I feel that this work is culturally important is another story. I am not religious therefore the message of this work is lost on me entirely. What is important to me is the relative modernity of this work. This is not some piece that has survived 600 years to be viewed by a modern audience. This work has echoes of those style of antiquity, but is recognizably modern. These echoes seen in this work go to show you that the innovations of painting in the Renaissance and the Baroque periods were not just some fad of the times but have become a standard of this style of work.

[prose-for-hire]

Kiss me quick

Pairing: Spike x Summers!reader

Request: Hi! Can I request a Spike x Summers!reader, where the reader is trying to keep their relationship on the downlow since none of the Scoobies really approve, but after a big win the reader finally kisses him in front of everyone, proving that they do care deeply for one another and everyone just has to accept it.

Requested by: Anon

Warning: Reader gets injured but nothing serious. sex references/implication of sex.

You looked out into dimly lit street, the dark had surrounded you now but ever since you had been meeting this way you couldn’t help but smile whenever the sun began to descend from the sky. You were stood, under a streetlamp, three streets away from your house. Just far enough where nobody from your household would catch you meeting him this way. You had been meeting like this for a while now.

He got a kick out of coming up behind you and immediately pressing you against the nearest wall and crashing his lips to yours. His favourite greeting entailed leaving you breathless and ready to pull him closer no matter what your surroundings were. He often mumbled his hellos through stolen kisses. His passion never died, he was all in. Completely yours.

You couldn’t shake this feeling. That you were completely in love. You had silently tried to fight it to begin with, knowing that those around you wouldn’t approve. That Spike himself may not even reciprocate your feelings. But soon it became clear that there was no hiding these feelings that always bubbled to the surface whenever he was near.

You had started fooling around to begin with, before it all changed. For the better, both of you agreed. Your feelings had taken hold of you both, fuelled by the touch of skin. The depth of mind. Unspoken emotions kept the two of you in a chokehold before you finally spilled your feelings for the other.

Ever since you quit college, you had spent all of your free time sneaking around with Spike. It was, honestly, as thrilling as it was annoying. As much as you wished you could just tell everyone how much you loved Spike - how amazing he was with you, you couldn’t. You had to hide it, the implications of your friends and sisters finding out would be a fate worse than death. In fact, for spike it may mean actual death this time.

Unfortunately, you were the middle child. You were a year younger than Buffy and she never let you forget about it. Meaning, Buffy thought she was the boss of you. Not to mention Dawn basically clung onto your leg to stop you from leaving the house (and thus, preventing you leaving her behind where she couldn’t follow you around). This meant that, often, you didn’t get much spare time for sneaking around with Spike. But, God, did you make it your biggest priority. After… saving the world… obviously.

When you did manage to share these intimate moments, it was everything. It felt as if you were the only people in the world. The only people that had ever felt anything close to this. Nobody had loved this deep. Cared this much. You were both so sure. These feelings, they were eternal. He vowed it to you, one early morning you had spent with your naked bodies pressed together, baring your souls well into the night.

Any emotional scars you harboured seemed to heal just by speaking to him. By having that soothing voice share his own darkest moments with you in return. How that voice, those eyes could have seen and done so much and still make you feel undeniably safe you weren’t sure. But, you trusted him. Even if danger appeared to surround him at every turn. You wouldn’t change him for anything. You loved the good, the bad and the oh-so-attractive parts of him.

Vulnerabilities turned to strengths when you were together. Rough edges appeared smoother. Promises held meaning. You adored him and he confessed to you that he had never been so comfortable in a relationship. He could be himself, could express his feelings without being concerned you would turn away from him.

The first night you invited him into your home made him elated. You had to make him swear not to tell Buffy because you knew she wouldn’t take it well. Like, at all. As much as he would have loved to rub it in the slayer’s face that he had been given access to her house – he loved you too much to even think to upset you in this way. So, you carried on this way, unable to keep your hands and lips from each other for more than an evening at a time. This meant mostly, he stayed at the Summer’s residence or you left to the crypt. Sometimes, you even went for real dates – so long as you were sure that everyone else you knew would be busy elsewhere.

Tonight, you were going to the Bronze together. It was a little more of a risk than usual, but he had insisted on taking you somewhere he knew you would enjoy. Muttered something about not keeping you in the shadows before taking your hand and leading the way. The truth was, Spike was in fact just very smitten with you. And he pretty much wanted everyone to see that you were with him. This was ‘everyone’ except the scoobies and any family members you happened to have crawling out of the woodwork. It was safe though, everyone else was going to some college party and Buffy had told you that it was uncool to have her younger sibling come along.

Buffy was the only one that viewed you as the ‘younger sibling’ the others were friends with you because they were fond of you. Because, well, sometimes you appeared more mature than Buffy did – not that they would ever say that to her face. Although there was always that slight worry that if they hadn’t been friends with Buffy they wouldn’t have been as close with you. You were barely a year younger than Buffy but she was still incredibly protective of you as she was the oldest.

What you hadn’t banked on, whilst you rubbed Spike’s thigh under the table, was that Xander hadn’t been invited to the party. He saw you immediately and made his way over to you with Anya close behind. You almost choked on your drink as you saw them come up behind Spike. You snapped your hand away in shock much to Spike’s displeasure.

“Hey, Y/n-” he started and then stopped when he saw Spike’s presence, “He bothering you?”

“No, he’s just-”

“Warming you up, right pet?” His eyes glistened as he spoke, an eyebrow raising which made Xander scowl. You tried your best to hide the smile at your boyfriend’s words as Xander looked between you both. Xander liked to think of himself as your older brother and had decided you needed defending. You opened your mouth to say otherwise but ended up being cut off by a very urgent ex-vengeance demon.

“It doesn’t matter that they’re dating right now, we are all going to get ripped into pieces if the demon finds us!” Anya shouted. You hadn’t been as secretive as you thought then.

“An!” Xander hissed, sharing a look. At the exact same time you and Spike shared a look too. You wondered who else had seen straight through your sneaking around and longing glances you shared through scooby meetings.

You were sharing looks for different reasons though. They had obviously discussed what not to say beforehand and Anya had characteristically ignored his warning. There was some kind of demon threatening the town. Again.

“What’s going on, Xander? Anya?” you tried for your ex-vengeance demon friend when Xander didn’t speak. There was definitely something odd going on. At her name being called, despite Xander’s warning, she launched into an explanation.

“Xander got annoyed at our sex-spell and ripped a page out of my very rare copy of ‘magic, sex and me’ which ruined our entire evening!” She scowled and crossed her arms before continuing, “Now we have to kill it instead of having our sexy time” she pouted.

“We’ll pretend we didn’t hear about a sex spell-”

“Well, I want to hear about it. Can’t get it up, mate?” Spike taunted which only made Xander redden further after Anya’s admittance. Xander stepped as if to hit your vampire but you stepped in the way and wheeled Xander away, changing the subject.

You asked instead about what this demon was like. Anya explained that it was a Scorn-demon. Ridiculously hard to kill and bound to the pages of a book as no mortal prison can hold it. It looked as if you were in for a long night. Which is exactly what you and Spike had planned although for a very different reason.

“If all of us are looking, we’ll find it quicker” You offered, Xander had been embarrassed to explain because of the reason they were doing a spell. But now Anya had told anyone anyway, he was grateful of the help. You got to your feet, ready to follow them out as Spike got up beside you.

“Looks like no bugger’s getting any tonight” Spike muttered, rolling his eyes as you apparently volunteered you both to assist your friend.

“Just working ourselves up… right?” You offered which made him smirk. God, he had been rubbing off on you. You almost felt yourself mirroring his smirk at your words. He wanted to pull you in and kiss you until you admitted just his presence could get you worked up enough alone, but he knew the importance of hiding this from your friends. Which, really was the only reason he didn’t take you right there in the middle of the Bronze.

Instead, you just trailed behind Xander and Anya’s bickering and tried to locate this demon. You called Buffy’s cell and left a message. You knew this was probably going to end with a battle you were unequipped for. You just hoped that you ran into your sister before you ran into the demon. By all accounts he sounded nasty.

As you walked, you and Spike kept sneaking glances at the other when you hoped the others weren’t looking. It was hard, having to maintain this distance when all you wanted to do was reach for him. Show him your affection freely. When you caught the other’s eye, you couldn’t help but smile. You felt so lucky, to have someone that cared so deeply. Someone who wasn’t afraid to share their love so freely.

You wanted to slide your hand in his, tell him just how lucky you felt. Just how much you felt for him, although you were sure he must be sick of how often you told him you loved him. He never was, of course. It was the sweetest music hearing that phrase from your lips. He kissed them a thousand times just to catch the remaining sweetness from your tongue. With those words, nothing should be wasted. He wanted to savour every syllable of your love.

You kept walking until you had to come to an abrupt halt. Dawn turned a corner and crashed straight into you. Turns out, your hopes came true: you did come across your sister first. It just happened to not be the one you expected.

“Oh, I didn’t know you guys were ready for, like, double dating yet” Dawn teased. She, too, had decided that you and Spike had to be dating. She often brought it up to annoy you but she believed it all the same. Spike never corrected her and you had stopped bothering too. You would only come off as defensive and she would tease you for that. You honestly couldn’t win living under the same roof as Dawn, she could be relentless.

Spike leaned in to whisper something in your ear, his lips so close to your ear you could imagine the way they would feel if he leaned in further and pressed against your skin. You smiled at his comment, he always made you laugh. He liked to hear your laugh and it passed the time while he waited for the fight that was coming.

When you looked back up, Willow and Tara had caught up with your group. They gave you a knowing look at how close you were stood to Spike. You wanted to lean on him, inhale deeply and press kisses against the curve of his neck. You loved the way he gripped you closer when you did that. But you had to snap yourself out of this thought at the arrival of your sister. Buffy immediately started giving orders, not before she gave you a warning look for letting Dawn come with you after she scowled at Spike for his mere presence.

“I brought the research – I think there’s a spell, but we’ll have to weaken him first” Willow muttered, frowning at Anya and blaming her for this spell and putting her best friend in danger. 

“The spell needs lovers to complete it. Do you think you could help us Anya? Xander?” Tara asked softly, “But I’m not sure if that’s enough to hold him”

Because the demon was attracted to love and sex, couples were needed to cut off his power at the source. It fed from lovers and by concentrating that power it could reverse and thus weaken the demon within a certain spot.

“Well, if we need couples we have at least three pairs here. Maybe that would be enough?” Willow asked. Making everyone look around to count the pairs. Everyone’s eyes then landed on you and Spike. The last to look was Buffy who raised an eyebrow between you both.

“Does everyone know we’re dating?!”

“Pretty much, sweetie” tara nodded.

“We just didn’t wanna embarrass you. It’s… Spike” Buffy cringed at even the thought of it, “I, uh, thought you would have kinda got it out of your system by now though” Buffy hitched her nose up at the idea of the two of you, but shrugged. She saw it as a meaningless relationship. The kind she had with Parker in her first year of college but more often.

From what you gathered as they didn’t correct her, nobody really thought Spike capable of any kind of meaningful relationship. And with him not being able to actively harm you, they just decided to avoid the topic entirely until one or both of you got bored of the sex. The only one that hadn’t thought anything of your sudden proximity with Spike every time he turned around, was Xander. He really would have said something if he had known. But he still wasn’t convinced now – no matter how often Anya insisted.

You slid your hand into his, now that everybody appeared to know that you were together at least. He smiled at this, looking down at your hands back to your face. This smile, it was softer than he would usually show in front of the Scoobies, it was one only for you. Where he felt such genuine happiness. Such adoration.

As usual, nobody really wanted to discuss your love life (rather just ignore and hope it went away) and so began to look away from you and discuss the demon again. You began following the trail of destruction. He wasn’t so hard to locate really and Buffy immediately attacked him as Willow and Anya set up in a large triangle around the fight. Each couple was at each point of the triangle as the recital occurred. A flash of light surrounded the demon and Buffy before it faded, showing the demon now fighting sluggishly.

You tried to protect Dawn the best you could while Spike and Buffy took it in turns to throw punches at the now marginally weakened demon. You and the others helped when you could but he was so strong even now the spell had worked, that humans barely affected him.

Somehow the demon broke from Spike’s hold and started for Dawn - who he had sensed as the weaker member of your group. You charged in front of your younger sister to try and distract him. This lead to him twisting you and throwing you into the air and crashing into a nearby storefront. You were flung straight against the wall and hit your head quite badly. He watched you falling like a ragdoll, appearing limp due to the blow.

His gut dropped. He left Buffy to the fight. All that mattered now was that you were okay. He had never been so scared. Spike rushed over to you, dropping to the floor so that he could cradle your head in his lap. There were a few seconds where he didn’t know what to do.

But then just as he thought he may have lost you, hope was restored again. You open your eyes, your smile a little dazed as you looked at him from your position in his lap. He looked up to the sky in relief, as if silently thanking the powers. His eyes danced with emotion as he looked back into yours. He wouldn’t know what he would do without you. Couldn’t even imagine it less his heart would begin to ache with phantom loss.

He was so overcome by the thought of losing you that he immediately caught your lips with his. Pouring every single feeling he had ever experienced for you into that one kiss. His hand cupping your cheek, the other on the small of your back – pressing you closer to him. As if this kiss may well be your very last. You reciprocated without hesitation, your lips felt as if they had been moulded just for this very moment. This kiss, it said everything. Promised everything and you smiled into it. Your lips moving against his urgently, insisting he feel your love for him. Even in your weakened state, all of your energy went into kissing him.

In the same moment, Buffy managed to finally slay the beast and Tara and Willow muttered some words that sent him into the book he would now again call home. Buffy whipped around to catch you both kissing so desperately. The rest of the group stopped still and staring too. Every mouth agape in shock. At just how much you appear to feel for the other. This wasn’t just a quick shag when the feeling struck. One wasn’t taking advantage of the other. This was love. The truest kind. And nobody could deny it now, not even Xander.

After you parted, reluctantly on both parts, he took on your weight as you all walked back, everyone except him in silence. He doted on you, pressing a kiss against your temple every few paces – just because he could now in this company. He wanted to offer you all of the comfort he could. He was whispering to you trying to make sure you didn’t fall asleep. He was sure you had a concussion (I mean, you kissed him that way in front of all of your friends without any worries after all).

Buffy didn’t even object when it appeared that Spike was walking their way home. She didn’t know what to think anymore. Everyone could see just how deeply you cared for each other. It was undeniable, even to your older sister.

Spike was just pleased you would make it and be okay. And… he began to get smug that he was finally able to show the slayer that he could access her house this entire time.

[phoenixtakaramono]

Character Design Thoughts for Shen Yuan & Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky in ‘The Untold Tale’

(This is a Follow Up to This Post)

Hello, @averydrearydiana! Loved reading through your tags! I’m excited that you’re excited! Since I’m also seeing comments on AO3 speculating about how our transmigrators are going to appear as in The Untold Tale, I might as well give my current thoughts and have this archived on tumblr for future reference.

A fun fact about TUT is that a lot of the imagery in the story is inspired by Chinese PVs and popular C-dramas and literature. Since TUT is conceived as a lovestory to SVSSS, one element that I’d wanted to incorporate is playful attempts at satirical genre deconstruction. With that comes with me playfully poking fun at some clichés or things I’ve noticed in Chinese works.

Shen Yuan’s Celestial Design

Before I talk about his mortal appearance, I have to give a lil context about his celestial design in the story. We already know what he looks like as the celestial fortuneteller in TUT’s cover art that I’ve already posted on tumblr. As everyone knows, I was heavily inspired by this Chinese PV:

(TUT ch1 - Excerpt)

Among the things I’ve noticed are the fictional characters with white hair. We have a whole subculture of fans liking male character designs with white hair in anime and animation. Taking that a step further, they’ve even shown up in C-dramas, i.e. Teng She from Love and Redemption (technically more blond than platinum white, but shhhhh, just let me have this), Dong Hua Dijun from Eternal Love of Dream aka Three Lives Three Worlds, Ten Miles of Peach Blossoms (rest assured, I’m aware of the source material’s controversy, but let’s not get into that here), etc. One of the tags for TUT is Opposites Attract. Luo Binghe’s color coordination is aligned with black and red mostly. Now, visually speaking, what’s the opposite of that?

The yin yang symbol.

Fun fact, besides black vs white, green (SY) is the complementary color of red (LBG) on the color wheel. Now taking everything I’ve said, to take it even one step further, my thought process at the time was, “why not go the extra mile then and just have SY be albino? Within context of the Heavenly Realm, that character design makes sense.” TUT is me subtly riffing off what I can (for the good ol’ meta humor), but making the content come across as a legitimate story experience. As Protagonist A and Protagonist B, LBG and SY have to look visually striking together. With all that said, let’s talk about....

(In reference to the original tumblr post)

Shen Yuan (Mortal)

I’ll keep some elements of his albinism from his celestial form (light sensitivity and pale skin mostly), but SY’s mortal form is essentially SY pre-transmigration but within context of the xianxia genre.

For his appearance, let’s just keep this Author’s Note^ and TUT’s summary in the back of our brains. This is the fanvid I was originally inspired by for SY’s mortal appearance:

(TUT Summary - Excerpt)

For what he wears, I’m currently feeling very heavily inspired by this PV:

His mortal appearance wouldn’t be considered as “strange” or “otherworldly” compared to the “ethereal fairy-like beauty” SY retains in the Heavenly Realm, but as a side-effect of the 【PROTAGONIST’S HALO】 and his +20 CHARISMA stat, he would still be considered attractive to people even when he takes on a mortal appearance. (Mainly, I like the idea of Bing gē taking large shots of vinegar seeing SY turning heads no matter which appearance SY takes on, and Luo Binghe glaring at these “insects” for even “daring to lay their unworthy eyes on his fated person.” The thought of it just makes me laugh.)

What I mean by how SY’s mortal form being very much based on how SY appeared pre-transmigration but in the xianxia genre context, I mean he’ll have his dark hair (but longer), a “scholarly air” (as a nod to his novelist background), dark eyes, and even his glasses technically (the divine monocle mentioned in ch3, which is also a subtle nod to Sha Po Lang and a riff on men wearing monocles in other Chinese works andit’salsoforeshadowingbutshhhh).

(TUT ch3 - Excerpt)

Shen Yuan originally was an author in his forties pre-transmigration, so I like the idea him having a mature air about him in the Cultivation World as well. So for both our Protagonist B’s celestial and mortal appearances, the idea is that you can look at him and immediately recognize him as a protagonist of the danmei setting. My only two prerequisites are that his appearance screams “hello, I’m Protagonist B” and that he appears in “scholarly” attire.

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky (Mortal)

Keeping in mind the original tumblr post where I wrote my thoughts on who I’m transmigrating him as, currently I’m thinking it’s a combination of these two PVs for his mortal form:

As a nod to him being a successful novelist, I wanted him to also appear scholarly. A scholarly crown prince, if you will. For his attire, imagine all the C-drama clothing you’ve seen actors wear in period dramas, and you already have a good idea already of the direction I’m heading down.

As the prince of the cannon fodder emperor, I very much like the idea of Airplane perhaps having a baby face and brown hair (as a small nod to fanon!SQH from SVSSS) but with a great body (a huge source of inspiration are clothing worn by Prince Yu and Prince Jing of the three princes from the C-drama Nirvana in Fire). Since Airplane will also be able to select his Character Creation stats like Shen Yuan had, one thing I’m fairly certain is that he will max out his CONSTITUTION—because “game logic” and not wanting to die. (For those who don’t know, the CON stat in tabletop RPs essentially indicates a person’s overall health, wellbeing, and vigor checks...so him maxing it out is equivalent to him being as invulnerable as a cockroach. A high CON means overall healthiness, which means your character probably is full of energy and vitality, can heal rapidly, and will rarely get sick—if ever. Low CON usually means a higher susceptibility to sickness and disease, wounds that fester and linger, and a general fatigue would haunt you, etc.) Like how SY zeroed in on his CHA, Airplane would have prioritized +20 CON (+5 modifier), especially knowing the fate that’d await him as a prince and the vicious environment that is expected for palace intrigue plots (the harem is a big factor, with concubines and consorts and even the empress sabotaging each other—just to win the favor of one man). Against poison or whatnot which is a cliché in palace intrigue plots, rather than relying on luck, you typically stand a better chance of passing the CON check if you have a high modifier aiding your checks. He’s basically become impervious to illnesses, most poisons (probably being able to spring back quickly), and is considered the healthiest prince in all the mortal imperial line. <- This could be taken both seriously and humorously simultaneously.

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky (Deity/ Celestial)

For Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī’s “actual divine body” that is currently asleep and won’t be awakened until Airplane completes his mortal trial to “regain his cultivation powers,” the face should obviously be similar but, as Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī, he would appear regal and dignified as a god of this world:

Imagine something along the lines of mortal Airplane as the man on the right, celestial Shen Yuan in the center, and deity/ celestial Airplane as the man on the left. I envision a respectable appearance that would knock the air out of Mobei jūn and make him recognize Airplane despite any visual dissimilarities, and in a way we have the Four Beauties of China: Luo Binghe, Shen Yuan, Mobei jūn, and Xiàng Tiān Dà Fēijī.

I will say I currently have an idea of making Airplane have “golden” eyes in both his celestial and mortal forms. (Spoiler alert: in my notes, I’d written down to give Airplane yellow eyes as an Easter egg to Yanxi Palace, I believe, where there was an episode where someone of the imperial harem schemed against the empress and almost had the newborn baby killed because that and the yellow skin was an inauspicious omen. We later find out through a timely intervention that the true reason was due to jaundice—because of the diet/ pregnancy cravings she ate for a period of time which resulted in her son’s symptoms. With Airplane’s high CON and another trope I’m bringing in which’ll have to do with the Medicine King’s Valley/ Valley of the Medicine King, his yellow eyes are the only side effect that lingered from that traumatic event which would have killed him had they gotten away with their scheme. A lot of palace dramas have to do with the vicious harem plots, so this would potentially be one such example.) The reason being that this is the identifying marker for MBJ to clue in that they’re the same man he will have loved. And I think that has romantic potential.

Misc.

Now addressing the other tags, yes, essentially speaking, Mobei jūn might just very well experience his very own Big Damn Reunion trope that Bing mèi had suffered from SVSSS. Poor MBJ. He’s in a tumultuous ride of his own with him considering Airplane as his own fated person, hahaha. But for the Moshang dynamic, I want him—a demon—to find himself taken with Airplane in his mortal guise—and subsequently his true celestial appearance once he finds out. I very much also want SY to jokingly snark to his fellow transmigrator-and-writing-colleague about him getting in a relationship with his own “creation” (MBJ). And Airplane would jokingly snark back about SY “ruining his ‘first son’ as well” (LBG). If you can read between the lines of that, then kudos. I’m glad to hear you’re looking forward to the palace intrigue.

I’m especially very happy to hear you’re looking forward to the descriptions! I personally love worldbuilding in the stories I consume I’m an interior designer and realtor irl, so I’m glad my love of house details and landscape, etc shows in TUT. For the pseudohistorical vibe, in the Mortal Realm, I will be referencing the Forbidden City of our Chinese history and a couple popular period C-dramas. Take the settings of period C-dramas like Ruyi’s Royal Love in the Palace, Yanxi Palace, and Nirvana in Fire as examples for what will be awaiting us when we finally meet Airplane in his mortal body. In the Heavenly Realm, the descriptions will be heavily referencing shows that contain aesthetics such as those of Ashes of Love, Love and Redemption, and Eternal Dream.

Take this with a grain of salt just in case I change my mind later on, but in the chapter when we meet Airplane for the first time, I probably won’t say which character he is in the first scene. I’ll give plenty of hints in the first scene so that you all can make your guesses before the big reveal, but I’m fairly confident you all or most of you will be able to pinpoint who he is among the cannon fodders. We’ll meet the emperor, who is discussing with his sons about the matter regarding the approaching calamity that is Luo Binghe. Then when we transition into the second scene, we’ll know exactly which “royal prince OC” it is that our beloved Airplane has transmigrated into, hahaha.

(*Keep in mind, for everything written above, some details are subject to change. Nothing is official until it appears in the story, or I’ve actually drawn my ideas out and posted online to both my tumblr and twitter. These are just my current thoughts.)

A goal of mine for TUT is to make the story widely accessible, meaning it doesn’t matter if the reader is new to the SVSSS fandom or aren’t familiar with the Easter egg references or meta jokes or subtext or even the Chinese culture, or even if English is not their first language. Having knowledge beforehand might help someone notice more hidden details in TUT, yes, but it is a humble wish of this writer for her esteemed readers to be able to dive into the story and get the enjoyable feeling like they’re reading a genuine danmei novel. It really makes me smile whenever I hear feedback that I am able to emulate that experience.

Very exciting developments indeed are in store!

[n0tamused]

- | Afterlife

Warnings: angst, description of gore, talks about death, character death.

Song recommendations: Her & the Sea - The Clann

Word count: 1,945

Characters: Kaliyah Sen-Ryokō, Ginjiro, mentioned/implied Tobirama?

"What happens after we die?"

The question made the silver beast stirr from his half-sleep, his large emerald eyes opening to stare at the back of his master. She sat closer to the edge of the great mountain cliff, a giant towering over all others. The sun was still high in the heavens and the wind was ever present, eternal on the mountain peaks. Leaves rustled in it, brushing against each other and creating a symphony of nature along with the little songbirds who sat scattered across the treetops. Waves crashed against the nearby shore below, the sight going on for miles and miles with nothing but vastness of blue. Specs of white dotted the sky, fluffy and shifting with the currents of wind.

"What brings this question forth all of a sudden?" Ginjiro asked in turn, silence following his question for a moment before pushing his head and body forward in the slightest, dragging across the lush grass until his head sat beside her. Kaliyah sat quiet, watching the sea move, waves lapping at the shore. Her lips moved into a thin line, her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed. Ginjiro's eye went over her features, and she seemed to shrink under his gaze. Her eyes were glossy and watery all of a sudden but her expression remained cold and unmoving.

"I don't know.. it just appeared in my mind. Along with that "prophecy" of the Old Nan." she finally answered, her voice as stable as it could be although it wouldn't take Ginjiro a moment longer to understand that this was bothering her for a long time, much longer than what she was letting on now. Deep within his chest he could feel the phantom sting of pain, anxiety in gut and lungs that she was feeling.

"Prophecy?" He opted to ask; he didn't remember her mentioning any prophecies of her.

" I never mentioned it to you.. She said... 'Water will destroy you' " said Kaliyah after a long moment of silence. Her eyes still remained on the far horizon, knowing if she even dared to look at Ginjiro that the feeling in her chest would seize her whole.

"I know I shouldn't believe in it, Old Nan gave many so-called prophecies and none of them ever came true but this… this one is harder not to believe." She continued, chest heaving in silent and forceful breaths. Lifting her head up she hoped for the fresh air to soothe her nerves.

Ginjiro retorted to look forward towards the sea too, removing the tension of his gaze.

"You were always an amazing swimmer, you're like a fish, I'm not sure how that prophecy would ever apply to you" said the beast calmly, his great and slim whiskers moving as he spoke, flowing. She has always seemed to love the water, to swim and dive and retreat many shells and pretty rocks. His hiding cave was filled with them, all of various sizes and colors. At his words Kaliyah shook her head, shamefully.

"And all I can think of is how many times the water almost took me; and I may be a good swimmer but unlike fish I can not breathe under water. The waves are always too strong, the currents too quick and the many times they almost took me for themselves I…" she trailed off. More and more of her fears started to surface.

The beast beside her opened its mouth to speak, only to be cut short by the girl again- "It's not death itself that frightens me."

That went back to her question, he noted.

"I am not scared of the pain either, the pain is the least of my worries, Ginjiro. What scares me is what comes after that. Is it darkness that awaits me? An eternal hell of raging oceans that keep drowning me? Which I can't escape from. Will I ever see the ones I love again? Or will I just... disappear?" It was getting harder to breathe, yet she forced herself not to shed any tears. Her chest began to quickly rise and fall with labored breaths, her hands tightening their hold around her legs, knuckles turning white and trembling. The view of the sea was no longer clear but blurry instead, dancing with her unshed tears that kept building up.

"You… are too good to keep suffering in death, my little one." Ginjiro said reluctantly, for even he wouldn't be able to answer such questions, nothing was certain about that inevitable fate.

"I hear many talk about the Pure Lands. And there, there is no suffering, no raging fires or oceans and certainly no darkness." He kept going only to see Kaliyah crumble furthermore. The sight immediately silenced him,more concern sprouting within him; he had never before seen her like this. Not even when she came desperate for his aid.

Big tears ran down her cheeks as she finally succumbed to the feelings that were eating her inside out like a beast. Her legs went to tuck themselves beneath her as she bent forward until her forehead touched the ground, her hands covering her face as she wept. Blades of grass poked at her neck and arms. Ginjiro was swift to lift himself from the ground, pained expression painting his draconic features. He grumbled quietly as he came to lay his large body between her and the sea. Casting a large shadow to befall on the girl. His wing came to come over her, in the form of a hug; shielding her away from the offending sights and the stares of trees, birds and the sun. All fell quiet suddenly, only the whistling of wind remained.

"Shhh now.. shhh.. don't you cry." Ginjiro was at a loss for words once again. And it was believed he was wise, he knew the answer to many questions and riddles but not to this. This was way out of his reach, and it pained him further that he couldn't bring any comfort to the one that grew so close to him.

" I- I don't want to forget anyone after death! I want to see everyone, I want to reunite with the ones I love; another life would be a blessing to me as long as I don't get to sit in darkness." she spoke through numerous gasps for air and hiccups, her throat closing on itself. It sounded as if she was angry at the world for this mystery. Ginjiro wrapped himself around her completely, as much as his flexibility would allow him. Now she was pressed against his belly, right beneath his shoulder while his maw nudged her carefully in affection. One of his whiskers came to drag across her arms and hands. Small noises came from him, rumbling through his throat. A noise that could easily be compared to a cat's purr, only softer. Like a turning of many wooden wheels behind layers of thick walls and even more soft cottons. It was distant and warm like a blazing hearth. Crackling of fire that brewed.

She continued to weep, watering the grass with her tears while her hands remained clamped over her eyes and face. A desperate attempt to shield her sorrows, something she found weak, shameful. Everything felt out of place, forced against her.

"I don't want- to die." came a small voice, Kaliyah's voice. A stark comparison to her usually stoic tone, a commanders voice. No- this was the voice of a girl ashamed of her fears, scared and paranoid of most things around her, scared of the future and scared of her own mind and doings. Ginjiro nudged her head again, her whole body too, to get her attention, to try and get her to look up.

"You will not die Kaliyah." he said.

And at mentioned of her name she seemed to recollect just the smallest bit of courage. She looked up, her weeping ceasing for only a moment. His eye shone like fragments of emeralds exposed to the sun, even under the umbrella of his wings. It was dark, only small bit of light came into the tent that was his body.

"Not for many more years to come." Her eyes widened, staring at his narrowed eye, brows furrowing in confusion. What the beast said was a promise. "And certainly not from something as silly as water" he finished.

-"I would sacrifice my last breath to give you one more. I'd give up the world so you may remain whole.. so worry not, little one. An infinity of such pain is nothing compared to the mere thought of losing you-"

Now as she watched blood trickle down his scales as she repeated the same words, she cried even more than she did that day. Screaming at the world and at it's cruelty. She wished she could give him the life he had promised her, wished she could take away the pain and the wounds. He had kept the promise.

It was the only thing that was shared equally in the world and that thing is unfairness. She wished she could go back to those cliffs and stay with Ginjiro forever, overlooking the world from the enormous heights.

Blood coated her clothes, tattered and dirtied, it matted down her hair and his silver mane. She stood in his blood and her own. More rivulets sprang forth and ran down her body from her own wounds. Still, she forced herself to stand, to go to Ginjiro and be beside him. None of the pain could compare to the one in her heart. She would rather face a thousand of swords all over again, she would face those raging oceans and empty darkness for an infinity of time rather than be here now. Here where Ginjiro lied dead and she kept on trying to move him, fisting his long mane in her hand.

All the power in his last breath went to pouring all his life energy into her, and the stone that hung around her neck. One they both created. Blood had stopped circulating in his system minutes ago, yet she couldn't bring herself to accept it. She wouldn't. Despite all the proof, she wanted to believe he would live. Even with his hollow wounds gaping at her from his chest and wing; wind whistling through them. His giant wing stood above her, shielding her from the sky. The contents of his insides were spilled across the ground outside the village grounds. The great walls looming in the distance, while the surrounding woods remained silent in sympathy. Moments ago his blood was steaming hot, pouring like waterfalls from a hot spring. Now, his body lost its fiery heat. Many wounds littered his body, painting a print of a tiger on his body in red.

The soil was soaked with his blood, so much so that the earth couldn't accept more, leaving a large puddle behind. Crimson puddles swirled with the dust and dirt. And a stray leaf went to fall into it, dancing with the current the wind created. With all her might she tried to shake the beast's head to get him to wake, he was so much larger than those years ago, so much heavier. His eyes stared at the sky overhead, stars looking at themselves in his dilated pupil like a mirror.

Darkness started to dot in her eyes, vision dancing with tears. It all tunneled until all she could see was the dull green eye. And for a moment she could swear she saw it move, all color return to it as it lazily blinked at her before the ground disappeared under her feet and hands seized her shoulders

___________________

-My Ao3

[aion-rsa]

How Alias Anticipated Modern Superhero Storytelling

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J.J. Abrams’ spy drama Alias, which turns 20 this week, was a lot of things: high-octane action-adventure series, twentysomethings relationship drama, occasional National Treasure homage. It was also, surprisingly, a spiritual predecessor to today’s hyper-saturated superhero movie and TV universes: A preternaturally gifted fighter, Sydney Bristow (Jennifer Garner) inhabits comic-book-esque alter egos to infiltrate secret missions related to ancient artifacts and promised immortality, all while ensuring that her nearest and dearest don’t know how many times she’s saved the world—or which side she’s really on.

Like the series’ MacGuffin-generating Nostradamus figure Milo Rambaldi, Alias has proven to be somewhat prophetic itself about what makes for the kinds of superhero stories that land today. With some 20th-anniversary hindsight, let’s look back at what made Sydney’s story so super and what lessons Abrams’ ridiculous(ly fun) series can still impart to the current crop of superhero sagas.

The Secret Identity as Kiss of Death

The highest priority that spies and superheroes share is that they cannot get made—that is, have their identity as a larger-than-life individual linked to their “normal” selves. They must always keep their personal and professional personas separate, lest they risk losing the people who know both sides of them. Alias establishes this difficult lesson in the first half hour of the pilot, when Sydney reveals her true work (she thinks SD-6 is just a covert branch of the CIA) to doctor fiancé Danny, only for him to blab about it later and get bloodily taken out in their bathtub. It’s the first time that SD-6 treats its sweet protégée harshly, making clear the consequences of her actions should she open up to anyone else in her life. And then she defects to the CIA, which will be a death sentence for her if SD-6 ever finds out.

Yet beyond the specter of grisly assassination, what the series really digs into is Syd’s growing ethical dilemma about being a double agent where it concerns the actually good people at SD-6, primarily her longtime partner Dixon (Carl Lumbly) and sweetly awkward Q stand-in Marshall (Kevin Weisman). It would be too easy if the series were only about her getting long-game revenge on SD-6 director Arvin Sloane (Ron Rifkin); the real conflict comes from Sydney lying to Dixon’s face on every stakeout, knowing that he still thinks he’s working for the good guys and she can’t ruin that fantasy for him without potentially turning him into collateral damage.

Similarly, the moments in which Sydney’s two (or three) lives begin to collide have other heartbreaking consequences: While the scene in which her best friend Will (Bradley Cooper cast as the friendzoned buddy, amazing) gets kidnapped and sees Syd saving him, is one of the decade’s best laugh-out-loud moments, it also leads to Will going into the Witness Protection Program. His life ends, in a sense, because Sydney couldn’t keep everything compartmentalized. And we haven’t even gotten to the awful fate that befalls her best friend Francie (Merrin Dungey)…

What Alias Predicted: The beating heart (or arc reactor) of many a superhero story is this tension between selves—which means that the big reveal of a secret identity has to be carefully timed and deliberately presented. It’s as emotional as Peter Parker’s (Tobey Maguire) mask getting ripped away when he saves the subway car of people in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 2, as big as Spider-Man: Far From Home doxxing that Peter Parker (Tom Holland) in a commentary on fake news, or as pure and simple as Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) outing himself as Iron Man in the very first installment of the MCU. You cannot unring that bell, so it better be a memorable moment.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: Rev the secret identity stakes back up! Captain America: Civil War ably took on the game-changing Marvel Comics arc of the same name by having heroes collectively unmask, and movies like Spider-Man: Far From Home are still playing out those ramifications. But mostly we see the dangerous ramifications of heroes doxxing themselves, without really digging into the strain for heroes to constantly have to lie about the things that truly matter to them.

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Campy Disguises and Clever Aliases

If you’ve watched Alias or were even vaguely aware of it, no doubt the first thing you envision is Sydney in black leather and bright red hair, a.k.a. her iconic look from the pilot. Her non-SD-6-sanctioned, under-the-radar disguise (impersonating Will’s sister) displays her ingenuity and establishes the series’ brand: attention-grabbing hair paired with increasingly ridiculous outfits, from chain mail waitress ensembles to rubber dresses. She’s played punks, rich bimbos, alluring businesswomen, escorts, and all manner of female personas upon which her marks would project their assumptions—all of which belied her true strength and cunning.

Even when future episodes riffed on the color wheel with teal, magenta, purple, and good old-fashioned blonde wigs, it was still within a clear spectrum established on that pivotal mission, when she channels a silly girl who cares more about the color of her hair than her safety, only to pin her torturer with the same chair to which she’s bound.

What Alias Predicted: I would hazard a guess that Natasha Romanoff’s first appearance in 2012’s The Avengers—a seemingly helpless redhead tied to a chair, about to be nastily interrogated—was a nod toward Sydney’s triumphant pilot mission. What’s more, despite the first ten years of the MCU leaning toward sleek costumes, later phases (like WandaVision‘s cheeky Halloween callbacks) have realized that they can embrace the bold colors and campy designs of the comic-book source material.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: Better to lean into the bold colors and campy designs of the comic-book source material than to go for more sleek and cool. WandaVision did this, albeit cheekily and using the excuse of Halloween, but the nod toward Scarlet Witch’s original outfit was well received. Because any superhero can look cool in leather, but only the standouts can rock color.

Rambaldi Artifacts, Immortality, and Clones

While replicating the romantic dramas of Felicity, Abrams was also playing with early iterations of his signature “puzzle box” narrative style: The pilot has Sydney chasing after the mysterious Mueller device, which turns out to be… a floating red ball… which bursts into water the moment she tries to remove it. That head-scratcher of a device is only one of many inventions belonging to Milo Rambaldi, a fictional Renaissance-era philosopher whose sketches and writings all pointed toward the ultimate endgame: immortality. You know, just normal spy thriller things.

The series saw Sydney and co. chasing after all manner of Rambaldi MacGuffins, from a clock to a kaleidoscope to a music box to flowers that either demonstrated proof of eternal life (by never wilting) or amped up human aggression. Through all of this, it becomes clear that Sloane helped found SD-6 in order to collect all of Rambaldi’s artifacts and capture immortality for himself—even and especially at the cost of people like his daughter, Sydney’s half-sister Nadia Santos (Mía Maestro).

Before we get more into Rambaldi’s prophecies about the sisters, we can’t forget the parallel fever dream of the series: clones! Or, rather, secret agents genetically modified to look like anyone—which means everyone is a suspect. This constant paranoia quickly got out of hand on the series, but its first reveal was perfect TV drama: There’s not an Alias fan who doesn’t remember “Francie doesn’t like coffee ice cream” and the complete devastation that followed—the knock-down, drag-out fight that destroyed Sydney’s apartment just as badly as Danny’s death, but also Sydney’s heartbreak upon realizing that her best friend was already long dead.

What Alias Predicted: The Infinity Stones themselves are less interesting than in various superheroes’ personal connections to them: Loki (Tom Hiddleston) tempted by the tesseract in Thor: Ragnarok; Star Lord (Chris Pratt) and the Guardians of the Galaxy channeling their friendship to withstand the effects of the Power Stone; Wanda Maximoff’s (Elizabeth Olsen) stages of grief as she copes with trying to keep the memory of Vision (Paul Bettany) alive even without the Mind Stone. In short: grounding the most out-there plotlines in the personal ensures they will always land.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: Ground the most bonkers of plotlines in the personal, and they’ll always land.

The Chosen One and the Passenger

This is when the Rambaldi business started getting less National Treasure levels of charming and more outright weird. Turns out the team wasn’t just recovering a treasure trove of artifacts, but also Rambaldi’s prophetic writings—including the mysterious “Page 47,” which featured a drawing of a woman known as the Chosen One… who bears quite the resemblance to Sydney herself. That would be easy enough to dismiss as a strange doppelgänger coincidence, but then comes the reveal of “Project Christmas”: When Syd discovers that she didn’t just stumble into the spy life on her own, but was actually trained as a sleeper agent from childhood, it only amplifies her fears that she has no true agency over her life.

Further Rambaldi writings center Sydney and Nadia into predestined roles as the Chosen One and the Passenger: supposed foes who are fated to clash, with one dying. Nadia getting injected with “Rambaldi fluid” in order to tap directly into the long-dead man’s consciousness (contained within another artifact known as the Sphere of Life) only earns her some nasty apocalyptic visions. But despite their genuine friendship that comes from bonding over their fucked-up childhoods, Sydney and Nadia are forced into that preordained confrontation when the latter is injected with a compound that reduces her to a mindless killing machine… all while a giant red ball is hovering over a city in Russia, because why not. Even after Nadia dies, and is brought back to life, then dies again, with her ghost haunting Sloane as he finally attains immortality, she remains a presence on the series.

There are certainly echoes to Black Widow and how it handles Natasha and adoptive sister Yelena’s (Florence Pugh) strained reconciliation after the older sister got out of the Red Room while the younger was still caught in its web. Their bickering banter about vests and poses, their differing memories of their false childhood, and their respective feelings of abandonment are what elevated Black Widow’s standalone outing—and made it even more tragic, on multiple levels, that this was the only time we would see the two of them in a movie together.

What Alias Predicted: Sister stories are gold! The Rambaldi storylines would mean nothing if they didn’t hinge on a tragically preordained confrontation, just as the MCU’s Red Room depiction seemed overdone until it was presented within the context of multiple generations’ differing experiences with its bloody legacy.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: More stories about sisters! With Nat dead not long after she and Yelena had just started to bond again, it’s vital that Yelena’s future MCU appearances show her still grappling with the little time they got together.

After all, the best superhero stories are the ones that can feel just as fresh now as they did 20 years ago.

Alias is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.

The post How Alias Anticipated Modern Superhero Storytelling appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[autumnslance]

7 and 8 for the end-of-year writer's meme!

8. Which fic this year was most fun to write?

Anything involving C’oretta; I finally found her fic voice this year and while her run on sentences make my doc programs cry, it gets across her exuberance. Pairing her with Iyna only makes it work better.

Matter of Fact, Avail, Shuffle from FFXIV Write 2020 Unsupervised, Convalescence, Escape Plan Bad End AU, On Purpose, and Drink from the May seaswolchallenge.

Also all on Ao3 now, in either the challenge threads, or “Slices of Light.”

7. What’s your favorite piece of description or narration?

The shared Echo in “Return to Dreams of Ice” worked out rather well, as Aeryn and Ryne experience memories of Ysayle so they can go through with the wild plot of Eden’s Verse: Refulgence. I’ll add that scene specifically under a cut, the rest of the story is on Ao3.

A campfire crackled in a meadow—no, an old courtyard, overrun now, surrounded by ruins. A cold wind blew as stars wheeled overhead. Alphinaud was talking to a man in spiky black armor. Estinien, Aeryn’s memories whispered warmly; he was as important as any of the Scions. A Moogle snored softly at her other side. Across the campfire was Ysayle—an elven woman in blue and silver, thoughtfully watching the fire, melancholy tracing every ilm of her narrow frame.

   Aeryn’s thoughts whispered: The memories always begin here.  

   Ryne’s curiosity replied: Where did it really begin?  

Light gleamed, and the same rush filled her head as it had in Nabaath Areng.

The girl—a bit older than herself, perhaps closer to the twins’ actual age—clawed out of the snow, heart hammering, coughing as her lungs begged for air. She was alone; no one else dug out of the mountain of white that had overtaken them. They had been buried as thoroughly as the village they had abandoned, as the snow fell and fell and fell. She walked, rubbing her arms, stomping her feet, but the sky darkened and there was no sign of civilization, just walls of ice and frozen forests. Until the dragon found her.

   Ryne’s thoughts watched: An Echo within an Echo…  

   Aeryn’s memories replied: Her meeting with Hraesvelgr. I felt her fear and confusion. I was angry when I saw her memory of the Ascians, and how they didn’t exactly lie, but they didn’t tell her the truth either. But that was her beginning. We met much later.  

Loss was tied to the laughing galdjent woman, too, and somehow she was associated strongly with Urianger, but Ryne could ask about that later. She recognized him, Thancred, Alphinaud, and Y’shtola among the gathered Scions. A beardless dwarf (another pang of grief from Aeryn) and a hume woman in a mask were there as well. And Minfilia, as herself, different from the Oracle Ryne knew. In a cavern of ice, the Scions imbued a crystal with aether—Thancred used magic; she knew that he once could, but it was still strange—and soon after, Ryne followed Aeryn’s sight through the broken aetheryte to the icy amphitheater.

“You should never have come here, Warrior of Light. I labor only to forge a lasting peace. A peace you would deny us out of ignorance and blind faith. No matter. If it is our fate to be at odds, then it is mine to strike you down.”

The already cold temperature dropped even further, ice crystals forming in her nose and mouth, eyes aching, skin tingling. The air crackled and chimed as snow and ice swirled around Ysayle, coalescing like a diamond cocoon.

“We whom gods and men have forsaken shall be the instruments of our own deliverance! Partake of my flesh--fill this vessel with your light! Walk amongst your brothers and sisters once more! Oh Saint Shiva, still the hatred within our hearts and bless us with eternal grace!”

The ice shattered, and the goddess replaced the woman. Only a little taller than Ysayle had been, her hair frozen spikes, her pale form covered in cold blue garments. She fought with weapons made of ice, and magic that threatened to freeze her enemy’s blood in her veins. But in the end, Aeryn and her companions triumphed, and Ysayle left her with the Mother’s words ringing in her ears: “Hear. Feel. Think.”

   Ryne wondered: How did she become a friend?  

   Aeryn remembered: It was Alphinaud’s idea.  

Ryne laughed; of course it had been. She saw the meeting in the snowy hills, and dealings with insect men. Ysayle’s constant arguing with Estinien. Ysayle and Aeryn challenged Ravana. There were flashes of later memory, to the Warriors of Light from the First fighting him too, the relief at finding Thancred there, the pang of grief at thinking of Ardbert, but Aeryn focused on Shiva again before Ryne had to force her back. Shiva failed to defeat the Master of Blades, though made Aeryn’s own battle easier, having wounded the god and used the remaining crystals.

   Ryne realized: Another battle made possible to win with help…  

   Aeryn’s agreement: That’s most of them; the ones without friends, allies are...worse.  

Ryne considered that as she paged through the memories of the journey into the clouds, returning to the ground with a painful loss, and then clouds again, until the skies were green and the airship was under attack. Hraesvelgr and his wyverns flew between them, Ysayle falling from his back, protected by his brood. Alphinaud’s fearful voice: “What does she mean to do?!”

Ysayle’s voice, ringing across the heavens despite the cannon fire: “O goddess born of mine own hopes and dreams. For the last time, I beseech you! Fill this vessel with your light! Still the hatred within our hearts and bless us with eternal grace!”

Aeryn’s breaking voice: “She’s buying us time.” You don’t have to do this, not you too, please don’t do this, we can make it, please come to us, help us but not you too--!

Shiva broke the warship, its engines forever frozen. But the cannons still fired, and the goddess’ form melted away in shattered diamond and gleaming light as Alphinaud screamed, the echoes of his grief continuing through the rest of Aeryn’s memory.

“Farewell, Warrior of Light. And thank you--for showing me the way.”

 NO PLEASE NOT YOU--!

Y’shtola, sounding as if from far away: “This aether...It was a Crystal of Light. She, too, was one of Hydaelyn’s chosen…”

[k-corner]

Ashes of Love: The Problem with the ‘Protagonists’ Actions and Characterization, and an In-Depth Look at their Concerning ‘Romance’ Part 2

This is a continuation from Part One. Feel free to head on over there to take a look.

Part Two: Issues with Characterization –

Some points mentioned here have already been lightly touched on in part one as they deal with the plot, but they’re going to be looked at more in a characterization sort of way and in a ‘how that comes across to the audience’.

Now, since Ashes of Love is a romance story, it’s natural to assume that there’s going to be some sort of meet-cute, some sort of flirting or courting stage and then some sort of getting together stage that might be accompanied by something a little more concrete physically like kissing or sex or what have you depending on the rating of the show and the image it’s trying to get across.

Now in Ashes of Love, the main two love interests are Xu Feng and Jin Mi, whose characterizations should have some sort of weight to them that allows for a long-standing love story to spring up from them. This can be seen in the ideas of ‘introvert meets extrovert’ or ‘opposites attract’ or ‘birds of a feather flock together’ or some other variation of what personality and characteristics that these characters have that draws them in and is supposed to draw in the audience as well.

Here is where I would say the weakest part of the entire story of Ashes of Love stands. Not in the sometimes dragging storylines that make up the 60+ episode season, but in the base understandings of the two main characters that we as the audience are supposed to root for.

Xu Feng – AKA The Sexual Predator:

One of my biggest pet peeves in a ‘romance’ drama is anytime the two main love interests have some sort of accident – trip and fall, stumble into each other, get pushed into the same small space, etc. – and ‘OMG! Somehow despite height differences and just a basic understanding of how gravity and momentum works’ they’ll fall into a sweet, gentle kiss or somehow just press their lips together and I guess we’re supposed to swoon at the audience at something that really doesn’t mean anything. The fact that no one smashed each other’s noses or foreheads or something is the more impressive moment being seen in that scenario.

I digress though, but unfortunately Ashes of Love has moments like this. Unfortunately it also has moments that are so much worse. Xu Feng takes the kissing and courting parts of the storyline and runs with them from eyeroll territory and into concerned side-eye country. There are several moments, especially early in the show, when Xu Feng chooses to press his luck with Jin Mi and come onto her in a sexual/kissing/pawing at her and starting to take off her clothes while she lays there and looks up at him almost uncomprehendingly sort of way. He’s putting it all out there and out on the line, but somehow he’s not able to catch onto the fact that Jin Mi isn’t picking it up or worse, he doesn’t care and continues to press because it’s what he wants/desires.

Xu Feng’s character is a mess of ‘but she didn’t say no’ and ‘I don’t care that she’s chosen someone else I know she loves me so I have to keep pushing’ and my absolute favorite ‘Uncle, be a bro and tie us together using your mortal love fate strings for no reason other than I want to go get it on with my brother’s fiancé while I pretend I’m doing it to protect her and not take advantage of her in a vulnerable situation but it’s okay because I swear we truly love each other even though she’s never said it because she can’t actually say it right now but it’s going to be just fine just you wait’.

This is also the character who – and I would call this scene a full on assault scene regardless of him stopping himself before he goes too far and I’ll explain why – that got drunk and practically threw Jin Mi onto the bed before climbing over her and pulling at her clothes while she just laid there and blinked up at him with a kind of look that seemed innocent, uncomprehending and trusting. She had no clue what was happening in that moment as he pushes his luck. I’ll give – he stops himself though, as he should but not for the reasons he should. Why does he stop? Because at this point he thinks that there’s a possibility that she’s his sister. If he hadn’t thought that, would he have pushed harder? Would he have gone further? Who knows.

On top of creepy entitled behaviors that he shows to Jin Mi, he also takes pleasure in being unnecessarily cruel to her. The little back and forth in the Heaven Realm when he turned her into all of the various items to ‘teach her a lesson’ was not cute to me. It was borderline sadistic and just downright fucked up.

Leaving Jin Mi behind, Xu Feng still falls short when it comes to his characterization. He’s portrayed as a kind of Gary Stu. He’s the best at everything. The most powerful. He’s unchallenged by any other character – look at how the entire demon army flees before him! Look at how undefeatable he is in battle! Look at how easily he talks back to his mother with no repercussions! Look at how easily he ignores any possible feelings his brother might have and just keeps on pushing! Look at how every other side character prefers him! What a stud! (note sarcasm). Honestly Xu Feng is a character with no obstacles. The only one he has is that he is in love with his brother’s fiancé and his brother won’t give her up to him because he loves her too. How dare he! He’s evil incarnate! (note sarcasm again)

Plus, we have the narrative trying to portray Xu Feng as a supposedly moral and upright character in contrast to Run Yu who is a schemer. There’s just one problem. It’s easy to be lighthearted and benevolent and chill when you’ve never faced a day of hardship in your life, when you’ve clearly never been told no before and when the roulette wheel of fate always spins in your favor. What hardships has Xu Feng truly had to overcome? Everyone loves him and he is the Greatest at Everything™. We see his narrow world view though and how only what happens to him matters when he deals with the information about the Heavenly Empress’s tyrannical torture and killing fests. He doesn’t care that Run Yu has just lost his mother and has been tortured for the survivors he wants to talk about him and get Jin Mi. He doesn’t care that his mother murdered thousands of people because the Heavenly Emperor couldn’t keep it in his pants, how dare Run Yu disrespect her. Who cares if Xu Feng is the one who started them all down this path of misery by refusing to stop chasing after a woman who told him to stop and just kept pushing until he eventually won, he’s going to feel like he’s righteous enough to tell his brother to be alone for eternity as a price to be paid for what’s happened while Xu Feng goes to find a way to flounce off with Jin Mi and live happily ever after. Who cares if Xu Feng stripped Sui He of her powers and her sanity and threw her out to be tortured and eaten by demons without a trial or anything like that, everyone cheered him and he got the girl! Clearly he was right!

Jin Mi – AKA Born Sexy Yesterday:

Jin Mi’s whole characters storyline and plot depends and hangs onto the fact that Jin Mi is ‘naïve and sheltered’ and that she doesn’t have the ability to either consent or not consent to a male leads love. It’s because she doesn’t know what that is and can’t recognize these weird things he does! Like kiss her? Like start pulling off her clothes? Why would she say no? It’s all innocent fun!

Oh but wait, now she’s going to fall in love with this person because…because he’s constantly there and pawing at her regardless of what she says or does or how she reacts! Yay! True Love FTW! But it’s all okay because it might be that she was in love with him the whole time but it’s a good thing that he recognized it because she can’t figure out her own feelings and wrapping her mind around complicated things like love is just too hard so all of his attentions are okay somehow even though they were still done without consent but that’s okay because deep down she truly loved him. [flips a table in the distance].

Unfortunately Jin Mi’s whole story is all about her lack of agency or characters taking it away. Her mother gives her the pill. Her father sells her away before he even knows that she’s been born in an engagement to the Heaven Realm. Xu Feng continuously ignores what she says and pushes himself into her sphere and hounds her over and over again. Run Yu restores the pill and later holds her captive in the Heaven Realm. The Moon Immortal and Yan You literally turn her into a puppet to put her in wedding clothes and shove her at Xu Feng without her permission. How is any of this okay? Jin Mi needs to get the fuck out.

Plus, the story never seems to understand the limits of the pill. She can feel love, just not romantic love because she feels sibling/friendship love for her cactus friend and mourns her death. She acknowledges that she likes people like Run Yu and understands the concept of marriage and mothers and fathers despite somehow not understanding that Xu Feng is a boy and has different equipment. At certain points her level of ditzy and uncomprehending everything and anything was baffling for a woman who is thousands of years old. Sure, she lived sheltered in the Flower Realm so that’s why she got confused at a dick and wanted to cut it off…. but wait…there are men in the Flower Realm which means she would have come to understand the differences. A child catches onto them pretty quickly and that’s within two to five years. Why can Jin Mi not figure that out after four or five thousand?

This all adds up to the most irritating moment of characterization for Jin Mi. Wherein she decides based off of information that she has – before it’s verified or investigated into – to kill Xu Feng with her own hands. This is an action that Jin Mi chooses to take. Run Yu does not push her into this. Run Yu does not tell her to do this. He does not force her to kill Xu Feng. Later though, because of her guilt she throws the responsibility for her actions onto him and blames him and tears him down because of her own guilt. This is not okay for the supposedly main female lead. It’s not okay for anyone to demonize someone else and leave them holding the bag for something they had no control over. Learn to take responsibility for your own actions. It sucks, but you did it. He didn’t. Blaming him and saying that he doesn’t feel/understand love crossed a line after everything.

 The extra characterizations of the other main characters I’m not going to go into but I will sum up as this:

Supposedly Smart Characters Doing Stupid/Crazy/Out of Character/WTF Things Because of ‘Plot’:

Sui He – Bechdel Tests Worst Nightmare AKA Female Character Only Exists To Further Male Story And Fawn Over Him.

Run Yu – But By God He’s Pretty When He Suffers AKA Actually a Disney Prince Cast Into Role Of Sea Witch For Reasons Unknown.

Tu Yao – Obvious Over The Top Bad Guy Is Obvious And Will Never Let You Forget It

Tai Wei – Satan’s Butthole.

[dangertomyself]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄: Flashback

There is beauty in the way that you decide to love someone. Love in itself can be chaotic, tragic even at times, yet all the while worth every second. Sometimes there is a certain love that sticks with you; bound to your heart… never allowing you to forget the magnificent feeling it held. It can be something so grand, that at the time, it is hard to notice completely. You can take it for granted, and use the love as a crutch until there is nothing left but a broken bone. Only this time, the pain you feel is something much worse, more hollow… the taste of sweet love will be gone forever, gone into the universe never to return to your touch. Desperate hands may reach; only to slip through meaningless air of hollow feelings. How did it get like this? How did a world of passion and aspiring hope turn to something so cold?

To answer that question, I would have to go back to the very beginning to where it all started. There were no bright flashing lights, or signs to tell myself this was the right moment. It was not fate, but rather a moment where everything somehow seemed to fall into place. The right time, the right people scenario that happens every so often to two unfortunate souls. The two souls casted for this fatal heartbreak were that of myself and Elle Greene. Myself, the lead singer to an infamous rock group, while she was a no name up and coming actress. From the beginning to end, we both knew our lives would never be the same. One for the better, and one for the worst. The only thing we could mutually set upon ourselves in agreement was that in the beginning, we loved one another. From that very first night, we knew it was love.

I would never be able to quite place that love again— no matter how hard I tried. In the beginning, I never knew I was a man capable of romantic intentions. Sure, there were girls who caught my eye… but they never found a place in my life more than the bed for a night or two. Each beat of my heart brought forth sexual pleasure and desire. The mind of a boy could not quite compare to that of a man. Women were objects; bodies and lust that I craved from the moment I opened my eyes, to the very end as they closed. Their unique taste brought me a new high that even the drugs and alcohol could not compare to. What was more damning than that of a naked woman lying with me in bed? I never wanted to picture myself in any other place. No heaven would ever be as sweet or secure.

The room was filled with people from places that all oozed of money. The high elegance of the air filled my nose, telling my brain that I did not belong there. My manager said it would be a good public appearance, to give the people something to talk about. A rough around the edges singer at a white tie event… what could possibly go wrong? It was a sick joke to someone— someone other than the people of the charity event that all turned to look at me with peculiar eyes from the moment I walked into the room. The whispers started, slipping from one end of the room to the other. It was clear I did not belong there— or was I quick just to set myself aside? To allow the high moments of anxiety to take over what little had to do with me at all? I could not say. The quick aid of a drink or two would do away with any doubts I had shortly.

“How much longer are we going to have to be here, babe?”

My eyes drifted away from the gowns and tuxedos to the woman by my side: Cazzie Maylynn. She was an actress— but what people would call of adult films. We were nothing serious, only using each other for a quick fuck every now and again, but to the public eye they were a high profile item. The blonde did not do much for conversation, her goals mainly being that of how to further her career into more professional aspects. It had been the only reason I wanted to bring her. I knew she was a porn star, there was no hiding that fact, but she had a dream for herself. If there was any way I could have helped her, I did not see as to why I could not try. It also gave me a reason not to be the only outcast in the room.

The faces of empty hearts and dreams circled all around me, pretending that somehow I was the strange one. A man who did not belong. What was it to walk around endlessly with no real drive in your heart? That was all I could see in their faces. Lost souls wandering, searching for the feelings they once held onto so deeply when all of their dreams started to come true. The only difference between myself and the men and suits was that I still lived my dream. Each night I could go out and fill my void and know my heart was content enough to sleep through the night. How many here could claim the same shit?

“Can you stop talking for once?”

Cazzie's eyes widened, shocked at my careless remark and the even more careless look in my eyes. Was I being an ass? Sure. I would apologize for it later and she would forgive me— the thought dawned on me as she turned herself away and stalked off in six inch heels towards the bar. Hell in heels could only be the one thing to describe her. Our time together would be as short lived as any relationship I had in the past several years. No woman ever got too close— just as I preferred it to be. Normal people could hardly handle my mood swings and unique methods of affection.

Already nursing a drink in my hand, I turned away from the bar and set my sights towards one of the nearest exits I could find. A lone bathroom would do or even an abandoned room without the watchful eyes of elite people around me. The alcohol really wasn't doing it for me tonight. In the breast pocket of my tuxedo hid the contents of a party favor a little more suitable for my liking. One line disappearing would alter my mood for the night; maybe then I could pay more attention to Cazzie and really give these people something to talk about.

I had already set my sights on a side door of the hotel which I was sure would lead to some sort of enclosed exclusion when I felt the hand of my producer reach for my shoulder.

“Oz! Not so fast! Where do you think you're going?”Danny Chadwick infamously made a name for himself at the Record Label for bringing in up and coming acts that we're sure to make money. I was a shoe in to be the next greatest thing for rock music; someone to bring in attention and green for as far as the eye could see. Little did good ole Dan and everyone else know that I was going to be a lot more trouble than they originally expected.

“I was just getting out for some fresh air, man. Hey!” Calm, cool, and collected. I wrapped an arm around my ‘friend’ in a casual embrace with a familiar smile. The energy around them held nothing but a fake aftertaste. I couldn't have given two shits about Dan or anyone else here— I knew what I was to them and how my piece in the puzzle was going to be used until no longer useful. “Who’s your friend?”

Who was I really kidding? The blonde was one of the first things my eyes noticed when Dan made his way over. I made sure to keep the calm and collected attitude, but my gaze couldn't stop itself from wandering her way. A magnetic pull that felt far too dangerous for my liking. Every few seconds her green eyes would flash upwards towards me; damning my mind for all eternity for what I knew was not mine to have... yet. Was I insane? Maybe. But when has that ever hurt anyone?

“Well, that's what I was coming over here for. Ozzy, I'd like you to meet Elle Greene.”

At the mention of her name, the blonde instantly gave me a smile that felt far too secretive. A world of mysteries hid behind those cherry red lips wrapped inside of a stunning black cut out dress. I knew why she wore it— hell, she must have wanted to be the center of attention. Right now, right here, she had about one hundred and fifty percent of mine. I couldn't even hide it, looking her over from head to toe before finally settling back on the hidden forests that were set deep within her gaze. Reaching a hand out, I offered what might have been my most polite behavior. "Elle, it's a pleasure to meet you. The names Luke."

The curl on my mouth wasn't a smile, but a complete twist of seduction. There was a mystery lying within her, and I couldn't quite uncover the truth. Her eyes could never quite meet mine yet her facade was nothing but polite. Was I somehow fooling myself— thinking she could sense the same spark I had? A spark. The thought turned my stomach over and I did my best not to roll myself. This wasn't a spark, this was full blown attraction at its finest. Human nature, two people ( or well shit, just one ) who were drawn by natural instinct.

Her mouth opened, daring to speak before Dan cut into her stolen words: "Hey, show her around would you? I've got a few more people I need to talk to right now. I know you'll make her feel right at home."

Something in the way he spoke left me knowing he didn't walk up to me with Elle for no reason. Dan was a man who constantly had wheels turning within his head. Whatever he had going, I wasn't sure if I wanted to play with. But when danger looked that good? I didn't know if I could resist. He gave both of us a final farewell before drifting off into the sea of people. My eyes turned to Cazzie, who was still at the bar now being entertained by two other monkeys in suits and I no longer before a sense of guilt about ignoring her. She'd be fine here tonight without me.

The mere seconds passed before I looked back to Elle— finally for the first time she was able to speak. "Well, it was nice meeting you Luke, but I think I better be going." She gave a shrug and dismissive smile. I knew what it meant— but I'd be damned if I let it slip away so easily.

"Hey, where are you going?" I questioned, finally allowing a smile to move her way. I didn't have to be charm all of the time, a voice in the back of my head reminded me. The role of douchebag didn't always need to be played.

Her eyes shifted to everywhere else in the room, never once looking back to up mine. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I know who you are. I'm not trying to be wrapped up in..." As she now frantically talked, her hands moved with her in speech. "The whole bad boy thing. I'm sure you're really nice and all, but I don't want people to see me with you. I came here tonight to play nice with the right people. Being seen with you? I don't think..."

"What makes you think you know me so well?" I finally cut her off, feeling a bit pissed off at her words. Were they wrong? No. Did I live up to almost every terrible thing people thought about me? Probably. But hell, at least I wouldn't be that rude to a total stranger. Looking at her, I knew I caught her by surprise. Whatever anger lighted in my mind, I was quick to put out. What was it going to do anyways? I wasn't nearly drunk or high enough to go down that road.

Her expression remained in a state of neutral— unshaped by any regret of what she said or any means of taking it back. She was bold as fuck, I'd give her that. Hell, I still kind of liked it. "Fine, Lucas. Maybe I am wrong." Shit, the surprise on my face couldn't have been harder to hide. "But that doesn't mean I am going to find out tonight. It was nice meeting you."

"Would you ever want to find out?" I pressed, knowing the window of her time would be short lived. What the fuck was wrong with me? This girl had insulted me more in the last five minutes than any girl had in years. Maybe that was what I liked— she was real... honest. Not a fake shit show.

"Maybe. Maybe not." As she started to walk away, face still hardened with intent, her eyes looked back at me with only a hint of a smile as she drifted into the sea of people. I could see the flash of green in the back of my mind like a green light in the sea of darkness. What the hell was I doing? I didn't know. But for whatever reason, I knew I had to know more. She was the realest thing I had come across in years, the only heart and mind I somehow wanted to know more of. Elle Greene.

[yanara126-writing]

A Death in Your Name - Emblyn ix Ensios (1/5)

How can one mortal soul be so important to a god?

You misunderstand. I'm not Galawain or Magran, I'm not used to people dying for me.

And yet they do. Some willingly, some not.

Iovara's sister, inquisitor and high priestess of Eothas', has made a mistake, her way of righting it impacts more things than she's expected. Perhaps Iovara has more in common with a certain god than she likes and perhaps Eothas should rethink his actions, or lack thereof, if he doesn't like the consequences.

Read here or on Ao3

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

The apostate was dead. The trial had ended and she had been sentenced to death and an eternity in Breith Eaman, unless she begged for forgiveness from the gods. There was no doubt in Emblyn’s mind that Iovara wouldn’t. Her sister had always been the more headstrong one. Emblyn had only ever followed, at first Iovara and later master Thaos. Even now she didn’t dare defy him.

This time she followed a path she knew well. She’d taken it thousands of times before, since she joined the order and then found her proper place. A place she’d never doubted, even when everything else had fallen apart.

Her boots clacked on the marble floor as she made her way through the familiar hallways. The large windows let the bright afternoon light in to illuminate the walls, but for once she paid it no mind.

When she entered the grand sanctuary, she wasn’t alone. Two young acolytes tended to the room, cleaning up any dirt still left from the last mass. When they noticed her, they bowed in greeting, eagerly asking her orders. Emblyn sent them away with a kind word and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Slower than before she stepped through the rows of well-polished, wooden benches towards the lavish altar. She brushed over the wood with her gloved hands, feeling melancholy set in. Her fingers quickly flinched away, as if they’d been burnt. Tucking her hands into her sleeves she turned away and moved swiftly onwards.

At the alter she took off her fine leather gloves and put them down. It would’ve been rude to pay her respects to the Light of Life with anything less than her own hands.

The candles were already burning, as they always were. Since her ascension to high priestess and inquisitor she’d made sure that there were always some alight, and fresh ones were brought in as soon as the previous were too burnt down. Some of these candles she’d made herself. It was a task far beneath her station, but the simplicity of it helped ground her on bad days.

With a flick of her finger she ignited an incense stick and gently put it into the brass bowl. The red gleam of the stick caught her eye and she couldn’t help but watch it for a while. As simple as it was, it was an undeniable proof of her dedication. Her lips twitched upwards for a short moment. Perhaps she had a little bit of her sister in her after all. The brief moment of levity gave way to solemn silence again.

The hard floor pressed against her knees as Emblyn knelt before the altar. Not directly in front of it, that was the spot for the priest, but further back where the devotees would receive their blessing. Her light robes fell gently over her legs, providing the appropriate modesty, but refusing her the comfort of a layer of fabric between the stone and her skin. Good.

Emblyn folded her hands and stared at the spot of light in front of her. The ceiling was designed to allow a beam of light to fall through and illuminate the place before the altar, where the priest would preach to the people. How often had she stood there herself? How often had she promised the desperate redemption and forgiveness if they just asked for it? How often had she stood there after mass and thanked Eothas for the chance He’d given her?

Her hands started trembling and soon she was shaking all over. She may have been forgiven last time, but there was no redemption after her most recent crime. She’d done what she’d thought... no, what Thaos had thought necessary. Emblyn didn’t know if he’d been right, and she didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter in the end. No end goal could possibly justify her treason.

There, in the first place she’d ever truly found peace, the walls broke down. The shaking became sobbing and she pressed her folded hands over mouth, desperately trying to keep the sound of her violent sobs from filling these holy halls, even as fat tears rolled down her face.

She’d led her only sister not only to death, but eternal damnation. She hadn’t stopped Iovara when she’d left the order. She’d lied straight to Iovara’s face, guided her to Ossionus and right to her doom.

Hot tears trailed down her cheeks as Emblyn let all the atrocities she’d committed pass through her mind. Her chest hurt from her heaving sobs, but she deserved the pain. It was nothing in comparison to what she’d put Iovara through. She should have spoken up at the trial at the very latest. If not as a sister, then as the high priestess of Eothas. What a sham she was to that title.

When her wailing became too loud, Emblyn bit on her finger until she tasted iron. Red blood dropped from her teeth and stained her robes.

Now it was too late. Even if she somehow found the courage to face her sister’s final resting place, Thaos had forbidden her to go down again. He’d sent her away to find solace in her home town. As if Creitum would hold anything but hate and despair for her now, and rightly so. No, the only thing that could possibly still give her hope now, was the breaking of a new dawn.

Hesitantly Emblyn lifter her head to stare at the glittering beam of light before her. She imagined the familiar warm voice filling her head with soft promises of brighter days. Thaos thought she was upset about his revelation. She had been in the beginning, yet with time had come the realization that it didn’t really matter. Her god was still real, if anything the fact that kith had had the power to make him just proved that He was right. Every new dawn, every new spring time would be better than the last.

No, faith was no issue for Emblyn. Which was the reason she wouldn’t ask for Eothas’ forgiveness this time. Her actions were beyond redemption. She wouldn’t besmirch His sanctity by begging for His mercy and compassion when she knew she didn’t deserve it.

Slowly she took her hand from her mouth, giving the damage a short, dispassionate look, before carefully removing her outer cloak. Her tunic she would leave on, to provide at least a modicum of modesty, but the cloak was a symbol of a station she no longer deserved. It didn’t belong to her anymore, and there was no need to dirty it, when her successor would need it.

Gently Emblyn folded the cloak and put it in it’s proper place, under the light, where soon the new high priest would stand. She hoped they would appreciate the duties and privileges that came with the title. Not like her, who had grossly neglected her duty when she had been needed the most.

Tears welled up in Emblyn’s eyes again. She had been so proud at being handed the sacred tokens, had sworn her oath with confidence and had done her job with passion. The position of inquisitor had been a burden by comparison. She hadn’t wanted to prosecute people, but Thaos had convinced her that it was the right thing to do. After all, she would be delivering the worst of all people to redemption. It was mercy to cleanse them and give them a new chance on the wheel. Only that hadn’t been all. She had doubted, but had quashed those doubts with the assurance that her master had never stirred her wrong before. She still didn’t know how wrong she’d gone. Where was the cut to make? At the eternal imprisonments? The cleansing? Or was the whole inquisition a well-meant gesture taken too far? She wanted to believe in her mentor, believe that it was all right, but her world was breaking apart.

The truth wasn’t the issue, rather the fact that there was a truth at all, that it had been hidden by the very man she had trusted above any other mortal. That was what broke her. That, and the fate she had delivered her sister to at his behest, for nothing more than saying the truth. Emblyn didn’t agree with Iovara’s methods, nor with the conclusion her sister had apparently come to, but she had unravelled lies, Emblyn herself had been too blind to see. Iovara hadn’t deserved to be punished for shining a light into the darkness, no one had known to be there.

With her already bloodied hand, Emblyn pulled a dagger from it’s sheath at her hips, carelessly smearing blood on herself in the process. The tunic would soon be sullied anyway.

The dagger itself was simple, lacking the usual ornamentation of ritual weapons. No wonder, as it hadn’t been intended as such. It was a practical piece, made for self-defence, fashioned from high quality steel, and it had served Emblyn well over the years. She’d always kept it in good condition, both because of it’s sentimental value and because she’d learnt the hard way, that having a back up weapon was not optional in the less civilized corners of the world.

The polished steel glinted when she held it against the light. She felt almost sorry for misusing it like that, but it was only fitting it’d be this weapon, that would allow her to do penance one final time.

Emblyn held the handle in a tight grip, making her knuckles go white, and started her confession. Forcefully she grabbed a thick strand of her long, dark hair and sliced through it. She held the bundle of hair now in her fist towards the light and spoke with a shaking voice.

“I have brought shame over myself and neglected my sacred duty. I have disappointed the trust put in me.” The first handful of hair was thrown to the ground, spreading out over the floor. Her chest heaved with supressed sobs and she stared resentfully at the hair before angrily grabbing another bunch and slicing it off with vengeance.

“I have brought shadows to the dawn by spreading lies and untruths to people I was supposed to protect from them.” The next bundle landed on the ground, adding another layer of hair, another layer of shame.

“I have forsaken the people who needed me most and have denied them the saving light of dawn.” Her hand shook more with that cut, leaving an ugly, uneven edge behind. More than half of her hair was gone now, sheared off with only a finger’s breadth left. With a toss the hair in her hand joined the rest on the floor. A few of them were bloody, where she’d touched them with her injured finger.

Emblyn grabbed what remained of her once luscious hair, tugging so hard she could feel a few of them rip out. Trembling she chopped it all off, nicking her scalp in the process, bloodying both hair and cloths. Tears running down her face she couldn’t force out the words she wanted to say and just knelt there, dagger and hair clutched tightly in her lap. After a few seconds she remembered that she had to hurry, the sanctuary wouldn’t stay empty forever. Choking down her desperate sobs once again, Emblyn laid bare her most vile and contemptible crime.

“I have betrayed my own sister, my own flesh and blood, and have condemned her to an eternity in darkness and suffering.” She didn’t have the strength to throw the last of her locks, all energy had left her, leaving only despair behind. It took all her strength to just open her fist and the let hair tumble to the floor in front of her. Emblyn stared at the hair, spread out almost like a carpet all over the marble floor, feeling vaguely sorry for the acolyte who would have to clean it up. But the far more pressing feeling on her mind, was melancholy. Iovara’s hair had been just like hers, dark and silky, a pride they’d shared years ago. The missionaries of the order usually kept few possessions, simply out of practicality, but their hair had been the one material object the two sisters had allowed themselves to delight in.

Slowly Emblyn saw the dark locks on the floor morph into the burnt mess Iovara’s hair had been after the trial. Crusted with blood, sheared off in places and scorched in others, it hadn’t been recognizable anymore. Just like Iovara herself.

Emblyn hadn’t even been allowed to keep the body. She wouldn’t have made a big spectacle out of it, she’d just wanted to properly send off her sister in a quiet ceremony, even if she knew it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Instead Thaos had brought back Iovara’s head, or what was left of it after the fall, and had presented it to the public. As a cautionary tale, he’d said. Emblyn didn’t know what had happened to the rest of her.

But it didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t deserve the kindness anyway, just like Iovara hadn’t deserved her fate. Emblyn could only hope the blank slate of the wheel would be enough to earn her a chance at redemption. Her soul would belong to different person, and she herself would only be distant nightmare. Hopefully. Perhaps her soul was already too damaged by her own atrocities. But in that case she trusted in Gaun to weed out her soul from the cycle.

The dagger was no longer shining when she lifted it again. The edges were red with still drying blood, giving it an ugly rusty colour. Emblyn hoped someone would take care of it later, it would be a shame to let it rust.

Slowly and purposefully she placed the tip of the weapon against her upper chest, between two ribs. She made sure to have a good grip with both hands and steady aim, it wouldn’t do to botch this. She could still feel the tears on her cheeks, yet her breathing had slowed down to the point that her chest hardly moved anymore.

“I give up my life, so that those I wronged may find peace. I hand my soul over to You, to Your grace and mercy. Let my death be my penance, so that I may redeem myself in Your divine light, oh Eothas, Dawn of the World.”

After those words, Emblyn plunged the dagger into her chest with all the force she could muster. She knew she’d fail if she hesitated.

The pain was immediate and hit her with vengeance, but it came too late regardless. The blade had already sunken in to the hilt, scraping bones and piercing soft flesh. Blood was trickling out of the wound, blocked only by steel instead of flesh and skin.

Emblyn gasped, eyes wide, and suddenly the world was thrown out of focus around her as the agony overtook everything else. She hardly noticed when her surroundings tilted and her head hit the floor, as she fell. Palming the knife, she couldn’t bring herself to pull it out. Her strength was fading fast and the world was greying already, what would be the point in trying? Even the pain faded as everything became numb and muted. Somewhere in the distance she thought she could hear bells ringing, but wasn’t certain if that was real or just her wishful thinking, as she laid before death’s door.

The world turned black for Emblyn, leaving nothing behind but a vague, quickly fading sense of relief. The cold marble under her skin was gone, as was the burning agony in her chest. The last thing Emblyn felt before her soul was carefully pulled from her dying body, was a sudden flood of deep sadness, that didn’t feel quite like her own.

She was long gone when the giant double doors opened again and a young acolyte entered, confused at finding a dark room, the candles extinguished and even the windows darkened, though it was hardly sunset. She didn’t hear his scream at finding her broken body on the floor.

Emblyn never knew the chain of events her shame and desperation had triggered, that would stretch over the next millennia.

[avehi-the-adamant]

The Other Side

Dessicated dust crunched beneath her hooves, as Avehi stepped out into the Bone Wastes. She winced, gazing out at shattered remains of Auchidoun. Immediately, her thoughts turned to Unkhra’huun… and all the worries of what had happened to him washed over her along with them. It had been weeks - maybe months - since she heard anything from the Auchenai. And she hadn’t learned much herself through her own investigation. Hopefully, it meant he was resting again, at last… But none of that was why she came here now.

The perpetual overcast gloomily hung over the landscape, leaving little contrast between earth and sky. The wind howled fiercely, sweeping through the desolate plains unhindered. It wasn’t always like this. Avehi closed her eyes, trying to imagine Talador as it once was. Seeing it again during the Iron Horde campaign was a much needed reminder of how things were before Death’s caress reached out for Draenor. Vibrant trees, proud crystalline structures, water as clear as glass… Now, it only existed in her memories. Draenor felt like the most devastating losses the Draenei people experienced. Coming back to it was always a grim reminder; as comfortable as life ever seemed, complacency would certainly be their downfall.

This business with the Afterlife was yet another case. The Fourth War had ended. The Old God threat was on the decline. But as comforting a thought as that was, dangers continued to lurk on the horizon. Dangers not everyone saw. She’d tried to explain that to Argonas in Uldum, but he was reluctant to hear the truth. Too rigid in his false beliefs. It wasn’t too surprising, looking back on it. 

But the encounter had raised a lot of questions in the aftermath. Why was he there at all? He had a baby to look after, didn’t he? Sinafay should’ve had their child by now. Avehi knew Sinafay herself had no intention to keep it… Had Argonas decided he didn’t want it after all? No, not him. He was tradition given Draenei form - and as rare as Draenei children were, he wouldn’t neglect his duties in raising one of his own. 

Something must’ve happened. 

Avehi had met Sinafay on the alternate Draenor. They got along well, despite recent disagreements about her ridiculous choice. Nonetheless, she still considered Sinafay a friend. One of the few she had left. Worry clouded the Death Knight’s mind. She hadn’t seen Sinafay in a long time. And after looking for her, one glaring possibility was too overwhelming to ignore any longer - what if she died? It worried Avehi enough normally. But with all that was happening beyond the grave, she was all the more concerned. She came here, to Auchindoun, to look for answers to that pressing and troubling question.

She didn’t dare to venture into the city itself, however. Her presence was an affront to the resting dead here. She’d only made her way into the city under the guidance of a Soul Arbiter, before. She wouldn’t seek to go further without Dunkori. Here on the outskirts was close enough for her purposes, anyway. Auchindoun was a point where the veil between life and death was thin. Communing with the other side was easier in such places. Clearer. If she was going to find out if Sinafay was lost in the afterlife, this was the best way to do it. 

She hoped she was wrong. She hoped her friend was still alive. 

But hope had let her down in the past.

She knelt down, and focused her mind. Slowly, her soul separated from her lifeless body - a jarring sensation, no matter how many times she’d done it. She felt it immediately; how much more power flowed through the Shadowlands since the last time she’d stepped through. She couldn’t tell if it was just from wraith walking in a place like this, or if the dire well pulling all the departed souls into it was gaining more strength. She hoped for the former… but couldn’t help but believe it to be the latter. Troubling, nonetheless.

She calmed her mind, focusing on Sinafay’s face. Traveling here was unlike traveling in the real world. She had to will herself to various places. And focusing on certain people she knew led her soul to them. She focused intently, keeping Sinafay fully in her mind’s eye. If she were dead, Avehi would know. Avehi would sense it.

At first, there was nothing. The ambient “noise” of the Maw thrummed lowly. To and fro, in and out, like an ocean wave crashing against the shore. The ebb and flow of the afterlife was oddly soothing and jarring at the same time. It was hard to get used to it. Hard to see through the noise, and find what you were seeking. But Avehi had gained some experience in it, in her searches for other old friends. Thankfully, she found none in this terrifying place.

Until now.

Her heart sank; she could feel her! A thousand questions all raced through her head. What happened? How did she die? How long had she been dead? She grunted, focusing on her friend’s essence more intently. But… something was different about her. Very different. As she drew closer to her… that strange feeling grew stronger. 

She worried even more. What had happened to her to change her like this?

~*~

Time was irrelevant in the Maw. Nothing but eternal darkness and nightmares. There was no way of telling how long Sinafay had been here, but it felt like forever. Not that it mattered… she’d begrudgingly accepted her fate the moment she’d arrived. The devastation of realizing where’d she’d been sent had done her in. 

After all she’d done to help other people… the sacrifices she and Argonas had made…

Argonas… she was happy he wasn’t being tortured here like she was. Hopefully he was one with the Light… where she had hoped to be with him for eternity. Was he reunited with Kairei while she suffered eternal damnation? Had he bothered to search for her at all? She felt jealousy rise inside her, literally burning her.

She shook her head as tears rolled down her cheeks. Emotions turned against her here, amplifying emotional pain into physical. She had to numb herself, lest it served as a beacon for the monsters to find her. They’d find her eventually… they always did. Ripping her apart, limb from limb, leaving her in pieces to be reformed and hunted again. Over and over… 

Her tail twitched as she felt something approaching. Her nails dug into the ground as she curled in on herself, trying to be as small and unnoticeable as possible. Was it already too late? Her body trembled, but she couldn’t help but look up. She’d initially been relieved to have her sight restored in death, but soon realized it was a curse to have to see the horrors and atrocities that happened around her. 

But what was coming felt different than the hunting aberrations. This felt somehow… benign.

“Who… who’s there?” She called out.

“Forgot me already, did you?”

The Death Knight could feel her - the strong fighter’s spirit railing against death itself was unmistakably Sinafay’s. And yet, it felt so weary, flickering in and out of defiance and utter hopelessness. The Maw must have broken her quickly.

After a few moments, Avehi’s ethereal form came into view, hooves touching down into more grey, desolate dust. She looked down at the curled-up Draenei before her, face conflicted; happy to have found her, but distraught to have found her here.

“Sina…” she reached out. “How did this happen? How did you die?”

Sinafay was wary of the woman. She acted familiar, yet the shaman had never seen her before. She tilted her head, looking the figure over. She knew some of the living had ways of reaching out to the dead. But why would anyone reach out to her? If it was a trick, it was a new one she hadn’t experienced before.

“I… died on Argus,” she answered, straightening up some, “Argonas and I… together in an explosion.”

She kept looking the woman over, now more curious than anything else.

“I’m sorry… I don’t recognize who you are.”

“--On Argus? That…”

Avehi retracted her hand, and looked the woman over more closely. Eyes wide, yet peering. Appraising. It was beginning to come together; she felt different. She didn’t recognize Avehi. That could only mean this wasn’t Sinafay. Not the one she was expecting, anyway. 

The Death Knight’s brow furrowed. There was a comfort knowing this wasn’t the Sinafay she knew. She didn’t sense her anywhere else, which led her to believe she was still alive somewhere. But having found the other Sinafay… complicated things. Clearly, her death on Argus happened after the wheel was broken. It went back further than she thought. And this one thought Argonas died with her. 

“... Apologies. I am Avehi the Adamant. Once a Vindicator, now a Death Knight of the Ebon Blade. You recall them, I presume?” she explained, tone calm, even… and devoid of previous familiarity. “I came here looking for the other Sinafay. The one from alternate Draenor. Instead… I found you.”

Sinafay couldn’t help but frown at the mention of her alternate self. Her tail flickered in annoyance. How was her dumb double still relevant to anything anymore? She’d stayed on her own Draenor and the portals had closed, never to be opened again… right?

It was odd, Avehi reintroducing herself. After all she’d heard about her, both from Argonas and the Sinafay she actually knew, meeting this one felt strange. She felt both like she knew this Sinafay well enough, and yet not at all. This one had been a shaman, in life - that itself was a comfort to Avehi. Mierne had shown her that shamanism, ties to spirits and elements, was a benevolent power. Far less judgmental than the Light. Avehi definitely had grown to favor it over the Light, in recent years. 

It also meant this Sinafay knew what it felt like to be set apart from their kin. Avehi knew that well enough, too.

“I’ve come to help, if I can. Tell me what’s been happening here - but be quick. It won’t be long before the denizens of this place find me out.”

“I’m not sure,” her voice was steadier now, not broken up as it had been before, “There’s a lot of people coming in everyday… I thought the Maw was made for the worst of the worst, but there are so many people here. I thought I’d join the Light with Argonas but…”

She shook her head again, closing her eyes And bringing her hands up to her head as though she had a headache. That wasn’t too far off, she couldn’t bear to hope she’d been sent here by mistake.

“Of course everything is wrong with this place. It’s the Maw! Nothing… nothing makes sense!” 

"--Temper yourself!" Avehi scolded her. "Your emotions will betray you!"

Sinafay didn’t need Avehi’s warning. She knew well enough what her negative emotions would bring about. Still, having someone at her side to snap her mind back in place was a luxury she usually didn’t have. She calmed herself, listening to Avehi’s words intently. The Death Knight had been through the dark depths of the Shadowlands enough times before... 

It was for this reason she was mindful of what to tell this Sinafay. Her emotions would only draw more dangers to them both. And Avehi being from the world of the living was already drawing enough attention; she could sense the dangerous horrors growing ever closer, even now.

But Sinafay deserved to know. She couldn't be left to think she was damned to this place intentionally. 

"You're perceptive; this is not as it should be." Avehi told her, keeping calm. "Malevolent forces have disrupted the afterlife. Now, everyone who dies is sent here… whether they deserve it or not. And the many you've seen are casualties of yet another war on Azeroth, sparked after the victory over the Legion on Argus."

That sparked something Sinafay hadn’t felt in a long time - hope. Something she had always clung to in life, no matter how dire the situation. If what Avehi said was true, it meant a possibility of leaving this place someday! It was obvious in Sinafay’s face, the way the glow in her white eyes returned… the way her shoulders straightened. The fighting spirit she had lost was returning.

“Everyone…” she mused,  “So… you’re saying Argo is here somewhere as well?”

"--Tch… no. Argonas is not here." Avehi replied, expression betraying a hint of displeasure in him still being alive. "Somehow, he survived that explosion that took your life. He's on Azeroth once more."

She pondered how much more to tell this Sinafay. Seeing her renewed like this, was it wise to tell her about the other Sinafay, and their baby? She withheld it for now…

"But if he had died, he would be. He doesn't know it, or understand it." she went on. "It's… irritating how bull-headed he can be. --Aah, but you know this, I'm sure."

“He… He’s alive… and thinks I’m with the Light, now,” she thought out loud, “That’s why he never tried to reach out to me.”

She smiled wide, bringing a hand up to her mouth as she couldn’t help but chuckle. Avehi described him all too well for this all to be a trick. She wanted to wrap her arms around the ethereal form in a tight hug, but knew that wasn’t possible. 

A realization struck Avehi; this chance meeting could prove to Argonas that her actions and intentions were good. Finding his dead wife in the Maw? Even he couldn't dispute that the cycle of death was broken and flawed.

"Listen… if he knew you were here, I believe he would help me, yes?" Avehi explained. "His grieving you for well over a year tells me you meant a great deal to him. Even now, I get the sense he's unable to fully let you go… this can be of all our benefits. I need to prove to him you're stuck here."

“Of course! I’ll help in any way I can! You can locate me here again? If I stay in pla--”

She gasped, suddenly peering over her shoulder with wide eyes. Their time was short! Her radiating happiness brought about just as much attention as her sorrow. Happy souls here were usually targets to be broken. 

“They’re coming... “ She turned to face Avehi one last time, her expression determined, “You need to leave. Now.” 

The Death Knight grunted, glancing back behind Sinafay. She could feel them, too - monstrosities of the Maw. They were closing in fast - on her or Sinafay, she couldn't tell. Both, probably. She turned to depart, centering herself and focusing her mind once more…

"--Wait!" she called out. "How do I prove to him I met you here? Something only you know? Something only he would know?"

“Just tell him I said to stop being a dumbass and that he’d better have some alcohol ready for when he brings me home!”

Avehi smirked - already, she was starting to like this Sinafay better. She nodded once, before her ethereal form began to dissipate, joining again with her body in the Bone Wastes.

"Stay safe…" she bid Sinafay, before vanishing.

Sinafay smirked. Obviously, Avehi didn’t know her at all. She turned to face the approaching swarm defiantly. She had no weapon, and her shamanism didn’t work in this place, but she still intended to put up one hell of a fight!

((Co-written with @kidcatgemini. Both Sinafays belong to her! @archmage-stillwater for mention, creator of both Unkhra’huun and Dunkori! ))

[dontenchantme]

greyscale

Rated T, solomon x mc.

she was chaos and unpredictability and she had no right to even look at him, let alone force colour into his dreams.

fics masterlist

Once upon a time, he dreamt in colour. But that was a long time ago, and he had practically forgotten what such dreams looked like.

Dreams reflected one’s deepest desires. Dreams were vivid – they burst forth in blossoms full of colour, brimming with hope and intent. They were quiet, fervent prayers for a better future, translating into surreal landscapes, festivals of brightness and joy and everything he might have once wished for. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was black and white.

It wasn’t that he didn’t yearn for anything. He had his desires – who didn’t? He was human, and it was human to want. But eventually, he grew to realise that everything was…superficial. None of it mattered. Even secrets he would have once killed to discover held little meaning.

The darkest depths of knowledge. Magic and power. Forbidden grimoires, secret rituals, the truth of creation itself – what did any of that mean, in the end? What would he do even if he plundered the depths of the universe and found the keys he so desperately sought?

Solomon knew, even if he didn’t want to admit it. After he deciphered his riddles, after he solved his mysteries, there would be no grand finale. No reward, no satisfaction, nothing. He would continue to live his life the way he always did. So, why should he even try?

Thousands of years ago, he had sought purpose. He wanted to discover the meaning of life. He was desperate to spin the wheel of fate, to unravel the world and follow its threads back to the origins of time itself. He had always been curious; whenever he found a question that he could not answer, he would simply set forth to seek the truth. And he never failed.

He was the wisest man in the world, beloved of the Celestial Realm. Anything he wanted, he took – people came from far and wide to listen to his counsel, bearing treasures and exotic gifts which he then shared with his wives and his citizens. His empire prospered. He wanted for little, his coffers overflowing with gold and precious jewels. But his mind was unsated.

All the riches he owned were poor substitutes for knowledge. He thirsted to learn, and he threw himself into reading, into deciphering ancient texts and scripts that blurred the line between truth and fiction. He was perfectly aware of how little time mortals had to live, so he chose to devote every waking moment towards his pursuit of meaning. It was his dying wish, a brand on his heart that suffocated his lungs and made him forget how to breathe.

But even he was unable to escape the ebb and flow of time. He could see the finish line of what once seemed to be an endless road; he continued his relentless march, desperately searching for a way to extend the path. Something. Anything. But the hours and days and months and years blurred into nothingness and before he knew it, he was at death’s door, his hands and feet bound by the shackles of mortality. His breath rattled in his lungs.

Wealth didn’t mean anything when he was looking into an open grave, his name carved in stark letters on a marble headstone. Time was a scarce resource. No matter how much he begged or pleaded, it was impossible to barter for more. Thus, Solomon made his decision – if he was unable to wrest more time from the skeletal jaws of the Reaper, then he simply had to find another way to evade the inevitable fate that awaited all mortals.

Making use of his knowledge and magic, Solomon summoned one of the powerful dukes of Hell – Barbatos, capable of altering the flow of time itself, a demon who could see into the past, the present and the future. His powers lent him control over the fate of mortals, and Solomon knew that this was his one, his only chance to escape his future – so they sealed their pact with blood and from then on, he ceased to fear the passage of time.

Death could no longer touch him. He had been rescued from its icy embrace, but what he gave up in exchange was far more terrible than his soul. Barbatos had not wanted his soul, reasoning that a man who could never die had no right to gamble with the afterlife. Instead, Barbatos took something Solomon had cared little about – the company of people.

He was told that for the rest of his immortal life, he would remain alone. He could not forge any genuine connection; his relationships would always be shallow and superficial. He was a lone human who traversed the sands of time, seeking absolute, objective truth.

He was comfortable with that. Other people would be nothing but distractions. Despite his love for his kingdom, he was very much aware of how difficult people could be. He was the ruler of a nation, and he ensured his citizens’ needs were met, but they always wanted more – more trade, more wealth, more women, more everything. Keeping them happy had taken up so much time, so much energy. He had no desire to return to his past.

Yet without him noticing, loneliness quietly, undoubtedly crept into his heart, numbing him to everything he once considered important – before he knew it, centuries had passed, and he had frozen over completely. One day he realised he couldn’t recall the sound of genuine laughter, or the brutal inferno of rage, or even the uneasy sting of jealousy. Try as he might, those emotions slipped through his fingers, dissipating from the cracks in his heart into the illusion of eternity. And he knew then that he had forgotten what it meant to be human.

Was this an effect of the passage of time? Were humans born to die – were they meant to fade quietly into the twilight? Was his very existence unnatural? He didn’t know, but by this point, he didn’t care enough to find out. Why should he dig any further if there was no one he could share his knowledge with? There was nothing to gain from questioning his past.

However, one day he met another human in the Devildom, some unfortunate soul who had been chosen to participate in the same exchange programme as him. He quickly realised that she was his complete opposite – naïve, inexperienced and curious, oblivious to the workings of the world. He couldn’t help but marvel at her blind idiocy, at her startling gullibility.

No one in their right mind would willingly throw themselves into the embrace of demons. It was instinctive to fear Hell and its denizens – after all, Hell was a reminder of their mortality, a representation of mankind’s inclination to sin. People feared what they didn’t understand – she was a human with no magic or power, so he didn’t think she would be any different.

But she didn’t flee from her new reality. She stood with the seven princes of Hell, raising her chin in defiance, a candle flickering in the winds of their strength. She stood with them not as a subordinate, but as an equal, gaining not only their respect but also their affections.

That was shocking enough in itself, but she didn’t stop there. She reached for him, her nails sinking deep into his flesh, and no matter how hard he tried to push her away, she refused to let him go. She pestered him to no end – was it because she was curious about his past? Or because she simply didn’t know how to keep her nose out of people’s business? He had no idea, and he didn’t want to know either. The less she bothered him, the better.

But a tiny part of him was intrigued by the determination that glimmered in her eyes. A tiny part of him wondered if she would genuinely care about his reason to exist. And as he watched her making her way through the Devildom, tearing down and rebuilding everything in her image – he wondered if she was special.

If somehow, despite his calculations and predictions and failures, there was one human in the world who could escape the grasp of Barbatos’ curse. If there was someone who was able to slowly coax him towards the light, breathe humanity back into his empty soul.

That night, in his dreams, her face bloomed before him. Her eyes were filled with longing, and a whisper lingered on her lips. Her mouth was moving but he couldn’t hear a single word that she said, transfixed by the ever-present curiosity simmering in her gaze.

In a sea of black and white, her face was the only thing that bled colour. He reached for her, his fingers searching, desperate to feel some kind of contact, anything to prove that she was real. That she was alive. But the more he strained, the blurrier her figure became, and then suddenly he was awake, her name falling from his lips, his hands stretching into thin air.

But she wasn’t there.

[masterstrange-closed]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 / 616 inspired au.

Please note that while a vast majority of this verse comes straight from the canon 616 biography of Stephen Strange, there are elements and head canons that are strictly my own mixed in. So, do not use this as a source for any other means than interactions with my muse. This is also the default verse I will use for most Marvel characters that are not MCU affiliated, but also open to MCU muses as well as an AU.

Stephen Strange was born November 1st, 1930 to Beverly and Eugene Strange while the pair were on a holiday out of town in Philadelphia, away from their farmhouse in Nebraska. He had three siblings, Donna Strange (1932), April Strange (1934), and Victor Strange (1937). April died before her third birthday due to ailments that medicine at the time were not equipped to handle, nor could the family really afford anything that did exist as the Great Depression was in it’s early days. Stephen has only a fleeting memory of her, but he would have been only six by the time she died. As per their father’s wishes, only a few photos of her remained in the house as the memory of losing her was too painful for their parents to confront day after day.

A couple years later, he began facing terrible nightmares — his parents believed it was caused by the stress and sadness of losing his sister, and being too young to fully understand what was happening. While that might have fed things, what was actually happening was far more sinister. Somewhere far away, a man known as Yao — the current sorcerer supreme, had seen a prophecy. His successor had been chosen, and it was none other than the young Nebraskan child. Of course, it would take years before he was ready to take on this mantle — but the news of this angered one man in particular. For Yao had a disciple, one who believed that the role of Sorcerer Supreme belonged to him. This man was Baron Karl Mordo, and desperate to secure his legacy, he began an assault on the young boy through a psychic connection. Every night, attacking him and plaguing him with night terrors that might push the child to another path. That might make him crazy and unable to take what he believed to be his!

Yao eventually realised what was happening and stopped Mordo, vowing to protect the child. He also decreed that Mordo was too dangerous to be kept unsupervised and also decided to keep him by his side to watch him. To keep his enemies where he could see them. However, the damage was done, and even without Mordo intervening, the night terrors were here to stay. After suffering night after night for what felt like an eternity, Stephen eventually found a solution of sorts. Unfortunately, it came in a bottle — copying what he saw his father do after a long stressful day, he began to drink in secret.

Years passed, and eventually Stephen found his life’s calling (with the aid of Donna and a rollerskating mishap), like his father before him — he wanted to pursue medicine, and he was determined to make it so. Perhaps then, he could gain the approval from his parents he desperately wanted. He graduated school with honors, and awards that were enough to get him into a good pre-med program in New York City. The first year away was a taste of the difficult road ahead, Stephen studied long and hard, but his stress was at an all time high. Luckily for him, he knew far too well how to numb himself to it by now.

Around his nineteenth birthday (1949, second year of college), Stephen came home to visit his family for a long weekend. While home, Donna wanted to show off her ‘cool college brother’ to her friends down by the lake — having missed his sister’s company while away, he agreed. This would become one of his greatest regrets, as the day was fated to end in tragedy. Donna and Stephen decided to race with some friends in the water, but after awhile, Donna suffered a severe leg cramp. She was far from shore, and the time of year made the water colder (even though it was still mild that year, weather wise), and as she tried to make her muscles work, the combination of the cramp, the water temperature, her panic and trying to call for help, tired her to the point where she could no longer keep afloat. Stephen eventually dragged her from the water, but it was too late. His sister was dead.

Stephen grew colder after that day, he blamed himself for not being able to save her — and as she had been the catalyst for his career choice all those years ago, she became the motivation that pushed him to extremes to succeed. He refused to fail, to lose someone because he failed to act in time or properly. It became a matter of pride over the years. A combination that worsened as his mother grew ill and passed away, followed by their father years later. His sister April, had also passed away years ago because of medicine failing her. People kept dying around him, and he couldn’t stop them. This pushed him, motivated him through school and into his career.

His father, he decreed, was the final straw. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the deathbed and bury another person he loved. So, he lied. He told his brother he couldn’t get there, and to drown out the pain and guilt, he went out. Got happily drunk and took someone home to distract him, but the distraction fell short when he found his brother in his apartment. Furious and betrayed, the two of them argued before Victor stormed out. Stephen went to follow him, to try to make amends and make him understand, but he never got the chance to. For Victor had accidentally stumbled into the street as he tried to get away from him and into oncoming traffic. Stephen, unable to cope with another loss, went to extreme measures to save his brother’s life. He knew current medicine was lacking… but he if he could keep him on ice, frozen until a time where perhaps medicine could save him, then he had to try. He failed everyone else, he refused to fail Victor too. How could he let his baby brother down once more?

The final bit of innocence he held had died, Stephen Strange had no more room for lost causes. He only took bets he could win, he only took patience he could save. Of course, he also thrived on a challenge — had that not been what motivate him here in the first place? He took the unusual cases, ones he knew he could win — but would be very difficult and extremely noteworthy. He reasoned, his issues in the past had been emotional. He had let himself be too attached to his work. So he distanced himself, he viewed patience only as medical problems. His original spark for choosing medicine was gone. Only arrogance and dangerous coping methods remained.

His drinking never ceased, he had picked up smoking too. While he was always upfront about what he sought after in relationships with partners, more often what that was were meaningless hookups or dynamics in which they both had something to gain. He was spending his days pioneering medical breakthroughs, earning success and accolades. By night, he was a sad man who needed a distraction, who was never satisfied and tried to numb the ghost that haunted him. He had a few love affairs, but they all ultimately ended. Not to mention, he held certain “urges” (re: non-heterosexual fantasies and feelings) that he couldn’t bring himself to face or admit to, as it was now the 1960′s. Life was becoming increasingly hard for Stephen, but he seemed to have it under a degree of control. As long as he kept himself together when it mattered, who cared if the mask cracked in the off hours? He was heading for disaster, and that was exactly what was going to happen.

February 2nd, 1963: to this day, it’s unclear what the exact cause of the accident was. The initial report, said that the poor weather conditions had made the road unsafe and the accident was entirely just that. An accident beyond anyone’s control. Some people, further into the investigation, once Strange was in medical care realised that the man wasn’t exactly sober behind the wheel, and perhaps this was a perilous example of driving under the influence. Yet, even now, years later a voice still whispers in Stephen’s ear when he’s alone at night; when he’s run through or weak that says: but what if it was on purpose, and the only accident was remaining alive? No matter what the case was, the result was the same. Stephen’s accident had come at the cost of his hands. The bones broken, nerves damaged beyond repair. As a surgeon, as any doctor would have forced to accept, there was no coming back from this. His career, and by extension, his life was over.

Thousands upon thousands of dollars were spent, even ones he didn’t actually have to spend, were poured into Stephen’s quest for some cure that would save his hands, eleven different operations, ones that included untested, and even some illegal, methods and surgeries and substances — all coming up with nothing but a worsening condition. He was in a debt he’d never be free of, and bills were piling up. What happened, was of no surprise to anyone — he was evicted from his home. His belongings seized to repay his loans and bills. With only a small backpack and a limited amount of cash — Stephen Strange was homeless.

He spent a year in and out of shelters, unable to find work (both due to his disability and his pride) before being fully cast out onto the streets. Much of what he had taken with him, was sold or traded for food and warmth. He could often nick a bottle or smoke from workers by the docks, who would sometimes give him dock work when they could find something he could manage. His hopes were dwindling, and Stephen gave up. Winter was coming, and he made peace with the knowledge he would not survive until spring one way or another.

However, that changed when he overheard the dock workers one day. Talking about claims of a Tibetan monk who had the ability to heal the “un-healable”. Something Stephen scoffed at, until he recognized the face of the man making the claims. A man named Pangborn who had once come to his clinic for treatment, but Stephen had turned him away as his paralysis was incurable… but was now standing in front of him and doing athletic feats that were impossible. Stephen used the last of his money, to book cheap passage to Tibet. His hope restored on the promise of what did he have to lose? If it was a lost cause, what did it matter if he died in New York or if he died in Tibet? He was nobody now. It made no difference.

The journey was long and rough, but eventually… haggard and beaten down, Stephen finally found himself on the steps of a large palace. He was admitted inside, and finally came face to face with the man who had saved him long ago, Yao.. or as he was known by everyone, The Ancient One. Stephen pleaded with him to save him, but he offered no medical miracles, only the study of mysticism. Claiming that had been what cured Pangborn. Dejected, furious, Stephen was heartbroken. His final glimpse of hope dashed by a charlatan and some magic tricks. He wanted to leave immediately, planning his final journey… but a blizzard struck unexpectedly, forcing the Ancient One to insist he spend the night until it cleared.

The whole time, he noticed Baron Mordo watching him closely, and couldn’t shake the feeling he had seen him before. Perhaps this was what led Stephen to catch what the other man was plotting, an attempt on his master’s life! Forced to involve himself, Stephen’s doubts about magic subsided quickly as he faced things he believed to be impossible. Once Mordo had been subdued, Stephen’s change of heart made him accept the offer to learn at the Palace, which he learned was actually a sanctum known as Kamar-Taj.

For years, Stephen studied along side Yao. His impressive affinity for magic, and his closeness with the Ancient One, prompted Mordo to officially leave the Sanctums and go rogue. Once he had learned all he could in Tibet, Yao informed him the rest of his studies were back home in New York City. Placing him in charge of the sanctum in Greenwich Village, Stephen was on his way to fulfilling his destiny. Years passed, as his connection with magic grew, he felt changes in his body become more apparent, but for the first time — he had a purpose, one that was noble and fulfilling. One that wasn’t born out of fear or personal desire.

As the years passed, it became clear that Stephen was ready for the final test: facing Death himself. At the end of this, The Ancient One was at peace, knowing his time on the physical plane was at an end and was finally ready to transfer the role of the Sorcerer Supreme to his pupil. Stephen inherited everything, including his ageless life, Stephen Strange was finally Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme and Master of the Mystic Arts.

For the most part, Stephen spends his days battling the mystical and multidimensional to keep the world safe. He became well known as a Mystic in Greenwich, to whom people could turn to when having issues with the mystic world. He has amassed himself a small group of friends, although the nature of his world and his demeanor often strain these relationships at times. He is friendly with the Avengers and other heroes, as well as maintains connections with other sorcerers; but he is not affiliated with the official Avengers at this time. He never knows what’s going to happen, but what he has learned with his infinite life is that not knowing is half the reason to live in the first place.

[fresh-outta-jams]

Of Spells and Spinning Wheels - Part 3

Jin x Reader Author: Mo Summary: You and Jin are childhood friends, betrothed to be married, happily on the path to your happily ever after...until on his twenty-first birthday, Jin is cursed... Note: We’re getting near the end of it, folks! Thanks for being so patient! I love all of y’all. Warnings: None?  Word Count: 2k

1, 2, 3, 4, Epilogue

The clash of Eunwoo’s sword against yours was enough to shock you out of you morning drowsiness, as if a run around the castle’s perimeter hadn’t already. Jin’s birthday was steadily approaching, and this meant a tougher training regiment under Prince Hyojong, who seemed very determined to get you ready for the days ahead. After all, fighting a dragon was no easy feat, even for someone who’d been training every day for years.

Once he saw you were well-adjusted, Jungkook had gone back home to be with his brother and family, leaving you with King Jaesang and his royal court. As a guest of the king, an honorary member of his family, you did have some duties, growing as you spent more and more time in his home instead of your own.

You wrote to your parents when you had time, and you wrote to Jin whenever you could. Since Jaesang’s kingdom was so safe, Namjoon felt better about letting Jin visit from time to time, but it was never for long. You stole kisses in your dwindling minutes together, holding onto each other for as long as you could manage before he had to go back to the forest with whichever fairy guardian had accompanied him. Now, you knew your days were numbered more than ever. On his twenty-fifth birthday, he would finally be going back home, to his kingdom, and you intended on seeing him one last time before you went off to fight Callista and her dragon and break Jin’s curse once and for all.

You knew you’d have to go fight before waking your sweet prince from his slumber because if you did it in the other order, there was no way he would let you leave his side. You hadn’t trained this long to not finish the job and slay the beast. Surely, if Callista heard you broke her curse, she’d come for not only Jin, but you as well. And future you wanted to have with him was dependent on killing his wicked aunt before she could do more harm.

So, you swung your sword, taking a few bold steps forward and narrowly avoiding an attack from the handsome prince in the shining armor. He was good, but after all this time and with everything on the line, you were better. A few attacks and counters later, you held the tip of your sword next to Eunwoo’s neck. Both of you were breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling with each intake and exhale of air.

“She’s ready.” Hyojong determined with a proud grin. Eunwoo smiled and you both lowered your weapons, putting them away so each of the other nights could give you one last hug before you started packing your things.

You could only hope he was right.

***

To say Jin woke up on the day before his twenty-fifth birthday with a certain feeling of dread was an understatement. The night before, he had finally arrived back at his castle. It was like walking into a stranger’s room when he opened the doors to his chambers. It was too clean, like no one had touched anything in years. He could hardly catch a wink of sleep in a bed that had once felt like the only safe place to him.

Though he supposed that was a lie. In all of those years in his perfect castle, his safe place was never his bed, it was in his lover’s arms. She wasn’t set to arrive to see him until the next day, and he could only hope she’d get there in time to see him before he drifted off to sleep. He had no doubt in his mind that if anyone could break the curse on him, it would be her.

The day trudged on pretty slowly. The prince tried to busy himself with reuniting with everyone in the castle, but even then, the hours seemed to drag, and as each one passed, Jin felt a dizzy haze slowly coming over him. He didn’t realize what it was, this feeling pulling and pulling at him, but he was having trouble sitting through dinner, picking at his food, but not really interested in much. By the time the meal ended, Namjoon had been watching their frazzled prince for a while, and once Jin finally excused himself, the green-clad guardian waited a few minutes before excusing himself as well and following after him, concern building in the center of his chest, heavy and growing heavier the further he wandered through the halls without sight of Seokjin.

Meanwhile, Jin wasn’t quite sure where he was going. He wasn’t entirely positive he’d ever been to this part of the castle before. The walls all had this eerie green glow, and his footsteps seemed to echo too much, bouncing off of the stone, beckoning him further and further into the depths of these twisting halls. There was something deep inside him, thorns wrapped around his soul, that kept pulling him on, no matter how much the little voice in the back of his head told him to stop.

By this point, all three of his fairy guardians had left the dining hall and were searching for their prince, distressed when they didn’t find him in his chambers or the library or the kitchens or the stables or any of the other places he frequented. They were becoming desperate, worried that the longer he was gone, the worse of a state they would find him in when someone finally located him.

They knew, deep down, that they were running out of time.

At this point, Jin was positive he had never been to this part of the castle. Never once in his years of exploring every inch of the place with his beloved and their friends on their childhood adventures had he ever seen this hallway that stretched and stretched, only seeming to get longer the further he walked down it. The light coming from the end of it was unmistakably green, and he couldn’t resist walking toward it. It called to him like a beacon, awakening the slumbering curse that had festered deep inside him for the past four years.

After what seemed like eternities, Jin finally reached the end of the hallway to find an innocent looking spinning wheel, the tip of its sharp needle gleaming bright and green. Suddenly, the prince found the tip of his index finger was unbearably itchy, burning, and throbbing. When he examined it, the skin felt rubbery to his touch, and it was discolored, tinted with the same green of the cursed needle.

Something in his fuzzy mind clicked. He stared at the sharp point with his hazy, half-lidded eyes and reached forward, finger extended.

“SEOKJIN, NO!!!” Namjoon called from the end of the hall, breaking into a sprint. Hoseok and Yoongi were quick behind him, running as fast as they could, but they weren’t fast enough, and they knew it.

Jin punctured his finger on the sharp point of the spinning wheel’s needle, a single drop of blood blossoming from the hole before the strength in Jin’s legs disappeared and he collapsed in a heap on the stone floor.

When his fairy guardians finally reached him, their hearts sank as they looked over their sleeping prince. It was too late. Now all they could do was wait for his princess in shining armor.

***

Something heavy and dark came over you the morning you were set to arrive at Jin’s castle. You’d been traveling for a few days, and this was the day you’d finally get to see him again: his birthday. And yet, the dark shadow that had cast itself over your soul told you something you were hoping wouldn’t be true: Jin had indeed fallen victim of his curse.

So, with a new determined vigor, you mounted your horse and took off towards the horizon, racing against time to get to the castle and see him for yourself.

It seemed like the forests of Jin’s kingdom would never end as your horse sprinted through them. The paths stretched on for ages, and you were certain the castle would never come into view, but eventually it did, its glistening towers and stained glass windows calling out to you like a second home. Growing up, you always knew you’d end up there, Jin’s wife and queen. Now, you weren’t sure if that fate would ever come to be. You were terrified of the things to come. There were so many ways in which they could go wrong.

You rode through the gates and up to the grand entrance, dismounting from your horse and taking off your helmet. All of the castle guards knelt down at the sight of you, your long (h/c) tresses tumbling down your shoulders. Until this moment, they hadn’t known it was you that was riding towards their castle, instead mistaking you for any other knight from King Jaesang’s kingdom. You stormed through the halls, up the stairwells, and finally, you stopped in front of Jin’s chamber doors, where Yoongi was posted, keeping out unwanted visitors while Namjoon and Hoseok were busy trying to cast a counter-curse within.

“Where is he?”

“You’re too late.” Yoongi told you, exhaustion deep in his tone. “He pricked his finger last night after dinner.”

“I knew it…” You whispered, shaking your head. You knew deep down that you wouldn’t get to see him one last time before you embarked on what would quite possibly be the last adventure of your life.

“Hoseok and Namjoon are in there now, working on Plan B.”

“And Plan A is…”

Yoongi looked up at you and you caught the knowing glimmer in his eye once again. You’d suspected things when he’d set up a loophole to the curse in the first place. You’d suspected things again when you were able to find the little cottage tucked into the woods. Though the two of you weren’t open about it, Jin’s guardian in blue had known about your secret love affair all along, and he had been pulling the strings from the beginning.

“Plan A has always been you.”

You didn’t bother opening the door to walk into his chambers. You knew what you had to do before you could wake your precious prince was as important as waking him. There was a dragon to slay, a witch to kill, and then, if you survived everything that stood in your way, you would finally, finally get your happy ending.

“Yoongi…” You smiled softly, looking at your old friend for what you hoped wouldn’t be the last time. “Keep him safe until I get back, okay?”

“Of course.” Yoongi nodded. He reached for the sword that was fastened to your belt, and you handed it to him. “Let me enchant this before you go, alright?”

“Thank you.”

Yoongi summoned a shower of blue sparks from his fingertips and let them wash over the length of your blade, changing it. The sharp edges grew sharper, the strong steel grew stronger, and the trusty hilt grew trustier. Once he was done with the sword, he pressed a hand to the center of your chestplate, letting his magic strengthen the metal there, too. There were lots of vital organs you’d need during and after the fight, and you’d be better off with them in tact.

“I believe in you.” He told you. “I’ve always believed in you. He does too. And he needs you to come home in one piece, alright?”

“I’ll do my best.” You promised, heart beating steadfast, preparing for the dark journey that laid in your wake. “The kingdom needs its prince.” Then, quieter, “and so do I...”

Yoongi offered one last supportive look before you reattached your sword to your belt and turned around, walking back down the stairs and out of the castle. You were scared, yes, but some small part of yourself, some little voice in the back of your head was determined. You were going to save Jin if it was the last thing you did.

Tagged: @iie-wakarimasen, @demonic-meatball, @backtonormalthings, @filtermono, @seokjin-the-hufflepuff, @ifntelyinspirit, @chaotic-joon

[mikaila-orchard]

“Don’t Run away,”

An angsty Sylvaina fic.

The plaguelands were as unpleasant and sick inducing as the name suggested.

��A small caravan of Lordearoneans were slowly trekking across a dirt road. Their movements were weary and sluggish, appearing even more lifeless than the undead scourge they were fleeing from. Peasant and soldiers alike moved with the same labored strain in their bodies.  Months of simply trying to survive in their hellish situation had all but beaten the very concept of hope out of them. Yet they persisted, for now they had at least a chance of salvation.

Leading the pack of stragglers was one filled with more energy than the entirety of the group combined. Jaina Proudmoore moved with purpose, her ocean blue eyes scanning the area for incoming dangers. Her metaphysical senses reached out even further for threats out of sight. The only sounds she made were the slight shifts of her Kirin Tor robe and her staff making contact with the beaten path. Every fiber of her being was dedicated to a singular goal. Getting these survivors to safety across the sea.

 Less than a year ago, the entirety of Azeroth was on the threshold of inescapable Armageddon.  The scourge that plagued these lands were but a fraction of the horrors wrought upon the world in the form of the Burning Legion. Their vast armies field with demonic might sought to the utter destruction of countless worlds, and they meant to bring that very destruction to this world, as they attempted thousands of years ago.

 But alas, such an apocalypse did not come to pass. The Burning Legion’s leader, Lord Archimonde, was destroyed upon the summit of Mount Hyjal and his demonic forces pushed off of the world. Jaina had seen it happen. By her hand and the hands of unexpected allies, she had made it happen.  She had stood against the impossible odds before her and prevailed. Such a victory, and the bonds forged from it, had filled the young mage with overwhelming hope. Hope she feared she had all but lost before setting sail from Lordaeron not long before it fell to ruin.  Hope that she channeled into determination. She knew what she was capable of now. She knew she could do better. That’s why she was here.

 After the Legion’s defeat, she and the surviving members of the alliance who accompanied her headed south. There they established a small sanctuary off the coast of Kalimdor. Theramore. The settlement served as a beacon of hope and peace for all of Azeroth, or at least that was the idea. It was that island town that Jaina had come to bring these surviving humans to. This caravan was the fifth she was able to uncover in the week she had been here. With this last group, the ship she came upon would be at max capacity and ready to sail them all to safety.  Even in their lifeless, wistful fatigue, every one of them expressed their eternal gratitude to Lady Proudmoore for her generosity and her courage.

 Jaina would smile and wave off such compliments, for deep down she knew. She did not act out of courage. If she did, she would have returned to Lorderon months ago. No, she only came back when she was certain. Certain that there were no signs of the kingdoms fallen prince. The one who killed his father, the king, and served his own land to the scourge on a silver platter.  The one who had a hand in allowing the Legion to return. The one she should have stopped back at Stratholme. The one who took away her-

 Jaina shook her head slightly yet forcefully. She couldn’t think about that. About her. She already knew what Arthas had done to Quel Thalas. She had heard tale of what he had done to the Ranger-General of Silvermoon. Such thoughts would not aid her on her mission. What was important was that Arthas had not been spotted in Lordaeron since the Legion’s arrival and that the survivors she was leading were a mile or so from the coast. Things could not be more ideal.  She could worry about the rest once everyone was safe.

 As if her brief distraction had tempted fate itself, her senses felt something approaching. The cold, nauseating aura of deathly magic was drawing near from multiple sources. She felt the dark energies all around them, no doubt meaning to surround the caravan. Without a clear line of sight, Jaina was unsure was exactly they were about to face, as such she took no chances.

 The mage rallied power behind her will.  Her eyes began to glow with arcane might.  Her fingers hummed and sparked with magic just waiting to be released onto their approaching foes.  Throughout the journey, Proudmoore made an attempt to keep her considerable abilities reserved, lest her power serve as a signal to any magically inclined undead to more easily hunt them down.  Now, however, it would serve as a warning to those who would dare attack them.  There were multiple dark presences nearing their location, but no single one of them could match her for pure strength.

 Jaina heard shifting amongst the trees on either side of the road.  Not feeling comfortable just waiting to see what would come into sight, she swiftly got to work.  With her staff raised in the air and the power of the arcane taking shape accordance to her will, large shards of ice began raining down from the sky.  There trajectory was not random, however.  The human sized chunks all fell just shy of the trees enclosing the road.  The previously weary and listless travelers now looked around in confusion and fear as they now had walls of ice on either side of them.

 “Quick!”  Jaina called out to the caravan.  “Hurry to the dock.  We haven’t much time!”  The mages eyes darted between the walls and the caravan, now moving double time.  Her ears anticipated the sounds of ghouls who would likely claw at the ice, attempting to either break through or climb over it.  She awaited the sound of giant abominations that would no doubt attempt to rip and tear their way through the frozen barricades.  She received neither.  

  Soon, several masses of smoke were seen flying over the walls and landing right before Jaina.  Their lower halves were comprised entirely of gaseous magic.  Their upper bodies were enrapted in loose cloaks that appeared ever flowing in the air, same as their ample, straw like hair.  Their faces seemed to be contorted in eternal agony and suffering.

 Banshees.

 “Submit to the scourge,” the ghost closest to Jaina hissed at her.  “Submit to the Dark Lady.”

 Jaina simply narrowed her eyes in response and readied her staff.  “Go,” she spoke to the caravan as she now stood at the back.  “Hurry to the boat.  I’ll take care of this.”

 If the group had any hesitation to leave her there, it was short lived.  The sound of hooves, creaking wagon wheels and heavy boots drew ever fainter as the group fled the incoming battle as quickly as they could.  

 The Banshees howled their disapproval as they moved to attack.  These spirits were a tricky sort.  They each were capable of debilitating screams and had the ability to possessed the weak willed.  Neither of which were a major threat to a mage of Jaina’s skill, however should any of them make it past her and reach the caravan, more than a few of them would no doubt perish.

 As such, all Jaina had to do was ensure no banshee got past her.  That required evening the odds.

 She moved her staff in one broad sweeping motion.  With that gesture and silent words of power, water began to well into ever growing masses on either sides of her.  By the time, the banshees were within striking distance of the mage, she was accompanied by two large water elementals.  Each of the summoned creatures was capable of enduring any attack the specters could make and had bodies unsuitable for any possession. The banshee leading the charge could not move away in time to avoid one elementals swipe.  The rest of the group scattered before they had a chance to join their unlucky sister who fell unceremoniously to the ground upon one strike.

 The wicked wraiths flew all about Jaina and her guardians, hurling volleys of twisted magic at them.  The elementals liquid structure held soundly against the assaults, and returned them in kind.  Those who did not engage attempted to break away from the skirmish and chase down the fleeing caravan.  Jaina quickly eyed the banshees rushing down the road.  She would not let them reach the others.  Power gathered and surged in the palm of her had before being sent through the air in the form of a large lance of ice.  The sharp projectile struck it’s target true, the banshee’s for dissipating in a cry of released agony. Her shocked sister soon joined her.  Luckily, Jaina’s aim was much better than that of her elementals at long distances, though she rather not reflect on who helped her attain such marksmanship.

 Before long, the skirmish had ended.  The banshee’s were dispelled from the land of the living, leaving no bodies to speak of.  Jaina looked around for possible reinforcements for a long moment before releasing a breath of relief.  It appeared the worst of it was over.  With a faint gesture of her staff, her two elementals reverted into simple water, returning to the soil of the scarred earth beneath them.  “Well,” Jaina said to herself, a faint air of smugness to her words.  “Can’t say I’m impressed with what the scourge has to offer these days.”

 “Arrows in the quiver, little mage.”

 Jaina froze.  Her blood ran cold as her eyes widened at the sudden voice straight behind her.  A voice so familiar, yet so hollow and chilling.  Were it not for those choice of words, she might not have even recognized it.  The mage reached out with her senses, praying the voice was simply a trick and there was no such presence nearby. No such luck.  A dark aura much like the banshees before stood right behind her.  This one however, was much stronger.

 Jaina didn’t want to turn around.  Doing so would only confirm what she had spent little over half a year denying.  She prayed what she heard were merely rumors. That her beloved had not been raised into undeath and instead was given the peaceful rest she deserved.  She knew if she turned around, that illusion would be shattered.  Nevertheless, her survival, and by that token the survival of the people she intended to save, demanded that she turn to face the voice.

  So she did.

 The silhouette of a cloaked figure was the first thing she noticed, with two long elven ears protruding from the slits in the drawn hood.  A moment later, she could make out the figure of a woman shrouded by the tattered garb.  This banshee was very much unlike the others.  A body completely intact and corporeal.  Hunting leathers in place of billowing robes.  Smooth lifeless skin perfectly preserved and nigh flawless.  Well, save one flaw.  A large scar planted in the center of the undead elf’s exposed abdomen.  A scar left behind by Frostmourne itself.

 It wasn’t until Jaina’s eyes came up to the face of the banshee that the dread she felt reached its climax.  There she saw a face both smooth and sharp in it’s features. High cheekbones and full lips.  Long, platinum blonde hair spilling from the hood and draping over her shoulders.  And the eyes.  Sweet merciful Tides, the eyes.  Where not long ago she saw a warm hazel gaze, it was now the coldest of blue, as it was with any slave of the Lich King.  The miasma of death did not conceal the truth as well as the mage would have hoped.  Standing before her, only a few paces away, was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon.

 “Sylvanas,” Jaina choked out.

 The elf tilted her head slightly, almost curious about being referred to by name.  “You know me,” she remarked, her voice as chilling and hollow as a moment before.

 Jaina swallowed the lump in her throat.  Sylvanas had not attacked her yet.  Was there a reason? Was this just a distraction?  She reached out further with her senses.  She detected no other undead around them.  The caravan was safe.  So why did the undead before her not attack?  What could that mean?

 “Yes,” the mage finally said, doing her best to keep the budding thoughts of hope in the back of her mind.  “Do... Do you know me?”

 “I know only what the Lich King demands me to know.  And I know that he demands your death.”  With that, Sylvanas drew a saber fastened to her waist.  It was not the finely crafted elven saber Jaina had seen countless times before.  It was rusted and poorly kept, no doubt pulled of some hapless bandit she killed.

 Proudmoore had every reason to abandon all hope that the woman she loved was anywhere to be found inside the lifeless husk, yet she persisted.  “Sylvanas please,” she beseeched. “It’s me.  It’s Jaina.”

 The banshee responded with an arcing swing of her blade.

 Jaina managed to raise her staff up to stop the strike dead. Her staff held strong against the meager sabre, but the force of the attack. nearly made her knees buckle.  Sylvanas knew not fatigue or restraint in undeath, it seemed.  This battle could not be won in close quarters.  Jaina’s fighting prowess was not terrible as far as mages went, but she was facing the ranger who taught her every fighting move she knew.  Melee combat was not an option.  

 She swung her staff over to one side, forcing the blade away from her.  The mage then leapt back as far as she could before hurling hurling a bolt of frozen power at the banshee.  She knew it would miss, but the time it took Sylvanas to dodge gave her a precious moment longer to bolster her defenses.  She reached out to the ice walls they stood between.  Chunks of the solid material began to melt and take the form of familiar elementals from before.  The summoned guardians wasted no time barraging the banshee with their aquatic strikes.

 Sylvanas evaded every attack.  Her motions familiar, yet still utterly breathtaking to Jaina.  Even now, as a slave to the Lich King, she moved with impossible precision and grace.  Before it filled Jaina with wonder and ever growing fondness for the elf.  In this context, however, it only made her more nervous. Her mana reserves were plentiful, but at this rate they would be wasted just trying to strike the banshee, which even now she didn’t want to do.

 “Sylvanas, please!” She called out to the ranger being kept at back by her guardians.  “We’ve already made it this far.  Just let me save them!  The scourge has eno-“

 Sylvanas landed against the barricade of ice and kicked off, sending herself high in the air, in that arc she had readied her bow and before landing had shot two arrows at each of the elementals. They were no ordinary arrows however.  They burnt with with black and purple magics.  Magics that caused the summoned creatures to be dispelled almost immediately.  Jaina flinched as her guardians collapsed unceremoniously into large puddles.  Her attention snapped back to the banshee quickly closing the distance between them.

 The mage raised the staff and began to gather more arcane might.  It was then that the elf made a strange, almost strangled cry and suddenly, Jaina could not feel her magic.  She was silenced.

 Her mind raced for a possible recourse, but it did not race fast enough as a heavy boot suddenly made impact with her chest.  Jaina fell hard to the ground, immediately winded by the kick. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear as Sylvanas loomed over her.  The rangers expression was nearly blank with just a hint of smugness to it for her victory.

 “My love,” Jaina rasped out, still trying to catch her breath.  “Please.”

 “Silly little mage,” Sylvanas replied coldly as she prepared her bow once more.  “Your love is gone.”

 Jaina wished, nay prayed, that she wouldn’t cry.  The burning tears threatening to fall made that difficult.  She held back a sob as she dared to meet the banshees gaze.  If this were to be her end, she would look it in the eye.

 “Prove it,” she challenged.  “Do what she never could,”

 Sylvanas drew the string of her pillaged longbow, aiming for Jaina’s face less than a meter away.  Her orders were clear.  The Lich King of the undead scourge made sure of that.  His will, his voice, rung loud in her mind without end ever since she was raised.  Commanding her to slaughter and raze in his name.  Her orders here were no different.

 “Slay the mage!” the Lich King bellowed in her mind.  “Raise her as a perfect slave to scourge.  Unmake her!  Obey!”

 “NO!”

 A second voice suddenly screamed in the banshees mind, causing her to wince.  The arrow was let loose, but shot into the ground just to the left of Jaina’s head.  The ranger staggered back a pace or two, the sudden scream of an alien voice noticeably hurting her.  After a moment, Sylvanas’ mind was silent.  Completely.  The Lich King's ever present voice was gone.  Banished from her now empty mind.  No. Not empty.  The second voice was still there.  

 Her voice.  

 It was all starting to come back to her.  Not to say that Sylvanas ever forgot who she was.  The memories were all there, but they were repressed.  Sectioned off behind a dam of will that the Lich King constructed.  With that will gone, the dam had broken and everything, her memories, her will, came flooding back to the forefront of her mind.

 She looked up from the ground.  Apparently this sudden incident had brought her down to her knees without her realizing it.  Her gaze came up to the mage she had attempted to kill not a moment ago.

 ”.... J-Jaina?”

 Jaina was stunned.  She hadn’t the slightest clue what just happened.  One second she was prepared to meet her end at the hands of her former lover.  Then the ranger stepped back and fell to her knees, missing the unmissable shot.  She had wondered if this were all just a trick before she questioned to what end that trick could possibly be.  Jaina had no hope of escape.  A deceit like this would have been pointless.

 Her shock grew ever larger as Sylvanas suddenly looked up at her.  The eyes she looked into had changed again.  Icy blue suddenly became fiery red.  The hood of her cloak fell back to reveal what shadows had hidden.  Underneath her eyes were long black streaks, looking like trails of tears.  Proudmoore reached out with her senses.  The dark aura the banshee was composed of was still present, yet.... different? It was a subtle change, but it was there.  It was more... more wild.  She was so transfixed by these small changes that she almost didn’t notice Sylvanas calling out to her.  Her voice still hollow with undeath, but much meeker and more uncertain.

 Jaina trembled.  Did she dare hope?  Could this have actually meant what she thought it meant?  She rose to her feet and cautiously approached the banshee.  “Yes,” she affirmed finally.  “Sylvanas it’s me.”  The elf’s eyes widened, slowly lifting herself from the ground but making no attempt to approach as Jaina did.  The mage stilled momentarily.  She prayed this wasn’t a trick, but she needed something to be sure.  A sign.  

 It was then a thought came to Jaina.  Her free hand reached under her collar and pulled free what secretly hung around her neck.  It was a pendant, carved into the shape of a dragon hawk feather.  A gift of affection made personally by Sylvanas before they last parted.  Sylvanas’ eyes fell upon the pendant, her body remained unnaturally still for a long moment before she finally responded.  The ranger reached underneath her leathers and revealed something that even she didn’t realize was there.  A blue crystal held onto by a silver chain.  The stone glowed softly with magic.

 Tears fell freely down Jaina’s face.  Sylvanas kept it.  After months of undeath and slavery, she kept it.  She was still there inside that lifeless body this whole time.  And now she was free.  “Oh Sylvanas.”  She took another step towards the elf.

 The elf took a step back.

 Sylvanas began shaking as she looked at the pendant in her hands.  Hands that were dead.  Hands that did terrible things.  Memories of what had happened to her were raging in her mind. Memories of what she had done as the Lich King’s slave raged just as hard.  Were she alive, she likely would have vomited.  As such, she just shook and backed away.

 “No, my darling.  Please.”  Jaina begged, worry crossing her features once again.  “I’m right here.  Don’t run away.”

 Sylvanas looked back at Jaina.  Her Jaina.  The girl she had met by chance in Dalaran those years ago.  The girl who’s brilliance, determination and wit won her heart soon after. The girl who fell to her knees and begged the General to sail west to Kalimdor with her before Quel'thalas fell to the scourge.  And here she was again.  Jaina came back to her, as gentle and beautiful as ever.  Even after being scuffed up from battle, she was perfect.

 But Sylvanas?  Sylvanas was a monstrosity now.  

 “Stay away,” the elf croaked.  Her hands came to cover her ears, the noise of her memories getting louder and louder.

 “My darling, it’s okay,”  Jaina assured her, despite panic beginning to rise inside her as well.  “Come- come with me.  We can get you out of here.  I can keep you safe.  I promise.”

 “I-I can’t!”  Sylvanas cried out, her face contorted in pain from the growing loudness inside her mind.

 “Sylvanas please!  Stay with me!”

 The banshee screamed.  She screamed with unbridled agony and sorrow.  Even as Jaina covered her already ringing ears, she could feel the pain Sylvanas had cried.  

Sylvanas’ body became shrouded in black smoke and unearthly tendrils, her crimson gaze and horrified visage the only indication that she was still corporeal.  In her maddening grief, she flew away.  Up over the ice wall and into the forest.  Jaina scrambled to her feet and desperately attempted to follow, but by then it was too late.  She was gone.  Out of sight and beyond her senses.  

 After a moment of silence, Jaina fell to her knees and wept.  She cried for Sylvanas, only able to imagine what horrible things were going through her mind.  She cried for herself to see her beloved come back to her only to flee.  She cried for the other undead she now knew remembered who they were.  She just cried.

 She was unaware of how much time had past before her tears had run out and her throat went hoarse.  She simply sat there in the dirt, feeling uncomfortably numb to everything.  She peaked over to the road leading to the coast when she noticed the sun nearing the western horizon.  It was bound to get dark soon and she likely had people awaiting her return.  She lifted her aching body from the ground and pressed onward.  She still had a mission to complete.

 Even in her sorrow induced numbness however, a small smile did manage to creep onto her lips.  There was one thing she knew for certain from all of this.  Sylvanas was still there, and she was free.

 And when Jaina returned.  She was going to save her.

[scintillating-galaxias]

give ‘em hell, darling

Chapter Three—Step 2

Uriel makes an example out of Aziraphale.

CW for descriptions of body horror. (Read it here on ao3!)

Aziraphale had forgotten how absolutely clinical Heaven was.

The air had a sterile tastelessness to it that laid heavy on his tongue. Everything was an inoffensive gray, white, or beige, or possibly a daring khaki. Every building was made of polished and unblemished marble and cut perfectly into either cubes or a strange design that, in the human world, would be called ‘modern art’ and then be scoffed at for being labeled as such. There were no decorations to be found. Fountains of holy water and nature were the only exceptions and both were native only to the living quarters of the good human souls that had made it up here. The angelic HQ had no need for such lavacious things. 

Crowley was right about the smell of bleach. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it before, but it was everywhere, soaking into the cold, cold stone and purging any disease from its purity. It stung his nose and reminded him of the ghastly stories of hospitals that took patients in with no intention of allowing them to leave again. It made him yearn for the metallic smell of rain, the belching fumes of gasoline, the rich, the faintly sweet smell of his leather-bound books, oh his books. He missed them dearly. He missed Earth dearly. And he had only been here for a couple of minutes.

Aziraphale was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake turning himself in so easily. 

He shifted his wrists beneath his tightly bound cuffs. Upon Aziraphale’s arrival, Uriel had bound them and his wings as well so that if he tried to go back down to Earth, he would fall and reach terminal velocity before becoming angelic paste on the pavement. He didn’t use his wings to literally fly from Earth to Heaven or vice versa, but he required their Holy presence to properly go to and from the two places. That being said, he had an extremely painful cramp that was seizing up his entire left side, and he very much doubted he could convince Uriel to loosen the cuffs on his wings so that he may stretch them out.

Speaking of Uriel. That was a rather wicked looking dagger they had.

“What is it?” Their face was a perfectly cut mask of cool indifference, as per usual. But something about it looked pleased at Aziraphale’s discomfort.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. He glanced away, warily watching the dagger out of the corner of his eye. It was made of some pulsating purple-black material that hissed and bubbled and dripped with something that clearly disagreed with being in such a holy space. He could feel its tarlike aura molding itself onto his, trying to capture as much as it could before drowning it. It made him feel a bit nauseous. It was a mystery how Uriel could hold it at all, even with the glove.

Aziraphale tensed and untensed his arms, trying to relieve some of the pain. “Erm,” he said awkwardly. “That’s a fascinating... knife you’ve got there. Is it new?”

Uriel hardly spared him a glance. “It was specially commissioned from the Hell Forge just for you.”

“I-I see.” Aziraphale swallowed and inched further away from the blade. It appeared Crowley had been correct. Again. Aziraphale should really start to heed his cautiousness more often. You’d think he’d be a little less uppity about it, especially after six thousand years. He bit his lip and hoped Crowley was doing alright without him. 

He tried to distract himself by flicking his eyes to a familiar cityscape. He took in skyscrapers and apartment complexes gleaming in the too-bright sunshine. They stretched their bony structures and scraped an ivory intrusion against the pure blue sky, punctuated by painting-like clouds. Rain was a rarity, yet a rainbow arched gracefully above it all, its colors bold and bright in a way they never would be on Earth. This felt incredibly ironic to Aziraphale. The rainbow had been made for humans after the Almighty had demolished the entire population of Mesopotamia and then some. It was a gift, a promise, to never let it happen again. Shouldn’t that have been proof enough that the whole Written Plan about the Apocalypse was a load of old tosh? Humanity was not meant to come to an End. And here was Heaven using Her promise as a minute detail to a perfect picture.

Aziraphale felt a venomous critter of disgust creep through him. He smiled thinly. “Lucky me.”

“Yes. Lucky you.”

He decided Heaven’s imitation of Earth’s atmosphere was not for him. He focused instead on the floating Globe lazily spinning in the middle of the floor. It felt like yesterday that he was being berated by the Quartermaster as he dipped his finger into the little brown-green patch that was England. He desperately wanted to relive that moment right now. In fact, his finger actually twitched in a desperate attempt to flee, despite being fully aware of what would happen if he did.

He wondered what was going to happen if he didn’t. They’d been standing here for a good ten minutes now and had not moved. “Pardon me, but could you perhaps enlighten me of my fate?” he said, allowing a bit of a plea to slip into his voice. “I am your prisoner. I’d like to think I have a right to know.”

“You’d be wrong.”

Well then. So much for that. Aziraphale pressed his lips together and nodded. Questions still bounced uselessly around his head like the balls inside of a bingo wheel. He picked whichever one popped out first. “What is it that we’re waiting for?”

Uriel finally looked at him, but he almost wished they hadn’t. “Your cell is being prepared. You need to stop asking questions.”

Heaven has a prison? thought Aziraphale. What was the point of that? Why would anyone need to be punished if they, with himself and his Fallen brethren as the exceptions, could do no wrong? Perhaps humans could still be a bit rowdy.  

Or maybe they merely made one just for him. They made a dagger just for him. A room didn’t feel like that large of a stretch. 

Uriel’s chin came up slightly as though they were listening to something. Aziraphale turned his head about, but didn’t see anyone, until he noticed the earpiece place snugly on Uriel’s head. They were silent for a few more seconds. Then they brought a finger to their ear and said, “We’re on our way.” Then, to Aziraphale, “Follow me.”

“Wh—I demand you tell me where we’re going first!”

Uriel barked out a wrathfully amused laugh. “You’re in no position to be making demands. Come.”

They began to walk away. Aziraphale followed them after a hesitant moment.

Together they went down stairwell after stairwell, through hallway after hallway. Every place was strangely devoid of life. Aziraphale peered into offices as they passed by—not a single soul. No one at the desks, no one bustling back and forth with a clipboard, not even a single friendly conversation. The only sounds were the colliding echoes of their footsteps: Uriel’s, firm thuds from the heel of their boots, Aziraphale’s gentler shuffles from his loafers. Apprehension and curiosity began to struggle beneath his skin, straining for answers. He swallowed them down and tred on.

They finally made it to the first floor after what was paradoxically a short eternity and thirty seconds. Uriel went straight for the sliding doors without a single glance back. Either they were confident Aziraphale would not make a harebrained escape attempt, or—no, Uriel was quick as a whip, and could be as dangerous as one, too. Especially with that dagger. Aziraphale wouldn’t be going anywhere. He trudged after Uriel, trying to keep his gaze from drooping to the ground for too long. They went through the sliding doors and Aziraphale—

Aziraphale… stopped.

Because before them, stretching for miles and miles and miles, were millions of angels. The ground and sky were swallowed up by grey suits, white dressed, five thousand all-seeing eyes staring in directions that could never be named. A cacophonous mix of true forms melding around corporeal forms lit up space in impossible colors and shapes. Heat and cold lived as one, light and dark, unified and separate. All types of heavenly creatures from raging seraphim whose being swelled and engulfed everything in a five hundred meter radius to a ninth rank angel who was dwarfed in comparison and everything in-between was there. 

And every single one was staring at Aziraphale. 

Stupefied, he could only manage, “So that’s where everyone went.”

The front of the crowd swelled towards him at his words, taking him in, picking him apart, like a greedy ocean tide lapping at the soles of his feet.

“That’s the traitor?” murmured a Throne. “He doesn’t look it.”

A buzz of agreement rose and fell. Some were even dubiously daring to dart their gaze back and forth between him and Uriel. He could feel it too—the strange mix of righteous anger and unyielding love, yet doubt was melting holes into that steely resolve. Aziraphale coaxed a weak smile to his face. Perhaps—perhaps Heaven had some hope.

“Shut it,” snapped Uriel. Evidently, they were not pleased with the reaction. “Don’t you feel it? This is who sabotaged the Great Plan. This is who turned God’s Will into something of his own creation.”

A few Powers shared a glance. “Do you… want an answer?” said one, very carefully avoiding the word “honesty.”

A nearby Cherub bristled, its interlocking wheels made up of nonexistent planes of existence spinning faster in agitation. This is who renounced God’s will, it howled, their celestial voice resonating from every atom and screaming into every angel’s head, this is who twisted the Great Plan and put Her plans to ruin! This is he who turns his back on the Almighty!

And just like that, the crowd shrank away from Aziraphale, hissing like water on a burning skillet. Uriel smirked and strode into the crowd. It slowly parted around Uriel at first, but as Aziraphale reluctantly went to follow, it shot away as if he were poison. Which, if Heavenly propaganda was up to its old standards, he may as well be.

“There is hope for you yet!” shouted a fellow Principality as he passed. “Renounce, and God’s Love will shine on you once again!”

Aziraphale cringed but did not allow his head to bow in shame. He resolutely kept his eyes up. They couldn’t possibly know what had really happened on Earth. They couldn’t possibly really know Earth. Humanity. He could forgive them.

“Look upon the grayness to his being? He has been tempted to Sin by that demon! Oh, for shame, for shame!”

They didn’t know what a wonderful creature Crowley was. He could forgive them.

“Save him, save him!”

They didn’t know.

“O Lord, bestow upon your lost child the sight to see what is good and just once again…”

He could forgive them.

Aziraphale walked on, and on, and on, walked on through the jeers, walked on through the judging glares, walked on through the tears. The anger was overwhelming him, but he couldn’t tell if it was his own, or simply what he was absorbing from twenty million angels. The tide returned and snared his ankles. It felt like drowning in a boiling sea. Foaming waves dragged his struggling body away from the safety of the shore, tossing him out to churning open water and plunging him deep, deep down into seething depths. Reaching for air wasn’t possible—it was burning too. It forced its way into his mouth and began to broil his insides, setting his very heart aflame. His skin blistered and popped, liquified salt poured into his wounds before he could heal again, taking him apart one quark at a time, until—

“All I have done!” roared Aziraphale, his cuffs humming as they strained to keep his wings from flaring out. The tears on his face steamed up as soon as they touched his flesh. “All I have done is love humanity just as She commanded me!”

Uriel spun around, an ugly rage marring their face. “You went against Her Written Plan!” they bellowed back, dagger jabbing closer to him with each word. “Did She not command that, too?”

“It never was Her Ineffable Plan!”

A collective gasp went up. Heaving, Aziraphale spat, “Or did Gabriel fail to mention that, too?”

The jury of Heaven fell completely silent. Uriel worked their mouth. Aziraphale closed his eyes and desperately tried to control the solar flares leaping from his body. When he reopened his eyes, it was to the sound of Uriel stalking forward, taking Aziraphale by the front of his shirt, and hissing, “We’re going.”

And then they were in a new room. The audience had vanished but their voices echoed again and again. Aziraphale wrenched himself away from Uriel and stumbled back. In the same instant, Uriel disappeared again, leaving him alone.

Like most of Heaven, the room was composed of white. The only color was the golden sigils engraved into the marble walls and himself. He noted with some hysterical despair that the room had nothing in it to fill the space—no beds, no tables, no windows, not even a chair. And, like most of Heaven, it was very cold.

There were no such things as shadows here, no creases in the corners to indicate there even was a corner. He could not tell when one wall ended until another one began. It all stretched into an everlasting white expanse wherever the golden sigils were not present. He sighed; the sound barely made it off his lips before it fell dead. The gazes of the sigils bore down on him, waiting to see what he would do. He closed his eyes against them; they felt too much like what amalgamation waited for him outside.

Quietly, Aziraphale knew this would not last. He remembered the first few angelic beings who doubted his crime. There must be more beyond them. The Cherub had gotten everyone riled up, Aziraphale included. That was simply how Cherubs were. He had seen Uriel’s face when they did not immediately denounce him; clearly, something was incorrect about how they thought Heaven really was. He swiped away another tear and struggled to steady himself with one, two, three shaking breaths. Under better circumstances, perhaps they would have listened. 

There was hope yet. He was not alone. He firmly held on to that thought as he knelt down and wept.