#thread: our steel shall sing

[octoboltflash]

The Xianzhou Luofu is nothing like the quaint, serene environment of what Izumo was before the Shadow of IX devoured her home in its entirety. In the moments before THEY descended upon everything she knew, Acheron's palms had already become calloused by the hours spent wielding her blade in a desperate attempt to become better than the last time she removed it from its sheath. When her blade sliced through the darkened remains of her world, she felt nothing but resignation. Perhaps it was the touch of Nihility that had already claimed her soul, or perhaps it was the fact that there remained nothing left to save. Destruction was the only salvation. Now, though... the air is fresh, cool with the promise of an approaching evening; the rustling of distant trees mixed with the rhythm of her breathing brought her a sense of calm-- and as such, gloved fingers tightened around the hilt of Naught. This was a form of meditation, she supposed... Surrendering herself to the whims of her blade, acting on instinct and muscle memory alone. Though all else would fade before her, the way in which she fought would forever remain. The saya of her odachi caught the light as Acheron adjusted her stance, feet firmly planted against the ground beneath her. Every movement was deliberate, slow and controlled, as her muscles relax as a deep breath is exhaled from the very end of her lungs. Her mind sharpens like the edge of her blade, and the world fades away into a muted background as she prepares for her first strike against nothing in particular. She doesn't pull the blade from its saya, but she follows the motion as if she did. The action is swift, but precise, her right hand pulling the entirety of her odachi as her body follows through with a full, sharp cut-- an invisible opponent's head severed in a single, perfect motion. The saya arcs through the air with a whistle of deadly force, yet a silence follows in the moment she comes to complete stillness. Acheron remains poised, back straight, shoulders relaxed as her next swing cuts horizontally through the air-- her speed causes her to be nothing but a blur as she moves, and as the odachi reaches the end of its swing, her body follows with an efficient twist of the waist. Her hips rotate, and the blade comes down in a clean, diagonal strike. Were she to use Izuman terms, in the past, a teacher she no longer recalls had instructed her on how to efficiently execute a kesa-giri.

Each motion feeds into the next, and there remains a quiet intensity in her form, a concentration so complete that she fails to notice a bystander observing her. Even as she shifts her stances again and again, transitioning from one to the next with practiced ease, her movements remain fluid and seemingly effortless.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Acheron feels as if she has completed her kata to its full duration. Her movements slow and the sword is brought back to her hip with the same precision of her first draw, and she inhales one last deep breath, letting the serenity of the practice settle in her weary bones. She bows deeply, both in respect for her blade and for the space afforded to her. Iaido has always been a return to stillness, to calm, to a clear mind- in the moments she is alone, Naught remains at her side. It always has functioned as a true extension of herself, and as her fingers drag along the handle wrapped in light bandaging in an all-too-familiar motion.

@tempered-chill

our steel shall sing

w/ @tempered-chill

[ironwitchpainter]

The Ballad of the Parched Pint and the Bloody Boar

And so, as they make their way to Bree, Blorbo shares with them the lyrics to one of the songs that has been composed about their adventure, the ballad of the "Parched Pint" and the "Bloody Boar." It's a tale of unlikely heroes, the power of friendship, and the unyielding force of music in the face of darkness. The words, a testament to their valor, weave a story of laughter and steel, of love and loss, and of the unbreakable bonds formed in the crucible of battle.

The verses speak of the shadows that fell upon the village, the fear that threatened to consume all hope, and the fiery spirit that burned within the hearts of the bards and their newfound allies. The chorus, a rousing call to arms, sings of the night they turned into a dance of defiance, their music a beacon that pierced the gloom.

Blorbo, with a twirl of his lute, begins to sing:

"In a tavern once filled with cheer,

Where laughter and ale flowed without fear,

The shadows fell like a cloak of despair,

But the music of heroes filled the air.

Ah, Blorbo, your words do bring to mind

The night we danced with fate's entwine,

Where shadows fell and darkness grew,

But together, we turned it into a cue.

In the "Parched Pint," where walls did shake,

And the "Bloody Boar" where fear did take,

We played and sang, for our hearts to make,

A bastion of light, for friendship's sake.

Yes, Jenkins, together we did stand,

Against the shadows that reached out their hand,

With melodies bright, and valor's brand,

We turned the tide, across this land.

The goblin watched, his heart alight,

As Gromshka swung, a fiery sight,

And together we fought, through the night,

Guided by music, our beacon so grand.

To Bree we go, our spirits high,

The Prancing Pony, our destination nigh,

Where tales of old and new will fly,

And our music will reach the sky.

We'll share our story, let it unfold,

Of the night we danced so bold,

When the shadows tried to hold,

Our hearts in their icy grip, but we denied.

Let's not forget the goblin's part,

Whose love for Gromshka played a vital chart,

Their bond, a beacon in the dark,

A dance of strength, a work of art.

And Garrick's horn, it did sound so clear,

Their valor in battle had no peer,

Their horn's call, so loud and near,

Gave us the will to face our fear.

Then, as if their voices were one, Blorbo and Jenkins join together in a powerful, harmonious chorus that resonates through the quiet streets of the village, leaving a trail of hope and joy in their wake:

"With instruments of war and cheer,

We danced through the night, no room for fear,

Our hearts and souls alike,

We conquered the shadows with our might.

Our music, it did not cease,

It grew with every beat and peace,

Until the Enemy's retreat,

And the shadows, they were defeated,

In the "Jolly Jester," so bright.

Now we march to Bree's embrace,

Where tales of valor we shall chase,

The Prancing Pony awaits our grace,

In the light of the dawning day's sweet face.

The group, their spirits soaring, sings the chorus once more, their voices weaving together like the threads of fate. This time, however, it's not just the bards and their newfound companions. The villagers, emerging from their homes with the first light of dawn, catch the tune on the breeze. One by one, they join in, their voices swelling until the very air seems to hum with the power of their unity.

The goblin, his eyes shining with joy, adds his own guttural harmony to the mix, while Gromshka's deep, resonant laugh echoes through the streets. The Shadowbreakers, though battle-worn, find themselves smiling as they march alongside the bards, their steps lighter than they've felt in ages. The chorus fills the air, a sonorous declaration of their victory and a promise of the adventures that await them in the lands beyond.

Of course, my dear friends, this is but the first verse of our epic ballad, scribbled on the parchment of our hearts in the heat of battle. Before we take this tale to the wider world, we must refine it, give it the polish that great stories demand. We'll tweak the melody, sharpen the words, and ensure that every note and line rings true to the valor we've shared. Only then will our song be ready to resonate in the hearts of all who hear it, inspiring them to stand against the shadows that lurk in their own lives.

[cotharach]

and the tide brought us here

           The trip to Rhodos Coast is an unusually lonely one, and the journey to reach its shores is one cloaked in silence. The saint finds herself unused to the empty space her father used to fill, and even more unused to the still quiet that surrounds her. She is nothing if not determined, however, and she manages to make the trek alone despite the small aches that plague her heart.

          She would learn to disregard this loneliness; she must, for there are needs far greater than her own that she must fulfill.

( though her sorrow is disquieting, there persists a small comfort, found in the idea that her mother might endeavor to call her mature should she see her... perhaps she would even stroke her head and shower her with praise... )

          The girl reaches the beach soon enough, and after moments of brisk walking, reaches st. cichol’s monument— or as she knows it better by, her mother’s headstone. Though it stood on the coast for centuries now, the marble looked untouched, and the small strip of sand it was erected on had barely eroded. The only proof of the passage of time were the wilted flowers that rested by its base.

          “Mother... I apologize, it has been some time, has it not? Why, your flowers have even wilted!”

          There is no response, of course, and no sound save for the constant crash of the ocean and the occasional call of a seabird, but the girl smiles anyways. Singing a soft, wordless tune, she carefully brings out a bouquet of forget-me-nots from her traveling pack, their twilight-blue petals slightly crumpled from the journey. She kneels, places them onto the ground, and hums with satisfaction.

          “There. It is fortunate that I thought to bring my own. I hope you enjoy them, ruffled and imperfect they may be.”

          Silence falls once more. Cerulean eyes travel from the grave to the horizon beyond it. The sun had long since begun its descent, evidenced by the streaks of gold and orange that painted the sea. Nighttime would soon be upon them, and with it, the darkness. She sighs.

          “Mother... I cannot stay with you for long. Truthfully, I am only here for my staff. Times have changed...” her voice wavers, “They have changed so very drastically, mother, and so I am forced to claim what was mine once more.”

           Regret finds its way to the pits of her stomach, fluttering like newly-emerging butterflies, fresh from their cocoons. She cannot help but feel a small pang of sadness at the idea that she came to her mother not to pay respects, but to ready herself for war. What a cruel world to live in, seeking steel and iron before seeking her mother.

          “...You understand, do you not?” she asks, traces of doubt lined in the wary edge of her tone, “You have always taught me to swim along the current... to not fight the tide, but to flow with it, and to be satisfied with where it takes you.”

          Her speaking soon fades. Her mother was strong; stronger than she could ever hope to be. Of course she would understand. Still, the melancholy lingers regardless. The Caduceus Staff’s weight was a burden she often found heavy to bear; little girls were not meant to wield staffs so young. Little girls were not meant to thread life into the dead; to weave broken flesh like crowns of gladiolus; to water the ground with their blood and watch the rosebushes bloom from the newly-baptized soil. Little girls were not meant to be strong; or sainted; or mature; or ashamed.

                                                        ( little girls were supposed to have their mothers. )

          But she is a little girl no more. No, she is a saint; and a student; and a healer; and mature. She is Flayn and she has outgrown the need for her mother. She is Flayn and she has gotten used the shock of death. She is Flayn, sometimes Cethleann, and she has grown enough to fit the hilt of the Caduceus between her palms comfortably, and to accept her saintdom without complaint. 

         The girl sighs, her exhale heavy, before nodding firmly.

          “Ah, but there is no use for grief. I suppose the tides have brought me here today— back to you, for a fleeting moment, and back to my duty to my staff. And I suppose it is those very tides that will soon take me away from you as well.”

          The girl-saint rises, dips her head low in a deep bow to her mother’s gravestone, and walks over to a small lockbox near the monument’s back to acquire up the very thing she had been seeking; the Caduceus Staff, wrapped in a linen so as to keep it immaculate and free from grime. She tucks it gently beneath her arm and turns to leave, but not without facing her mother one last time.

          “Well, I shall be going now. I hope our future meetings may last longer, and I hope I may give you your flowers alongside father next time.”

FLAYN HAS ACQUIRED: THE CADUCEUS STAFF!

[4eternal-life]

MANIFESTO OF FUTURISM  /The Futurist Manifesto

by  Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, february 20th, 1909

We want to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and rashness.

The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity and revolt.

Literature has up to now magnified pensive immobility, ecstasy and slumber. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, the perilous leap, the slap and the blow with the fist.

We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing automobile with its bonnet adorned with great tubes like serpents with explosive breath ... a roaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.

We want to sing the man at the wheel, the ideal axis of which crosses the earth, itself hurled along its orbit.

The poet must spend himself with warmth, glamour and prodigality to increase the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.

Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has not an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent assault on the forces of the unknown, to force them to bow before man.

We are on the extreme promontory of the centuries! What is the use of looking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shutters of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed.

We want to glorify war — the only cure for the world — militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of the anarchists, the beautiful ideas which kill, and contempt for woman.

We want to demolish museums and libraries, fight morality, feminism and all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice.

We will sing of the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure and revolt; the multi-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals: the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the workshops beneath their violent electric moons: the gluttonous railway stations devouring smoking serpents; factories suspended from the clouds by the thread of their smoke; bridges with the leap of gymnasts flung across the diabolic cutlery of sunny rivers: adventurous steamers sniffing the horizon; great-breasted locomotives, puffing on the rails like enormous steel horses with long tubes for bridle, and the gliding flight of aeroplanes whose propeller sounds like the flapping of a flag and the applause of enthusiastic crowds

We have been up all night, my friends and I, beneath mosque lamps whose brass cupolas are bright as our souls, because like them they were illuminated by the internal glow of electric hearts. And trampling underfoot our native sloth on opulent Persian carpets, we have been discussing right up to the limits of logic and scrawling the paper with demented writing.

Our hearts were filled with an immense pride at feeling ourselves standing quite alone, like lighthouses or like the sentinels in an outpost, facing the army of enemy stars encamped in their celestial bivouacs. Alone with the engineers in the infernal stokeholes of great ships, alone with the black spirits which rage in the belly of rogue locomotives, alone with the drunkards beating their wings against the walls.

Then we were suddenly distracted by the rumbling of huge double decker trams that went leaping by, streaked with light like the villages celebrating their festivals, which the Po in flood suddenly knocks down and uproots, and, in the rapids and eddies of a deluge, drags down to the sea.

Then the silence increased. As we listened to the last faint prayer of the old canal and the crumbling of the bones of the moribund palaces with their green growth of beard, suddenly the hungry automobiles roared beneath our windows.

"Come, my friends!" I said. "Let us go! At last Mythology and the mystic cult of the ideal have been left behind. We are going to be present at the birth of the centaur and we shall soon see the first angels fly! We must break down the gates of life to test the bolts and the padlocks! Let us go! Here is they very first sunrise on earth! Nothing equals the splendor of its red sword which strikes for the first time in our millennial darkness."

We went up to the three snorting machines to caress their breasts. I lay along mine like a corpse on its bier, but I suddenly revived again beneath the steering wheel — a guillotine knife — which threatened my stomach. A great sweep of madness brought us sharply back to ourselves and drove us through the streets, steep and deep, like dried up torrents. Here and there unhappy lamps in the windows taught us to despise our mathematical eyes. "Smell," I exclaimed, "smell is good enough for wild beasts!"

And we hunted, like young lions, death with its black fur dappled with pale crosses, who ran before us in the vast violet sky, palpable and living.

And yet we had no ideal Mistress stretching her form up to the clouds, nor yet a cruel Queen to whom to offer our corpses twisted into the shape of Byzantine rings! No reason to die unless it is the desire to be rid of the too great weight of our courage!

We drove on, crushing beneath our burning wheels, like shirt-collars under the iron, the watch dogs on the steps of the houses.

Death, tamed, went in front of me at each corner offering me his hand nicely, and sometimes lay on the ground with a noise of creaking jaws giving me velvet glances from the bottom of puddles.

"Let us leave good sense behind like a hideous husk and let us hurl ourselves, like fruit spiced with pride, into the immense mouth and breast of the world! Let us feed the unknown, not from despair, but simply to enrich the unfathomable reservoirs of the Absurd!"

As soon as I had said these words, I turned sharply back on my tracks with the mad intoxication of puppies biting their tails, and suddenly there were two cyclists disapproving of me and tottering in front of me like two persuasive but contradictory reasons. Their stupid swaying got in my way. What a bore! Pouah! I stopped short, and in disgust hurled myself — vlan! — head over heels in a ditch.

Oh, maternal ditch, half full of muddy water! A factory gutter! I savored a mouthful of strengthening muck which recalled the black teat of my Sudanese nurse!

As I raised my body, mud-spattered and smelly, I felt the red hot poker of joy deliciously pierce my heart. A crowd of fishermen and gouty naturalists crowded terrified around this marvel. With patient and tentative care they raised high enormous grappling irons to fish up my car, like a vast shark that had run aground. It rose slowly leaving in the ditch, like scales, its heavy coachwork of good sense and its upholstery of comfort.

We thought it was dead, my good shark, but I woke it with a single caress of its powerful back, and it was revived running as fast as it could on its fins.

Then with my face covered in good factory mud, covered with metal scratches, useless sweat and celestial grime, amidst the complaint of staid fishermen and angry naturalists, we dictated our first will and testament to all the living men on earth.

It is in Italy that we are issuing this manifesto of ruinous and incendiary violence, by which we today are founding Futurism, because we want to deliver Italy from its gangrene of professors, archaeologists, tourist guides and antiquaries.

Italy has been too long the great second-hand market. We want to get rid of the innumerable museums which cover it with innumerable cemeteries.

Museums, cemeteries! Truly identical in their sinister juxtaposition of bodies that do not know each other. Public dormitories where you sleep side by side for ever with beings you hate or do not know. Reciprocal ferocity of the painters and sculptors who murder each other in the same museum with blows of line and color. To make a visit once a year, as one goes to see the graves of our dead once a year, that we could allow! We can even imagine placing flowers once a year at the feet of the Gioconda! But to take our sadness, our fragile courage and our anxiety to the museum every day, that we cannot admit! Do you want to poison yourselves? Do you want to rot?

What can you find in an old picture except the painful contortions of the artist trying to break uncrossable barriers which obstruct the full expression of his dream?

To admire an old picture is to pour our sensibility into a funeral urn instead of casting it forward with violent spurts of creation and action. Do you want to waste the best part of your strength in a useless admiration of the past, from which you will emerge exhausted, diminished, trampled on?

Indeed daily visits to museums, libraries and academies (those cemeteries of wasted effort, calvaries of crucified dreams, registers of false starts!) is for artists what prolonged supervision by the parents is for intelligent young men, drunk with their own talent and ambition.

For the dying, for invalids and for prisoners it may be all right. It is, perhaps, some sort of balm for their wounds, the admirable past, at a moment when the future is denied them. But we will have none of it, we, the young, strong and living Futurists!

Let the good incendiaries with charred fingers come! Here they are! Heap up the fire to the shelves of the libraries! Divert the canals to flood the cellars of the museums! Let the glorious canvases swim ashore! Take the picks and hammers! Undermine the foundation of venerable towns!

The oldest among us are not yet thirty years old: we have therefore at least ten years to accomplish our task. When we are forty let younger and stronger men than we throw us in the waste paper basket like useless manuscripts! They will come against us from afar, leaping on the light cadence of their first poems, clutching the air with their predatory fingers and sniffing at the gates of the academies the good scent of our decaying spirits, already promised to the catacombs of the libraries.

But we shall not be there. They will find us at last one winter's night in the depths of the country in a sad hangar echoing with the notes of the monotonous rain, crouched near our trembling aeroplanes, warming our hands at the wretched fire which our books of today will make when they flame gaily beneath the glittering flight of their pictures.

They will crowd around us, panting with anguish and disappointment, and exasperated by our proud indefatigable courage, will hurl themselves forward to kill us, with all the more hatred as their hearts will be drunk with love and admiration for us. And strong healthy Injustice will shine radiantly from their eyes. For art can only be violence, cruelty, injustice.

The oldest among us are not yet thirty, and yet we have already wasted treasures, treasures of strength, love, courage and keen will, hastily, deliriously, without thinking, with all our might, till we are out of breath.

Look at us! We are not out of breath, our hearts are not in the least tired. For they are nourished by fire, hatred and speed! Does this surprise you? it is because you do not even remember being alive! Standing on the world's summit, we launch once more our challenge to the stars!

Your objections? All right! I know them! Of course! We know just what our beautiful false intelligence affirms: "We are only the sum and the prolongation of our ancestors," it says. Perhaps! All right! What does it matter? But we will not listen! Take care not to repeat those infamous words! Instead, lift up your head!

Standing on the world's summit we launch once again our insolent challenge to the stars!

[damienthepious]

time 2 be emotionally fraught baybeeeeee happy LKT!

Going Through Changes, Ripping Out Pages (chapter 10)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, (uhhhhh sorta), Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (WE WILL GET THERE…… EVENTUALLY)

Summary: Lord Arum wakes to discover that some things have changed while he slept. Namely, there is a human in his bed.

Chapter Summary: Damien tests his theory.

Chapter Notes: inconsistent chapter length be damned!!! i do what i want! [kicks desk] anyway happy LKT, i love youu

~

They make poor progress with their research, that morning. Arum is-

He is clearly acting grumpier than he feels, a defensive layer of prickliness that Rilla really isn't surprised by, but she suspects that the lizard slept far less than he implied, too. He looks shadowed and tense in a way that reminds her distinctly and unpleasantly of how he looked the first time she stayed here in the Keep, and she doesn't think that's just because that's basically the mindset that he's in. She knows how his tail coils when he's far too tired, by now.

A lot of the problem with their research is that monsters seem to keep their methods of creating curses pretty damn close to the chest, and Arum himself isn't really in the business. His creations have always been a lot more physical. "Practical," in his words, though Rilla quietly disagrees that a decent chunk of his nonsense projects are practical.

Arum knows a few ways to get rid of hexes and jinxes- ritual words, ceremonies of cleansing, magic potions, the sorts of things that usually frustrate Rilla out of her mind with their inconsistency. Rilla's frustration doesn't much matter, though, because Arum is convinced that none of the above would be effective against a curse like this anyway. A magical-herb-infused bath might knock out some minor blight, but this? It's too deep.

... They do test a few smaller ideas anyway, if only to see if they might weaken whatever it is that's locking Arum's memories away (none of them say, out loud, the possibility that the memories are gone, not just inaccessible), but after each minor test Arum only sags further and shakes his head.

By midday they're all... disheartened, to use a Damien word. Arum more than her and Damien, if Rilla's read is correct. Again- it really doesn't help that he's so obviously exhausted. Damien meets Rilla's eyes over the small lunch the Keep brings for them (it's been picking out meals that it knows are each of their favorites, Rilla is sure that it's deliberate- she thinks she oughta take an aside with the Keep later today, thank it a bit more directly, check in to make sure it's doing alright, considering-), and Rilla knows he's thinking of their conversation this morning. Rilla still isn't enthusiastic about the idea, it seems dangerous, for a number of reasons, but-

Arum pulled Damien back to them with a duel, didn't he?

And, frankly, it's not like Rilla has any better ideas. None that don't involve a near-impossible infiltration and- well. Murder, theoretically.

She catches Damien's eye again as they clean up their bowls, and she gives him a nod, and as much of a smile as she can manage.

Damien nods in return, his expression nervous but steady, and then he takes a deep breath.

"I may have an idea," Damien says, and Rilla's heart thuds at the way Arum's face flashes with hope before he buries it in a frown. "Would you mind," he continues, "if we were to retreat to the greenhouse, to discuss it?"

Arum's frown deepens, clearly unhappy not to just out with it right now, but he turns and gestures with a hand for the Keep to open the way.

~

"A duel," Arum drawls, and the little knight does a poor job of hiding the way Arum's tone makes him wince. Or, perhaps he did not intend to hide it at all. "So you wish to do precisely what the Senate wanted us to, then?"

"By no means," the knight says, jerking his head sharply. "It may be a foolish idea-"

"The reasoning is sound," Amaryllis interrupts, firm, and the knight glances towards her with a grateful smile.

"Well- I hope so. I thought, perhaps- we duel often, you see, to keep our skills sharp, to settle inconsequential matters, to-" he cuts himself off, his cheeks darkening, and then he shakes his head. "So- so I thought, perhaps, that if we cannot strike upon a magical means of weakening this affliction, then maybe there could be a more physical method. If your body remembers- remembers warmth enough to trouble your sleep when you are lacking, then... perhaps your body may remember the strain of our physical activities together as well."

Arum frowns, both grateful and furious with the poet for avoiding the mention of what precise heat his body remembers. It is embarrassing in the extreme, of course, but it is almost more embarrassing that Damien seems to know to avoid specificity in the matter. "So you believe that we may... knock some sense into me, as it were."

Amaryllis chokes a laugh, which is oddly gratifying. Damien, for his part, looks mournful again, wide-eyed and worried.

"I have no desire to hurt you," he insists.

"And yet you wish to fight."

"To duel," Damien says. "To spar, if that phrasing is more... acceptable."

"We do this often?" Arum says, doing nothing to hide his skepticism, and then he eyes Damien, unarmed as he is. Arum, on the other hand, is armed. Excepting his time in their room the night before, his knives have been carefully strapped to his person since the Keep allowed Damien to leave, the first morning they woke together. He... believes that they are earnest, now, yes, but he is not so foolish as to leave himself without defense.

"Like, kind of annoyingly often," Amaryllis says, leaning against a thick tree trunk and crossing her arms over her chest, and the poet's lips press together in something of a pout. "I don't really get it, but yeah."

"It-" Damien furrows his brow, and then he sighs. "If you think the idea ridiculous, or if- if you do not trust that I will not hurt you- if you do not agree, Arum, then obviously we will not try it. We can find another thread to pull, for the afternoon. I only thought-"

"I am unconcerned that you will harm me, little poet," Arum says, halfway to a snarl, and Damien stills, his lips pressing together in an expression that Arum cannot quite read. "And I do think the idea is ridiculous. However..." he growls, looking away for a moment. However. The story they and the Keep have told him piecemeal over the last day-and-half still spins uncertainly in Arum's mind, the idea that he and this slight, soft-eyed little human have clashed steel before and matched evenly-

Arum still cannot quite accept it. He believes them, trusts the pain in their eyes if nothing else, but the idea that he would have lost to so gentle a creature- it simply does not make sense. A duel, a contest of skill, now- Arum cannot say if he is at all convinced it may do anything to loosen the grip of this curse, but nevertheless Arum is tempted. If only, he thinks, for the chance to prove himself.

"However?" Sir Damien echoes, softly, and Arum snaps back to himself.

"If the both of you think it may have a chance..." he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "It is worth exploring, I suppose."

"Again," Amaryllis says, lifting a pointed hand, "it makes sense, but I don't think we should-"

"Get our hopes up," Arum finishes. "Obviously."

Amaryllis' lip curls up, not quite a smile, and then she shoots a look towards Damien. "Be careful, remember," she says sternly, and the poet presses a hand over his heart.

"I swear," he says. "Always."

The look on Amaryllis' face at that leads Arum to suspect that the poet is not, in fact, always careful. Arum frowns.

"How shall we begin, then? I imagine you suggested that we come to the greenhouse because it will give us ample space, correct?"

"Yes." Damien gives a small sort of smile. "The game is to try to pin each other. Despite Rilla's- frequent suggestions, we have... not yet transitioned to sparring with practice weaponry. Bladed combat is your preferred, and I am rather flexible, so typically we duel with knives." He pauses. "Yours, if you would be willing to allow me the use of one. Otherwise- well, I could ask the Keep to allow me to step into Rilla's hut for a moment to retrieve-"

"We may as well do this properly," Arum says, shrugging, and then he draws one of his knives and, on a strange sort of whim, whips it out to sink into the bark of the tree beside Damien's head. The knight does not flinch, surprisingly, though he does blink as the Keep warbles a chastising note. "Oh be quiet," Arum mutters. "The bark is thick, it will be fine."

Damien turns, carefully pulling the blade back out, his fingers curling around the hilt with a reverent sort of delicacy.

Arum unstraps one set of hilts, hanging them from another tree nearby, then draws his remaining blade, holding it unthreateningly at his side as he spares a look towards Amaryllis.

"Your priorities fascinate me, just so you are aware," he mutters. "Though you did not deign to ask, I will assure you as well that I will exercise caution. I will not cause the poet any undue harm."

Amaryllis presses her lips together, nearly smiling. "Appreciate that," she says after a moment, her tone very strange, and then she shoots Damien a look.

The poet shakes his head. "Keep, if you would?"

Arum blinks, but the Keep sings a note of acknowledgment and shutters the skylights slightly, dimming the greenhouse to a more muted palette.

"So no one may claim that the sun were in his eyes," Damien explains with a wry smile, and Arum wonders briefly which of them that particular amendment were made in deference to. "Is there anything else you need? A moment to collect yourself, or-"

"I am fully prepared to best you," Arum snaps, unsettled by the gentle concern in the poet's voice. "Are you ready?"

The poet inhales very slowly, exhales tranquility, my Saint in a breath, and then his lips tilt into a crooked smile.

"I am," he says.

"You are remarkably amenable to the situation," Arum says slowly, stalking closer, "considering that I did, in fact, nearly kill you yesterday morning. I feel I should give you another guarantee, for the sake of your comfort. I will not hurt you beyond what is necessary to beat you. You need not fear for your life."

"You sound so utterly certain," Damien says, a grin flashing across his face despite the pain in his eyes. "So confident that you will be the one of us who needs show mercy."

"I've never lost, little poet," Arum growls, stiff, and Damien glances for half a moment towards Rilla, and then he laughs.

"Ah, I am terribly sorry to disabuse you of that notion," he says, and Arum's scales prickle at the indulgent tone in his voice, "but that is no longer quite true, I should say."

Arum pauses, stewing in that assertion for a moment before he retorts. "He may have," he rumbles, attempting to smooth over his discomfort with cool, patient anger. "I have not."

"Hm," Damien says. "Yes, not to your memory, I suppose. I am sorry as well that we shall be so unevenly matched in this endeavor, friend monster."

"I will not tie two hands behind my back if you think that will make us more even, littl-"

"Oh," Damien laughs, "no, rather the opposite, in fact. It might be rather more fair if we gave you all the rest of your knives to match my one, I think, but I imagine that may injure your pride rather more than you would allow."

Arum pulls his head back, his lip curling over his teeth in a shocked sort of fury. "What?"

"I've a rather distinct advantage, I'm afraid."

Arum's eyes scrape down Damien's body, his lithe frame, his loose, unprepared stance, the knife held so casually in one delicate hand, and then raise up again to his smug smile. Arrogant thing, he thinks, hissing disdainfully. In need of a lesson. Arum should end this foolish little duel before it begins.

Arum darts forward, faster than a human should be able to see, but-

But Damien moves, a breath before Arum does, backstepping around Arum's lunge without even raising his knife.

"Ah," he says calmly as Arum exhales in shock. "So, we have begun, then? Very well, Lord Arum."

In the heartbeat it takes for Arum to regain his senses, the knight shifts his stance and raises his arm, scraping the length of his blade along Arum's own in a fluid motion, and as Arum flinches back Damien takes a calmer step away and assumes a stance-

A stance that tickles familiar in the back of Arum's mind.

A distraction, whether intentional or not, and Arum raises his blade again just in time to block Damien's first quick, testing strike. Arum growls instinctively, and the knight's mouth curves into a small, strange smile as he swings his knife again, an elegant practiced arc, and Arum blocks, catching the blades together.

"I've had quite a bit of practice," Damien says evenly, over the light scraping of metal on metal, "dueling with you, friend lizard." He angles his body, moving his wrist in such a way that he uses their clashing blades to draw Arum's face closer to his own, a molten heat in his eyes that Arum cannot seem to look away from. "Perhaps I should go easy on you, let you warm up a little."

Damien disengages, spinning as he steps away again, his footwork light as the wind, and it is not until he is no longer so close, until he is no longer invading Arum's space with his heat and his musical voice, it is not until he is out of reach that Arum realizes what the poet actually said. He snarls, sputtering as he brandishes his knife between them.

"Go easy on me? Arrogant- absurd, I do not need such practice to simply skewer such a foolish creature-"

"Go on and prove it, then," Damien says, his voice warm and unbothered.

Arum snarls again, crouching lower and watching the human step carefully, edging in an arc around Arum, and then Arum spins, whipping with his tail-

Sir Damien jumps over the tail with ample time, and he does not pause in the descent, swinging his arm down, the blade flashing, and Arum barely deflects the blow, and he needs to roll away to avoid Damien's next two quick strikes.

"Ah, yes," Damien grins wide as he continues to flash his wrist out, relentless as Arum blocks and parries and skips back, trying to get out of range. "It took some time to learn to anticipate that one, I will admit. You've certainly put me on my back more than once with that trick- though you've since needed to find means a bit more clever-"

"Must you-" Arum hisses, ducking, spinning, this little knight is quick, not as fast as Arum in technicality but with each movement Arum makes, Damien aims a blow towards whatever new opening Arum makes. "Must you chatter so, even-" another gasp, and then Arum leaps aside, putting enough space between Sir Damien and himself that he can catch his breath, can manage a sneer. "Not even in this do you cease prattling?"

"If I have breath enough to speak," Damien says, twirling Arum's knife absently between his fingers, "why should I not? I'm quite enjoying my time."

The knight's cheeks are flushed, just barely dark, but his aforementioned breath is even and easy and Arum hisses to hide his own gasping. "Are you?" Arum growls, and something in his stomach twists at Damien's warm smile.

"I always do," he says with a shrug, and then he darts forward, his next set of strikes less swift, but more forceful, more precise. "The exhilaration, the adrenaline of combat, but with the assurance of safety, the knowledge that it will end in laughter, rather than blood- oh, yes, I always take a rather great deal of pleasure in our time together, Lord Arum."

Arum tries to focus on his movements, on holding his ground enough that Damien cannot begin to crowd him backwards again. His words are- distracting, however.

"Is this- your tactic, then? Chattering away, sapping focus-"

"If you cannot focus on your blade and my words at the same time, Lord Arum-"

Arum swings his knife out viciously at that, and Damien grins hard as he spins out of the way. "Ah, there you are-"

His words are distracting- Arum steps back, steps back again, knows that he is losing ground. Damien lashes out, a strike Arum realizes he will not be able to counter, and the lizard throws himself backwards instead, unaware enough of his surroundings that he does not notice the tree behind him until his shoulder collides with it painfully.

"Ah-"

"Oh," Damien pauses, his eyes widening in concern, "oh- are you alright? I didn't mean-"

"Don't patronize me," Arum snaps, ignoring the bruising sting and darting forward. He swings his arm, their blades ringing against each other once, twice, and then on the third blow Damien pushes back enough that they are pressed close, their metal meeting between them with the edges of their blades scraping in a discordant song.

Damien twists his blade oddly against Arum's own, catching the hilts together and wrenching Arum's wrist at an odd enough angle that the lizard needs to lean his body forward to avoid dropping the hilt in pain.

Damien is too close, suddenly, pressing forward at the same time that Arum does, and then he maneuvers his leg just as Arum tries to step away, hooking his ankle behind Arum's and simply allowing Arum's own attempted movement to unsteady him, making his tail swing in a wild arc as he raises his arms to attempt to rebalance, but then-

Damien places his free hand, palm open, directly over Arum's heart, and pushes.

Arum's back hits the dirt before he fully knows what happened, breath escaping in a rush and his knife flying aside with a dull bouncing thud against the ground, and then Damien drops over him, knees on either side of his waist, pinning his lower arms against him as the knight presses his free arm over Arum's sternum like the trunk of a tree, holding him down.

Arum can hardly breathe, not from the pressure but from the surprise, from the rush, from the heat of Sir Damien crowding so exquisitely close, and the knight's eyes are bright and focused and intense. Then, Sir Damien raises his other hand.

The one with which he holds Lord Arum's knife.

Damien swings the blade down, and Arum remembers with self-loathing viciousness the burnt letter from the Senate, remembers the hateful whispery certainty of the hand which wrote the human infection will destroy you-

Arum closes his eyes.

He feels the rush of air on the scales of his face, hears a dull thunk, but-

No pain. No bloom of heat, no pulse of awareness of the blade plunging into his shoulder, his chest, his neck, and his eyes flutter back open in confusion to see how in the name of the Universe the human managed to miss-

The knife is planted in the dirt beside Arum's head; he can see the reflection of his own wide eye in the sheen of the blade. Damien is much closer now- necessary, of course, considering his grip on the hilt, but- but Arum can feel the way his chest moves with his panting breaths, can taste the adrenaline and sweat on the air, can hear Damien's heart, pounding steady, a sturdier beat than the frantic race of his own. The poet stares down at him, his eyes hot and hypnotic, and whatever biting comment Arum intended to make about Damien's aim dies on his tongue before he manages to open his mouth.

"Well, well," the poet says, and his voice is a low, sonorous, strange drawl as he leans heavy over Arum, one hand planted palm-flat to the dirt next to his face, the other (the hand that planted the knife on the other side) trailing up his shoulder, towards his neck. "It looks like the smallest trap is the one you finally fell for."

"I-" Arum blinks. "What?"

"And now," Damien continues, his sharp eyes flicking between Arum's own, "here you are, pinned beneath my claws..."

Damien's hand trails up his neck, his expression far more focused, now, than it had been during the fight, and then he grips Arum's throat, firm and possessive but not hard, not impeding his breath, and Arum- Arum's heart rushes prey-quick even as he understands what Damien is doing.

The words- the nonsense words, not nonsense at all- they must be what Arum himself had said, during one of their duels. Coming from this fierce, surprisingly skillful little creature, they make Arum feel flushed with heat that seems to pulse out from every single inch of his body where Damien touches him.

"A-ah," Arum manages, but not much besides. He cannot even convince himself to struggle against Damien's weight, Damien's hands.

Damien's expression shifts when he realizes that Arum has caught on. He leans closer, his grip on Arum's throat pressing gently to tilt his head to the side, letting him lean closer to murmur in Arum's ear.

"I love to make you panic," he breathes, and Arum flexes all his claws at once. "The sound of your pounding heart makes my stomach growl."

Arum-

Laughs. He cannot quite help himself, despite the fact that his heart is, in fact, pounding, and Damien blinks in surprise.

"Did I- did I really- I said that to you?" he manages, still feeling too hot, too crowded. Sir Damien is... very close.

The poet manages something like a smile, then, though he does not look happy. Arum imagines that he had been hoping... well, hoping that his words would trigger what the physicality of their duel did not. "You did," he says quietly, and his grip on Arum's neck softens, his thumb brushing along Arum's jaw in a way that makes his scales tingle with electricity. "Before you decided not to kill me."

Arum... is not quite certain, about that. Arum knows himself- likes to think he knows himself, at the very least, knows the layers of his lies, and if Damien's words are truly an echo of Arum's in the past, then Arum does not think he could have more obviously begged the knight to acknowledge him, to banter back, if he had outright said so. Could not have said that he preferred Damien alive more blatantly if he had presented his own neck for the blade instead. Perhaps he had not admitted it even to himself, yet, but-

"Ridiculous," he mutters, low and less biting than he would prefer.

Damien leans back, just slightly, his tawny eyes flicking between Arum's own, and his expression softens from his strained smile, going earnest and mournful and strange. He hesitates, biting his lip, and then he lifts his hand from Arum's jaw, drifting his fingers up the scales of Arum's cheek. His touch still feels- hot, sparking, as if the contact were prompting a small fissure of magic at the point they meet, and Arum holds his breath so that he does not gasp, instead.

Damien swallows, his heart beating a little faster, and then his lips part.

"Do you want... to try this?" Damien murmurs, his voice thick with sorrow and desire. "To try... us?"

Arum's breath catches in his throat, and he cannot seem to tear his eyes from Damien's-

He realizes, after a heartbeat, that he does not want to.

"I..." Arum swallows, tries to feel anything besides desperate and wanting. He tries, but- but their eyes, their voices and their tears and their hands- the sound of their hearts- the way the keep reaching for him- "I- I do. I do, Damien, I-"

Arum leans up. He feels- cracked through, his defenses tattered beyond salvage, if they want him- if they truly want him- Arum wants to try, to see if he is capable of earning the loyalty and affection these creatures continue to offer, again and again despite how viciously Arum pushes their hands aside. He wants to. He leans up, because he wants Damien to lean down.

Damien's eyes widen, his breath hitching, his muscles tensing, and Arum realizes with a sensation akin to his stomach falling through the floor that Damien's words were not the true question he assumed they were, not now, not in this moment, they were only-

Another echo. Another attempt to trigger a memory that Arum simply does not have. He was not asking- he does not want-

He does not want me, Arum thinks. He wants back only what he once had.

Arum drops his head, his horns pressing indents into the dirt beneath him, and he closes his eyes. Foolishness- foolishness he cannot even deny, now, and for what? For Damien to flinch away from him, to furrow his brow and pull back-

"Off," Arum manages through his teeth. "You've won."

"Arum, I'm-"

"Get off," he snarls, and when he feels Damien flinch above him he adds, quietly, "please."

The knight pulls away. Arum feels cold, and he hears Damien's feet scuffing in the dirt as he moves to stand again, and Arum forces himself to open his eyes again. He curls up, rolling to sit so he can rub at his shoulder for a moment, pretending to test the bruise to give himself a moment to breathe. His eyes flick up despite himself, just as Amaryllis reaches to grip Damien's wrist, squeezing with her lip twitching in a small, comforting smile, and some of the churning despair on Damien's face eases, and then they both look towards him, and Arum drops his eyes back to the dirt with his insides burning, and he hates-

He wants-

He digs his claws into the dirt and then shoves himself to stand. He brushes off his cape, and reaches down to retrieve his blades to slip back into their sheaths.

"Well," Arum says. "I suppose we should be grateful that none of us got our hopes up."

~

[End Notes: I really don't know very much about How Fighting Works, forgive me <3 ]

[sockablock]

(WELP I spent all day writing this, Campaign 1 Soulmate AU, where your soulmate’s last words to you are written on your arm, I’m sorry in advance for any sadness or emotions, MAJOR C1 spoilers below, read on AO3, enjoy!)

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Their Last Words Are With Us

“They’re your soulmarks, dears,” their mother explained, kneeling by the side of the clear-running stream and running water over their tiny arms. “They’re special words that your soulmate will say to you, one day.”

“Soulmate?” Vax echoed as his sister inspected the faint scrawling on her arm. “What’s that?”

“Somebody very important to you,” Elaina said. “Someone who was meant to be by your side, always. As a friend, or as a wife or husband, who will always be there for you.”

“Like Vax?” Vex asked. “Is he mine?”

“Perhaps, dearest.”

“Who’s yours?” Vax asked. “Is it dad? Do you have his words?”

Elaina only hesitated slightly before smiling and saying, “It’s possible, dear. You never really know who the words belong to, until you do.”

Vax frowned slightly at that. “Huh?”

Vex held her arm out for her mother. “What do mine say, Mum?”

Elaina did not answer, instead grinned and poured water over both of the twins’ heads, distracting them and sending them into a fit of giggles and splashing.

Then she finished their baths, wrapped them up in the same old fabrics she always used, and led them back, one holding each hand, to their small home in Byroden.

-------------------------------------------

Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan learned many things as they grew older. They learned to mend holes in shirts and how to thread a seam that would not show. They learned to coax seeds into the earth and when to water the tomatoes and how to strip away the potato skins and the names of the farmers and hunters that kindly stopped by to bring meat and grains to their small family. They learned, through trial and error, to strike stones together until sparks flew and to sprinkle dry grass and small twigs over the logs in the stone-lined pit to keep the flames going. They learned the names of the birds that lingered in the trees and dotted the fields. They learned to catch fish, giggling madly and stomping through the river the whole time, from the patient, grey-haired man that lived a few homes down. They learned to watch the clouds for rain, to bundle close to each other when the snow came, to stay brave during thunder and to drink in the sunlight under a sky that always felt like home.

But they did not learn to read. In their small, dirt-dusted, seldom-travelled village, living with their mother in a simple, one-room shack, there was no need. And with no way to know what their soulmarks said, eventually the bright curiosity faded away into occasional cursory glances, with the firm knowledge that, wherever it may be, their soulmates were out there somewhere. They were loved, and meant to be loved. And for the twins, raven-haired children gleefully running barefoot through the grass, as their mother looked on, that was enough.

-------------------------------------------

“Elaina never gave you any schooling at all?”

Syldor—their father—stood behind the beautifully-carved desk in his office, all high-windows and plush carpeting, rich green curtains pulled aside to reveal a gorgeous view of the bustling streets of Syngorn below. Warm light flooded into the room, and the sun shone brightly, but the temperature was cold under his icy tone, laced with disgust and disappointment.

They wanted to go home.

“She taught us a lot of things,” started Vax, “like how to count and how to sing and when to plant the—”

Syldor held up a hand, and Vax went silent. “But no arithmetic, no history, no geography, no etiquette?”

“No, father,” said Vex.

“Do you know how to read?”

The twins exchanged glances.

“No, father,” Vex said again.

He rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “Then you’ll start with private tutors, until you’ve caught up to your peers. I can’t have you interacting with other children until you have. This is ridiculous.”

-------------------------------------------

“A Treatise on the Advancement of Elven Culture,” read Vex, clearly enunciating her syllables. “Written by Onvyr Zalim, Senior Scholar of the Lyceum, 549 P.D.”

“Good,” said her tutor, nodding his head. “Your father will be pleased to hear of your progress. Now, here is the copy in Elvish, I want you to have read through this one by tomorrow, and we shall compare the two for quality.”

-------------------------------------------

“You know what it says now, right?” Vax asked one night after sneaking down the hall to his sister’s room and climbing onto the bed with her. “You’ve looked at it now, right?”

She nodded her head. Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Want to trade?” Vax asked. “You can read mine if I can read yours.”

“You’re in mine, I think,” she grinned, rolling up her sleeve. “Look.”

Vax pulled his arm free as well and brought it closer to his sister.

Under the moonlight, the curls of text across pale skin almost seemed to glow.

Vex grinned. “Aw, Scrawny, that’s so sweet.”

Vax tapped his sister’s arm. “Yours is as well,” he said, “but is it weird that they mention me too?”

Vex shrugged. “I plan on you bring a big part of my life, brother. I don’t think that’s strange at all. Maybe in the future you’ll be friends with them.”

“I’d better be,” grinned Vax. “Otherwise you’ve got to change soulmates.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him out of the bed, and he lay on the floor giggling for some time before picking himself up.

“Good night, sister,” he smiled. “Don’t let the elves bite.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

-------------------------------------------

They were dining together tonight, Syldor seated at the head of the table and the twins at his left and right, across from one another. He was pleased at their academic progress, he said, even surprised at how quickly they were learning. They tried not to take offense at that, even when he added, with stomach-curdling self-satisfaction, that it must have been his blood finally showing itself in the twins.

After that, the table grew relatively silent, until Vex steeled herself and took a deep breath.

“Father,” she asked tentatively, “do you have a soulmark?”

He was silent for a moment. Then he gave a slight nod. “I do.”

“Could we know what it says?” she asked. “Is it…is it words our mother said to you?”

He sighed deeply. “I doubt it, Vex’ahlia. She never spoke elvish to me before. And, regardless, I would not know if they belonged to her until I died.”

Vax inhaled sharply, almost choking on his dinner. “What?” he asked. “What does that mean, father?”

Syldor put his fork down and gave both twins an incredulous look. “Did Elaina teach you nothing?”

They bristled at that comment, a common one in this household. Vax’s grip on his knife tightened.

Under the table, Vex kicked her brother and shook her head.

“No, father,” she said. “What is it?”

He met her curious gaze. “Soulmarks are words your fated will speak to you, you both know that, correct?”

They nodded.

“Do you know when those words will be spoken?”

-------------------------------------------

Vax collapsed onto the mattress next to his sister.

“It doesn’t have to mean that,” he said sternly. “Maybe they didn’t know it would be…it would be the end, and something happened on their way to see me.”

Vex sniffled, and wiped at the edges of her eyes. “I don’t think so, Vax. I’m…I think it does mean—”

He shook his head adamantly. “No way,” he said. “Not possible.”

Then he pressed his forehead to hers and said, “I promise, that’s not it. We’re going to get old and grey together, and we’ll always be the same age except I’m still gonna be two minutes older. That’s that, alright?”

Vex sniffed again, and tried for a smile. “Alright, brother. Alright.”

-------------------------------------------

After he left, she traced the scrawl on her arm with her finger.

I love you too, Vex’ahlia. I’ll tell your brother you said hello.

-------------------------------------------

One of the girls scoffed, her nose flaring and prim lips forming a smirk, and Vex instantly pulled her sleeve down.

“It’s not even in elvish,” the girl laughed, turning to the others. “I bet your soulmate isn’t even an elf.”

“They are,” Vex said defensively, cheeks coloring, “They are.”

“I bet he’s probably some stupid round-ear, from that dinky little town you grew up in,” giggled another. “I bet he’s poor and ugly.”

“Of course he’d be ugly,” said another, “if he’s a human.”

Vex fought for something to say. And when nothing came, she got up from the stone bench and ran to find her brother.

-------------------------------------------

“Humans’re better anyway,” said Vax loyally, hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. “Who’d want a stuffy, boring, dumb elf for a soulmate?”

They sat on one of the rooftops of the market district, watching people far below mill about under the colorful tent-tops and hanging flags and draped silks that adorned the streets. From this far up, they all looked like ants.

Vex nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “I hate this stupid city. I wish I could get out and run away and we could find our soulmates together.”

“Maybe they’ll be half-elves like us,” Vax suggested. “Maybe they’ll hate their dads just as much.”

Vex smiled. “I don’t think anyone could hate their dad as much as we do.”

He laughed. “You’re right, Stubby. That’s a good point.” Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a carefully-wrapped square, that instantly filled the air with a warm, sweet smell.

“Look what I stole today,” he said. “Here, try some, I got it for us to share.”

-------------------------------------------

Vex came back from the forest with leaves in her hair, mud on her boots.

“I’ve found the perfect path,” she said excitedly. “Did you get the weapons?”

Vax stepped away from the bed, revealing a polished wooden bow and a set of daggers. “Teachers didn’t see a thing,” he grinned, then held up a small leather pouch, jingling softly. “And Syldor didn’t see me slip into that dumb office of his either.”

She stifled a laugh. “Great. I can’t wait to get out of this fucking place.”

He picked up a dagger. “You’re in charge now, Stubby,” he said. “I don’t remember shit about living in the woods.”

-------------------------------------------

Years passed. Vox Machina, formerly known as the S.H.I.T.S., sat around a campfire somewhere on the outskirts of Whitestone, just because they could. Tomorrow they would head back to Emon, after receiving news that Sovereign Uriel would be giving an important speech in the Cloudtop District for all to attend. But, for tonight, they were camping out in the northeastern woods, just because they could.

“Even though we have a perfectly good castle, just a few miles away,” Scanlan added as he plucked idly at his lute. “Even though Percy is the Lord of Whitestone, and we just finished freeing the town from subjugation and we’re huge heroes.”

“I needed time away from there for a bit,” Percy sighed, leaning against a log. “It was too much, all at once.”

“I was only there at the end,” agreed Pike, glowing slightly in her astral form, “but it seemed pretty intense.”

“I like sleeping outside,” Grog said. “Beds never fit me right.”

“If I could make a mansion,” Scanlan grinned, waving his hands around, “I’d make you the biggest room imaginable, with the biggest bed there was. Well, maybe second-biggest room, and second-biggest bed.”

“Thanks, Scanlan.”

Keyleth idly let flames curl around her fingers, and every once in a while, would flick a spark towards the campfire. “It’s nice not having to go anywhere and do anything,” she said cheerfully. “And it’s always good to be in nature.”

Vax nodded. He was giving her small, sideways glances that Vex, perceptive as ever, absolutely noticed. A bit of inspiration hit her.

“Hey,” she said, “we’ve all known each other for a while, right?”

They all exchanged looks.

“Yes?” Scanlan agreed. “That’s true.”

She grinned enthusiastically. “So, you know what would be fun? Why don’t we all tell each other what our soulmarks say? Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

“Er…why?” Vax asked. “Why would we do that?”

Vex rolled her eyes. “We’re like a family now! And it would a good way to learn more about each other! Of course, we don’t have to if we don’t want to.”

Keyleth shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, Vex. Those…those are the last words your soulmate will say to you. Isn’t…isn’t that kind of personal?”

Pike nodded, and now Scanlan’s eyes turned to her.

Vex’s shoulders sagged. “Alright,” she sighed. “It was just a suggestion. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said Percy quickly. “Perhaps some other time? We’re all a bit worn out from the whole…rebellion, and all.” And then, with a small spark of hope at the edge of his tone, he added, “But really. Some…some other time might be nice.”

“I don’t know what mine says,” shrugged Grog from his spot on the log next to Pike. “Can’t read.”

There was a brief silence, as they digested that. Both Vex and Vax felt an odd ping of kinship.

“Do you want someone to read it for you?” Keyleth asked. “Is it in Common?”

He shook his head. “Nope, ‘s in Giant.”

Pike smiled and gave him a pat on the arm. “I’ve asked before too,” she said. “He’d rather not know.”

“Goliaths don’t really care about that sort of thing,” he said. “As long as you’ve got your herd or…or your family, or whatever, it doesn’t matter. You need more than one person in your life, right? There’s always gonna be a lotta people important to you, right? So who cares if one of them is there ‘cause of fate, and destiny and stuff. Sure, they’re special, or whatever, but they’re not the only ones.”

Another moment of silence.

“Well,” said Scanlan, leaning over and giving Grog a pat on the knee, “again, somehow, you’ve proved you’re the wisest of us all, and I’m not even sure you realize why.”

The hulking barbarian grinned back at him. “It’s m’ charm,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m just amazing.”

-------------------------------------------

A few hours later, the girls sat together on the ground in Vex’s tent.

“I just really didn’t want to do it with the guys around,” Keyleth said sheepishly. “But I want to show you two. If…if you both want to also.”

“I do,” said Pike. “Definitely.”

“Same here,” grinned Vex. “Ready?”

They both nodded, and as one, all three pulled their sleeves up and brought their arms together.

There was a pause, as they all read one another’s marks.

Pike spoke first. “That’s…very sweet, Vex.” She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have you shown it to your brother before?”

She nodded. “But don’t worry,” she added quickly, “it’s not anything to worry about. We made a promise to one another, you know? We’ll be together always.”

Keyleth gave her painfully optimistic pat on the shoulder. “Of course,” she agreed. “And besides, we’ve got the best cleric in the world. She’ll always heal us.”

Pike’s smile grew cheeky, and she stuck her thumb out. “Definitely,” she said.

Vex grinned, and looked back at the writing on Pike’s arm. “Well, at least we know one thing, now.”

“Oh?” Keyleth asked.

“Yes! We know that Pike’s soulmate definitely isn’t Scanlan. If it was, darling, you’d have a novella on your arm. Not just a sentence.”

Pike laughed. “That’s a good point,” she said. “It’d probably cover my whole body, if it were him.”

-------------------------------------------

“Our lives are fucking awful,” Vax sighed as his fingers worked through his sister’s hair. On the ground next to them rested three bright blue feathers.

“At least we are alive,” Vex pointed out. “Unlike…unlike a lot of people back h—in Emon.”

“I was starting to think of it as home too,” he said softly. “It’s…it’s been a long time since we’ve had somewhere to call home. And now it’s gone.”

Vex bit her lip. She could feel her brother beginning to sink, and she quickly reached a hand back, and wiggled her fingers. He paused in his braiding, and took it.

“I love you, brother,” she said, staring forwards. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

A small smile crept across his face. “I love you too, sis. I’m glad you’re here too.”

“This time it’s different. We have each other, and Vox Machina.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“And you’ve got Keyleth, now, don’t you?”

His grip loosened slightly. “I…I’m not sure if I do. She says…she says she loves me, but she’s worried about getting attached. She’s going through a lot right now, and there’s still her Aramente, and now the world is falling apart around us.”

“But she still loves you, right?”

“Well, yes—”

“Are you going to wait for her?”

“Well…yes.”

Vex squeezed his hand. “I’ll be here while you do then,” she said. “And once she sorts herself out and realizes she needs you, I’ll still be here.”

He squeezed back. “Alright,” he said. “Alright.”

She let go, and then grinned and said, “Come now, get back to work. My hair isn’t going to look amazing by itself.”

He laughed, and pulled gently on the braid. “You’re lucky you’re related to me,” he quipped. “Otherwise I’d never help someone as bossy as you.”

-------------------------------------------

“It’s called the Deathwalker’s Ward,” said Vex, pointing to the spot in her journal where she’d written it down. “It’s in some kind of swampy, lake area, near Vasselheim.”

“Great,” sighed Scanlan. “More camping.”

-------------------------------------------

“What happened? I was only down there for thirty seconds—”

“There, there was a trap, the armor was trapped—”

“The healing potion isn’t working, it’s not working—”

“Kashaw, can you do anything—”

“Fuck, fuck, I…”

“Percival, what happened—”

“Kashaw—”

“I-I can bring her back. I can raise the dead.”

-------------------------------------------

Later that night, Percy gazed at the words curling down his arm and thought back to the last thing Vex had said before…before.

She had smiled, radiant despite the gloom and darkness of the underwater tomb. She had been chuckling, not unkindly, at the sight of a surly, halfling woman clambering out from one of the pits.

All good, Kima!

He traced a finger over his skin. Did this mean she wasn’t his soulmate? Or did the words know she wouldn’t have been dead for long? He sighed, and shook his head. He needed to do more research on this.

-------------------------------------------

"I really am sorry, Shaun."

Gilmore gave him a sad smile. "I know you are, Vax'ildan. I am too."

"You are a beautiful, wonderful, hilarious, glorious arcane bastard. You'll find your soulmate, and he will be the most fortunate man in the world."

"Thank you, Vax. I must say, your soulmate is a rather lucky individual as well."

He pulled Gilmore into a hug. "Not as lucky as yours," he assured. "Nowhere near as lucky."

-------------------------------------------

“Percy, have you got any more of those exploding arrows for me?”

“Of course, Lady Vex’ahlia. I always have a supply on hand for my favorite Baroness.”

She grinned. “You flatter me. Am I your favorite only because we killed the rest of Whitestone’s nobility?”

“Well, technically, I suppose. But even if we hadn’t, you’d still be my favorite.”

-------------------------------------------

Vax put his hands in his head and sighed. Next to him, sitting on the bed, Keyleth watched the turmoil storming behind his eyes.

“I know,” he began, “I know with all that’s happened, between my new patron and my sister pretending to gag literally every time we attempt to share a word together, and mostly my own being fucked up in the head for weeks now, that I’ve pushed all of you away. You most of all.”

Then he turned, and met her gaze. There were tears at the corners of his eyes.

“You didn’t deserve any of that. Keyleth, I need you to know, through all of that, everything, nothing has changed about how I…” He trailed off, but then forced himself to continue. “We’ve had so many near-misses. Death is unavoidable. And it’s all the more reason for life to be lived. And it doesn’t matter to me what this is. What we call it. If you are willing to spend some time, any time, with me, then I will simply count myself lucky to have it.”

Keyleth reached over, and took his hand, never breaking eye contact. “It’s…it’s not like I’ve made myself very accessible either,” she admitted. “It’s on both of us. For…for the longest time, I was terrified that I was going to lose you. First to death, and then to the Raven Queen—which is still kind of like death—and then ultimately to yourself.”

Then she took his other hand, and squeezed them both gently. There was a smile creeping across her face. “And then…and then recently, I had an interesting talk with Pike,” Keyleth said, “and she told me something that really stood out to me. It was that some people…just have more of themselves to give. And I realized this whole time that I was afraid of losing you to a future that ultimately has not yet been written, which is stupid.”

“Maybe so,” Vax began softly, but Keyleth shook her head.

“Ultimately, you’re right.” she said firmly. “We have nothing to lose. I love you, Vax. And I’m sorry for being me, that it took me this long to say it.”

Vax sniffled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Keyleth laughed. There were tears in her eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I love you, though. That’s pretty fucking great.”

She lifted a hand up, still laughing. “That is pretty great, yeah! High five! Yeah!”

And Vax gave her a high five, and then tackled her onto the mattress, now both of them laughing like idiots and grinning madly and giggling every time they accidentally bumped into one another, or clumsily hit elbows together.

And later, that morning, as the light filtered in through their window, they traced the markings on each other’s forearms and smiled.

“I love you, Keyleth of the Air Ashari,” read Vax, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She smiled softly, and tapped his arm. “I love you, Vax’ildan. I’ll…” and her voice broke slightly, but she shook her head and continued, “…I’ll see you again.”

-------------------------------------------

“Oh, I love being this high up in the air!”

Vex leaned over the railing of the airship they had chartered, now soaring above the vast expanse of gleaming, deep-blue water far below, the rippling and sparkling surface of the Ozmit Sea.

Percy, standing next to her, smiled. “Is it better than a broom?” he asked.

She turned to face him, and her braid flew behind her in the wind. She glowed in the warm sunlight.

“It is, darling,” she laughed. “I love my broom, but it’s much better.”

Percy nodded, and turned back to look over the railing at the clouds beyond. “I’m going to install an airship port in Whitestone,” he said.

-------------------------------------------

Glintshore came and went, and in the smoking aftermath of the battle—shrapnel scattered across the scorched crater and corpses dotting the landscape and Kynan shaking on the ground and Ripley’s eviscerated flesh painting the dirt crimson—Vox Machina gathered around the limp form of Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski De Rolo III, bullet wounds no longer bleeding, breath gone from his chest.

Vax and Pike were the closest, the Champion of Death and the Cleric of Sarenrae carefully examining his body for any possible signs of life, and mulling over the next course of action. Vex and Keyleth watched on, and Scanlan and Grog romped through the background, making sure the hired mercenaries were finished, and giving the rest room to work and to grieve.

Then Vax turned around, and gently asked his sister, “Vex’ahlia, what were your last words to him?”

She blinked, tears still streaming down her face. “I don’t, I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

He tried again. “Did you tell him that you’ll miss him?”

She frowned, confusion beginning to creep in. “No? I, no, I never said that.”

He nodded, and now his expression was firm. “Percy’s not dead for good,” he said adamantly. “Not for good. We’ll be able to bring him back.”

“What makes you—” Scanlan began.

And then realization hit. They all stood in silence for a moment.

“You read it,” breathed Keyleth, and Vax nodded.

“You don’t know for sure,” Vex whispered. “You don’t know for sure.”

“I don’t,” Vax agreed, “but I’m pretty damn certain.”

“Let’s get him into the mansion,” Pike said softly. “We can rest, and get our spells back, and we’ll do the ritual tomorrow.”

-------------------------------------------

“I should have told you. It’s yours.”

-------------------------------------------

“Percival, would you like to see my soulmark?”

Percy blinked a few times, and turned around to face her. Vex’s skin was pale in the moonlight, her eyes anxious but hopeful. He reached for the beside table and pulled his glasses over, and they both shifted into an upright position.

“Do…do you truly wish to show me?” he asked.

She nodded. “I…I think it might belong to you. I want you to.”

He smiled faintly. “You know, I’ve always hoped mine belonged to you as well. Would you…?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I would.”

They pressed their arms together, words towards the sky.

“I love you, darling,” read Vex softly. “I’ll miss you.”

Percy traced the text on her arm with a gentle finger. “I love you too, Vex’ahlia,” he read. “I’ll…oh. I’ll tell your brother you said hello.”

He met her gaze. “Vex,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “No, no, darling. Believe me, we’ve talked about it plenty before, but no. If anything, you should watch yourself any time you go off to visit him alone, understood?”

He laughed quietly. “Alright, alright. Of course.”

She smiled, and leaned in for a kiss. Their eyes were closed, so neither of them could see the worry written across Percy’s face, or the desperate denial on Vex’s.

-------------------------------------------

“He really is gone,” Pike sighed, looking down at the ground.

Vex put an arm across her shoulder. “He…I know Scanlan will be back,” she said. “I think he just needs time alone.”

“I…I was just starting to think…”

The little gnome shook her head. “Nevermind,” she said. “Never…nevermind.”

-------------------------------------------

“Oh, no,” said Taryon, waving his mug jovially and shaking his head. “No, I’m not doing that again.”

“Alright,” said Grog with a careless shrug. “Alright, fine. That means more ladies for me. You want me to find you a guy, or something?”

Taryon considered this proposal. Then he looked up at the large mountain of a man, eyebrow raised and tattoos dark against his grey skin.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Tary asked.

Grog’s other eyebrow went up. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

Tary sighed, and shook his head again. “Nevermind,” he said. “Just…just go have fun for the both of us, how about that?”

Grog grinned. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, that sounds like somethin’ I could do.”

-------------------------------------------

“Zephra is beautiful in the autumn,” smiled Vax as he watched Keyleth’s hair blow in the breeze. She was standing in a clearing, leaves tumbling around her. “I can’t wait to spend the next hundred autumns here with you.”

She reached out with a hand to where he was sitting in the grass, and pulled him up to join her. “More than a hundred,” she said firmly. “Half-elves live a long time, and we’re retired now, right?”

He laughed, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Sure, Kiki. Right now, we’re retired.”

-------------------------------------------

"Do any of us actually know how to run a bakery?"

"Didn't you say it's all about getting experience?" Taryon asked. "It's like a new adventure! One that we will all be inexperienced in, at the beginning."

"I can sort of bake," said Pike. "Sort of."

"Most of us, then," Taryon corrected. "Do we have a name, yet?"

-------------------------------------------

“And do you, Vex’ahlia Vessar, take this man to be your husband?”

In the silence of night, with only quiet chirping of crickets and the rustling of the wind through the leaves of the Sun Tree, Keeper Yennen’s voice sang strong and bright.

Vex’ahlia’s heart soared.

“I do.”

-------------------------------------------

One day, a tall, dark-skinned man from Ank’harel came to visit with a lanky, half-orc bard-barian in tow.

Their retirement ended.

-------------------------------------------

There was a knock, so Scanlan fastened his silk, royal-purple robe, put on his most charming smile, and with a flick of his wrist, the door to his room swung open, to reveal Pike.

A million lines, ranging from I don’t remember asking for an angel, to why, isn’t this a pleasant surprise, to oh, I see Ioun has answered my prayers after all, to aren’t I a lucky gnome tonight?

He managed to hold all of them back and instead gave her a small grin. “Hi, Pike. What’s up?”

She closed the door behind her, and took a step forwards.

“Hey, Scanlan. I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, don’t be a stranger, come and sit down, ask away.” He motioned towards the velvet couch by his fireplace, and they both took a seat.

“Scanlan, what does your soulmark say?”

He balked. This wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory, since soulmates was a rather rich vein for pickup lines and for hitting on people in bars. But this—seated before a warm fire with Pike sitting not too close, but also not too far away—was nothing he could ever anticipated.

“Uh…well…why do you want to know?”

“I was just wondering,” Pike said with suspiciously carefree nonchalance. “If you don’t want to show me, I totally get it—”

He pulled down the sleeve of his robe, and her eyes instantly trained in on the words.

“It’s gnomish,” she said, slightly surprised.

He shrugged, and gave her a grin. “I’d like to think it’s honoring my humble roots,” he said.

“Can…can I read it out loud?”

“Of course.”

“Stop it, Scanlan. Take all the time you need.”

She bit her lip, and traced the words slowly. It sent a strange tingling up Scanlan’s arm.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he asked, defaulting in the face of uncertainty to what he knew best: talking. “I mean, I’ve always wondered what I might have said to the other person to get them to respond with that, or what they mean with take all the time you need, but you can never be sure, right? Anyways, I think it’s the universe’s personal laugh that I’ve also got Stop it, Scanlan written on my arm, you’ve got to admit that’s pretty funny…”

He trailed off as Pike stood up.

“Thanks, Scanlan,” she said, slightly strained. “I…I appreciate you showing it to me. I’m going to bed now.”

She started walking out of the room.

“Wait, Pikey, is everything alright? Are…are you alright?”

She turned, just before the door, and gave him a smile. “I’m okay,” she said lightly. "Don’t worry, Scanlan, I’m okay.”

She closed the door behind her, and Scanlan was left staring at the elegant woodwork in the silence. He turned back around, and lay down on the couch. Eventually, tracing his arm where Pike’s finger had been and wondering idly what she had been thinking, he fell asleep next to the crackling fire.

-------------------------------------------

“Are you all ready to go?” Percy asked. “I…I’m not sure what we’ll find on the other end, or how we’ll be getting back.”

“I’m ready,” said Grog. “I wanna go kill those creepy culty fucks.”

Vax grinned. “I agree with the big man,” he said. “They’ve got it coming.”

“Ready,” said Keyleth, gripping the Spire in her hands.

“As I’ll ever be,” said Scanlan, shooting a wink that Pike and Grog, recently apologized to, grinned at.

“Let’s go, darling,” said Vex. “It’s time.”

-------------------------------------------

Vax was dead.

And then he wasn’t.

-------------------------------------------

“I can’t help but hate her,” Keyleth shook her head, face buried in Vax’s chest as they lay together on the bed of their room in Scanlan’s Magnificent Mansion.

“I know,” Vax sighed. “I know.”

“It’s just…It’s just not fair. It’s not fair. You’re my soulmate, Vax. We were only going to have a hundred years together. And now…and now…”

“I know,” he said again, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate her,” sobbed Keyleth. “I hate her.”

-------------------------------------------

In the other room, down the hall, Vex rubbed at her eyes.

“He’s my brother,” she said.

“Yes,” Percy said back.

“He…if we’re successful, he won’t live past this year.”

“Yes.”

“And if we aren’t, the world will end.”

“Yes.”

“I want to world to end,” she whispered. “I don’t want to live in a world without him.”

Percy put a hand on her back, and when she began to cry, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Vex. I’m sorry.”

“It was right there,” she breathed between sobs, wanting to choke on her own words. “It was right there, in my stupid soulmark. It was right there, all along. He was going to die first. And then…and then you would, and you would see him for me.”

Percy nodded. His own body was starting to shake as well.

“We knew that I wouldn’t live as long as you,” he tried. “I’m human.”

“I know,” she said, “I know. But I wish you weren’t. And I wish Vax wasn’t going to die either.”

-------------------------------------------

“And…And I’m going to miss you. I’ll be gone soon. I don’t even know if we have time. A lot of us could be dead soon, but I’m not offering you this thing, but I’m offering you an experience.”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t know a lot of big words, but I feel like I need a little bit of clar-if-ication.”

“I don’t know if we have time for this, but maybe, for old time’s sake, because I love you and I know you love me and we share this in common—”

“—yep, definitely—”

“—I thought maybe we could prank Scanlan together.”

-------------------------------------------

The day came. And from somewhere within the dark city of Thar Amphala, lurching from the movement of the terrible, enormous body that carried it, they all linked hands and closed their eyes and nodded.

And then they began to climb.

-------------------------------------------

Scanlan, the tiny gnome bard perched up, thousands and thousands of feet in the air, held aloft by nothing but the shimmering, translucent purple form of Bigby’s Hand, made of pure arcana and here by his own force of will, looked up at Vecna, the Ascended as the sickly green swirl of a teleportation spell began to creep around the emaciated, bloodied avatar of the new god.

Scanlan raised a finger, eyes dark and cold. 

“This was going to save Vax,” he said, and fired off a Counterspell that, for once, was not driven by song or dance or laughter—just the enraged sorrow of a bard who had, long ago, buried his mother, nearly just lost his daughter, and soon, all too soon, would lose one of his best friends.

It connected. There was no question there.

And then, finally, Keyleth was handed the tome.

-------------------------------------------

In the distance, the impossibly gargantuan skeleton of the massive titan loomed over the city of Vassalheim, as cheering and shouts of surprised delight burst over the night sky like fireworks. Lanterns were beginning to bloom along the city skyline, and people were coming out of their homes and armies were lowering their weapons as now the news spread like wildfire that finally, finally, the Undying King had fallen.

But Vox Machina were not celebrating.

Vax pressed his forehead to his sister’s and put his hands on her face. Behind him, the silent form of the Raven Queen watched on, unimaginably distant and terrifyingly close, all at the same time.

“I never had a greater friend than you,” he said softly. “And we traveled a lot, but I never had a greater friend than you.”

Vex shook her head, tears hitting the grass below them. “I feel like she’s taking part of me away,” she breathed, a wracking, shaking sob.

He stroked her cheek. “I will bring it with me to remind me of you.”

“I don’t know how to live.”

“I will see you again.”

“I know.”

“I will see you again. And I will tell your mother that you say hello.”

She laughed, a short a humorless laugh. “Please.” and then she sobbed again and said, “I love you. I don’t accept this.”

He nodded. “I know that it’s hard. And I am sorry.”

“I’m going to find you.”

He wrapped her into a hug. And then, after a moment, after one final hand on her back and kiss to her forehead, he pulled away and turned to Keyleth.

The druid walked up to him, and threw her arms around his neck, tears streaming down her face. He pressed his lips to hers, and afterwards whispered, “I’m sorry it’s so cold.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t accept this. I love you.”

He smiled. “I will never stop loving you.”

“This isn’t fair,” she said.

“I know.”

She looked him in the eye, and her heart broke all over again. “I guess…I guess we have to say goodbye.”

He took her hands, just as she had, all those nights ago, and squeezed them gently. “For now,” he agreed. “I love you, Keyleth of the Air Ashari.”

She stole one final kiss, and murmured back, “I love you, Vax'ildan. I’ll see you again.”

After what felt like the lifetime they would not have, he pulled away, and took a breath he did not need, and began to walk towards the dark cloak of the Raven Queen. With each step, tiny flowers began curling around his feet, small white petals blooming against the dark green grass where they stood, until a carpet of snowdrops trailed back from Vax’s pale form to the rest of his family. He turned to face them.

“S.H.I.T.S.!” he called, voice wavering but firm and strong. “How lucky I have been to have had all of you. How lucky, indeed. Thank you.”

Then he strode into the embrace of his mother, and his patron.

And then, it was just feathers.

-------------------------------------------

Years passed. Keyleth of the Air Ashari watched alongside Percy and Vex in the shade, as three dark-haired and two white-haired children chased each other through the grass and around the gardens.

“Julius looks just like him,” said the druid with a sad smile. “But you said Jonathan’s the one who talks to birds?”

“Yes,” said Vex, “and he thinks you’re very cool, so I think you should go and talk to him later.”

“I might just do that,” Keyleth nodded. “Maybe he might want to come visit Zephra, one of these days.”

“Take Olivia also,” said Percy. “We think her magic is arcane, but it might do her some good. Besides, she’s his twin, and they don’t like being separated.”

“I can see how that might work,” said Keyleth. Then she looked at Percy and Vex and asked, “Say, did Pike and Scanlan set a date yet? I know gnomes don’t really operate on the same timeline as everyone else, believe me, I know, but have they said anything yet?”

“No,” said Percy, “I don’t think so. But knowing how quickly they fell all over each other, after everything that happened, I’m sure it’ll be soon.”

-------------------------------------------

“Scanlan?” Pike asked, from their spot in bed.

“Yes, Pikey?”

“Remember when you showed me your soulmark, and you mentioned something about wondering why it said what it did?”

“Yes, I remember.”

Pike rolled her sleeve up, and held her arm out to Scanlan.

“It’s in gnomish,” he said, slightly surprised.

“It’s my humble roots,” she grinned. “Go on, read it.”

“I won’t make…” Scanlan faltered, but with a gentle nudge he tried again. “I won’t make you wait long, Pikey.”

“Stop it, Scanlan,” Pike recited. “Take all the time you need.”

Their eyes met.

“So…you think…?”

“I’m pretty sure I know,” said Pike, and grinned. “You forest gnomes live a long time.”

“Are…are you alright with—”

“I am,” said Pike. “I really, truly am.”

“Oh, good,” said Scanlan, and he smiled as well when she leaned in for a kiss.

-------------------------------------------

“Mama, what do these marks mean?” asked Percival IV, holding his arm up for his mother to see.

“That’s called a soulmark, darling. It’s words your soulmate will speak to you, one day.”

“How will I know who my soulmate is?”

“You just do, when the time comes. I know that sounds confusing, but trust me, alright? When you meet the right person, you’ll know.”

“Did you meet the right person, Mama?”

“I did, darling. And guess who that person was?”

“Who?”

“Your father,” and here, she bopped her son on the nose and he started to giggle.

“But, you know, these marks don’t always mean you have to spend time with only your soulmate. When your mama traveled around with Vox Machina, well, it almost felt like all of them were my soulmates.”

Her son considered this. “Like when I’m with Elaina and Julius and Olivia and Jonathan and Trinket and Dad and Auntie Keyleth and Uncle Grog and Auntie Pike and Uncle Scanlan and—”

She grinned, and bopped him again. “Yes, darling, just like that.”

-------------------------------------------

The wedding was small, and Grog carried Scanlan down the aisle on his shoulders as Kaylie played a bridal march on her fiddle, and Great-uncle Wilhand, arthritic and nearly bald, officiated.

There were two flower girls and one ring bear, that carried the three ring-bearers on his back.

-------------------------------------------

“Keyleth?”

They were seated beneath the Sun Tree, watching the clouds roll by over Whitestone, below.

“Yes, Vex?”

“Do…do you think you’ll ever find someone else?”

There was a pause.

“I…I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe. It’s…it’s still too new. But I know he would want me to move on.”

“You have all the time in the world, darling.”

She laughed. “Oh, I know.”

“I know there’s a lot to be said about soulmates, but still. We’re not soulmates, and I still feel connected to you. To everyone in Vox Machina.”

Keyleth nodded. “I know what you mean,” she said with a small smile. “I think…I think it’s always nice to know who your soulmate is, but it’s also nice to just…to just spend time with other people.”

“Yes,” said Vex, poking Keyleth in the arm. “It is.”

-------------------------------------------

Nobody knows the reason why, or how, or who is behind the curling lines of text that appear on the skin of every newborn child across the planes. Perhaps it’s the work of sentimental deities, brushing their fingers against the arms of their creations to let them know that no matter what, in this chaotic, unpredictable, dangerous world, they will never be alone. Perhaps it’s the gods of love, helping mortals find the ones with whom they will share every full, deep breath of air and every beat of their hearts. Perhaps it’s the work of trickster gods, playing their jokes on those who will never know who their other half is, until the end. Or, perhaps, it’s the work of the Raven Queen herself, Weaver of Fates, Matron of Death, leaving her mark on creation and urging all to find their fated and enjoy the time they have together, before the inevitable.

Nobody really knows.

But maybe, as a wise goliath once said around a campfire in the woods outside Whitestone, under the night sky with his friends at his side, “who cares?” In the end, you stick with the people you love, all the people you love, and perhaps, maybe then, it won’t matter what fate tried to tell you. You’ll have found the ones you wanted, and you’ll have been with the ones you needed, all along.

And that? That is more than enough.

-------------------------------------------

This was a place, almost a hundred years later, where the sun was bright, and the grass seemed to glow, and the skies always felt like home.

“Your sister says hello.”

There was a laugh, and a smile, and a warm hand on his shoulder.

“I know, Freddie. I know.”

[thelonguepuree]

Transcontinental

        (for Louis Aragon, in praise of Red Front) Through trembling waves of roadside heat We see the cool green of golf courses Long red awnings catching sunshine Slender rainbows curved above spirals of water Swaying hammocks slung between trees— Like in the movies … America who built this dream Above the ceaseless hiss of passing cars We hear the tinkle of ice in tall glasses Clacks of croquet balls scudding over cropped lawns Silvery crescendos of laughter— Like in the movies On Saturday nights When we used to get paychecks … America who owns this wonderland Lost We hitch-hike down the hot highways Looking for a ride home Yanking tired thumbs at glazed faces Behind the steering wheels of Packards Pierce Arrows Lincolns La Salles Reos Chryslers— Their lips are tight jaws set eyes straight ahead… America America America why turn your face away O for the minute The joyous minute The minute of the hour of that day When the tumbling white ball of our anger Rolling down the cold hill of our lives Swelling like a moving mass of snow Shall crash Shall explode at the bottom of our patience Thundering HALT You shall not pass our begging thumbs America is ours This car is commandeered America is ours Take your ringed fingers from the steering wheel Take your polished shoe off the gas We'll drive and let you be the hitch-hiker We'll show you how to pass 'em up You say we're robbers So what We're bastards So what Sonsofbitches All right chop us into little pieces we don't care Let the wind tousle your hair like ours have been tousled Doesn't the sun's hot hate feel sweet on your back Crook your thumbs and smudge the thin air What kind of a growl does your gut make when meal-time comes At night your hips can learn how soft the pavements are Oh let's do it the good old American way Sportsmanship Buddy Sportsmanship But dear America's a free country Did you say Negroes Oh I don't mean NEEEGROOOES After all Isn't there a limit to everything You wouldn't want your daughter And they say there's no GOD And furthermore it's simply disgraceful how they're discriminating against the children of the rich in Soviet schools PROLETARIAN CHILDREN Good Lord Why if we divided up everything today we'd be just where we are inside of a year The strong and the weak The quick and the slow You understand But Lady even quivering lips can say PLEASE COMRADE MY FATHER WAS A CARPENTER I SWEAR SWEAR HE WAS I WAS NEVER AGAINST THE COMMUNISTS REALLY Fairplay Boys Fairplay America America can every body have the chance to rise from Wall Street to the Comintern America America can every boy have the chance to rise from River—River-side Drive to the General Secretaryship of the Communist Party 100% Justice And Mister don't forget Our hand shall be on the steeering wheel Our feet shall be on the gas And you shall hear the grate of our gears UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE The motor throbs with eager anger UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE We're lurching toward the highway UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE The pavement drops into the past The future smites our face America is ours 10 15 20 30 America America WOORKERSWOORKERS Hop on the runningboard Pile in We're leaving We're leaving Leaving the tired the timid the soft Leaving pimps idlers loungers Leaving empty dinner-pails wage-cuts stretch-outs Leaving the tight-lipped mother and the bare meal-can Leaving the shamed girl and her bastard child Leaving leaving the past leaving The wind filled with leaflets leaflets of freedom Millions and millions of leaflets fluttering Like the wings of a million birds AmericaAmericaAmerica Scaling New England's stubborn hills Spanning the Hudson Waving at Manhattan Waving at New Jersey Throwing a Good Bye kiss to Way Down East Through mine-pirred Pennsylvania Through Maryland Our Maryland Careening over the miles Spinning the steering wheel Taking the curves with determination AmericaAmerica SOFT SHOULDER AHEAD AmericaAmerica KEEP TO THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD AmericaAmerica The telegraph poles are a solid wall WASHINGTON—90 MILES AmericaAmerica The farms are a storm of green Past rivers past towns 50 60 70 80 AmericaAmerica CITY LIMITS Vaulting Washington's Monument Leaping desks of Senators Ending all bourgeois elections Hurdling desks of Congressmen Fascist flesh sticking to our tires Skidding into the White House Leaving a trail of carbon monoxide for the President Roaring into the East Room Going straight through Lincoln's portrait Letting the light of history through AmericaAmerica Swinging Southward Plunging the radiator into the lynch-mob Giving no warning Slowing Slowing for the sharecroppers Come on You Negroes Come on There's room Not in the back but front seat We're heading for the highway of Self-Determination UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE Dim your lights you Trotskyites UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE Lenin's line is our stream line UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE Through October's windshield we see the road Looping over green hills Dipping toward to-morrow AmericaAmericaAmerica Look back See the tiny threads of our tires leaving hammer and sickle prints upon the pavement See the tree-lined horizon turn slowly in our hearts See the ripe fields Fields ripe as our love See the eastern sky See the white clouds of our hope See the blood-red afterglow in the west Our memory of October See See See the pretty cottages the bungalows the sheltered homes See the packing-box cities the jungles the huts See See See the skyscrapers the clubs the pent-houses See the bread-lines winding winding winding long as our road America America America Tagging Kentucky Tagging Tennessee Into Ohio Into the orchards of Michigan Over the rising and falling dunes of Indiana Across Illinois' glad fields of dancing corn Slowing Comrades Slowing again Slowing for the heart of proletarian America CHICAGO—100 MILES WOORKERSWOORKERS Steel and rail and stock All you sons of Haymarket Swing on We're going your way America is ours UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE The pressure of our tires is blood pounding in our hearts UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE The steam of our courage blows from the radiator-cap UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE The wind screams red songs in our ears 60 70 80 90 AmericaAmericaAmerica Listen Listen to the moans of those whose lives were laughter Listen to the howls of the dogs dispossessed Listen to bureaucratic insects spattering against the windshield Listen to curses rebounding from fear-proof glass Listen to the gravel of hate tingling on our fenders Listen to the raindrops mumbling of yesterday Listen to the wind whistling of to-morrow Listen to our tires humming humming humming hymns of victory AmericaAmericaAmerica Coasting Comrades Coasting Coasting on momentum of Revolution Look Look at that village Like a lonesome egg in the nest of the hills Soon Soon you shall fly all over the hillsides Crowing the new dawn Coasting Indulging in Lenin's dream TUNE IN ON THE RADIO THE WORLD IS LAUGHING Red Baseball Great day in the Morning … the Leninites defeated the Redbirds 3 to 0. Batteries for the Leninites: Kenji Sumarira and Boris Petrovsky. For the Redbirds: Wing Sing and Eddie O'Brien. Homeruns: Hugo Schmidt and Jack Ogletree. Umpires: Pierre Carpentier and Oswald Wallings … The world is laughing The world is laughing … Mike Gold's account of the Revolution sells 26 million copies … 26 million copies … The world is laughing The world is laughing … beginning May 1st the work day is limited to five hours … The world is laughing The world is laughing … last of the landlords liquidated in Texas … The world is laughing The world is laughing Picking up speed to measure the Mississippi AmericaAmericaAmerica Plowing the richness of Iowa soil Into the Wheat Empire Making Minnesota Taking the Dakotas Carrying Nebraska On on toward the Badlands the Rockies the deserts the Golden Gate Slowing once again Comrades Slowing to right a wrong Say You Red Men You Forgotten Men Come out from your tepees Show us Pocahuntus For we love her Bring her from her hiding place Let the sun kiss her eyes Drape her in a shawl of red wool Tuck her in beside us Our arms shall thaw the long cold of her shoulders The lights flash red Comrades let's go UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE The future opens like an ever-widening V UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE We're rolling over titles of red logic UNITEDFRONT—SSSTRIKE We're speeding on wheels of revolution AmericaAmerica Mountain peaks are falling toward us AmericaAmerica Uphill and the earth rises and looms AmericaAmerica Downhill and the earth tilts and sways AmericaAmerica 80 90 100 AmericaAmerica Every factory is a fortress Cities breed soviets AmericaAmerica Plains sprout collective farms Ten thousand Units are meeting America America Resolutions passed unanimously The Red Army is on the march AmericaAmerica Arise, ye prisoners… AmericaAmerica Speed Faster Speed AmericaAmerica Arise, ye wretched… AmericaAmerica Speed Faster Ever Faster America America For Justice America America Thunders AmericaAmericaAmerica — Richard Wright (1936)

[infantisimo]

Gates to the Sky, but They Are Narrow

I.

I will not defile my face feigning optimism.

I will spread the board of my chest for the birds

coming from sea or desert and I will exhale

a bundle of living smoke. Then I will stop speaking.

II.

The heart was stubborn,

a boy with reckless hair

stumbling through night’s dilapidated branches.

The city had not yet become

a losing bet.

They usually shot hot lead between the eyes of

the horse that lost. My cramped fingers

did not obey me,

but reached for a net of emptiness

or a grave without a corpse.

I touched a hand made of pliable steel.

I did not fire.

The city was drowning

in the sound of neighing.

III.

Where does sadness go, where do cigarettes

if the cafés disappear?

The small poets,

their foam,

and their impartial criticism,

and the stories suitable only for diaries of wretchedness…

Where will you establish you fabled kingdom, dear dream?

...............................

...............................

Cafés are more rooted here

than fingernails are in fingers.

So what is the harm in this?

IV.

The heart is a morsel of rare sponge.

It cannot shield itself from tremors

coming at it from all directions.

The city had not yet become a raised sword

and despair is the widest of the sky’s narrow gates.

V.

I will not defile my face feigning optimism

to please the wife and the seven neighbors.

Sadness, the horse most likely to win,

met me on the road

and reached out his dark, veined hand to me.

I reached out my hand too

and we laughed together:

The city’s night is long

without those celestial bodies

made of phosphate and human flesh.

And the cafés, though they are pavilions

of bad poetry and impartial criticism

and the ever smoked cigarettes,

are low stones, rest places

for the birds coming from the dessert

or from the sea.

VI.

Amman smells of horses

and of the lone shirt hung in the widow’s wardrobe.

Amman smells like tired bodies.

I recall:

         Was the Arab Bank

         close to where the river shrank,

         close to dawn’s first spark?

         Was it far from my heart?

They begin to tremble those fingers pointing to the sky.

No . . . It was a summer whose fires would not be put out,

a time of collapse.

VII.

In a moment the scene takes shape:

leather bags, different sizes

and contents,

faces that go long

and cloud up,

features that take the shape of cramped muscles.

The train heads north or south,

no difference.

The long whistles

become a thin, agitated

thread.

And the scene folds upon itself.

Cities more distant than this dream,

this whistling will never reach you.

__________

A Song and Three Questions

I.

Talk is silver,

poetry is gold,

and women are the ringing of both metals.

Poems

will be our songs from now on.

Let’s start then without borrowings or embellishments

and look at the living things between us

with an eye for praise.

Let the song

celebrate our contentedness

and those joys only shepherds know,

whose song and the smell of their armpits

have spread

among goat paths and scrub grass

and who have disappeared never to return.

II.

Shall we blow into a silver trumpet?

But how can shepherds live without songs

and sheep

and desires?

No, we’ll sing,

How could there be shepherds without horses and violins

and wounds that never heal?

III.

Talk is silver,

poetry is gold,

and women are the ringing of both metals.

Poetry will be our songs from now on.

Let’s dedicate them

to those who will never return,

to the shepherds of freckled dawns,

to the chants dressed in wedding clothes,

to the women who loved the fiercest stags

and who preferred the Eros of copper,

spring grasses and buried wells,

falcons and night predators and the tiger of Arabia,

cymbals, bayonets, skiffs and saddles,

studded with the blood of the tribes,

the shouts of young lads yet to learn how to

tame their mares,

and the flight of whole tribes from open country

pulling hard at iron bits.

And even further than that—

broken flutes

and hollow bones

will surprise us with three questions:

How much time has passed?

Have the old wounds healed?

What names are still in use?

How do we answer?

Will it be enough to say,

Talk is silver, poetry is gold

and women are the ringing of both metals

and poetry will be our language from now on?

Fellow shepherds, let’s dig into our bowls filled to the brim.

Let us begin our chants.

Amjad Nasser, translated by Khaled Mattawa

[lennart11412]

The Vision of Sir Launfal James Russell Lowell (1819–1891) Prelude to Part FirstOVER his keys the musing organist,  Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list,  And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument        5  Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent  Along the wavering vista of his dream.    Not only around our infancy    Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;        10    Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,    We Sinais climb and know it not.  Over our manhood bend the skies;    Against our fallen and traitor lives  The great winds utter prophecies;        15    With our faint hearts the mountain strives;  Its arms outstretched, the druid wood    Waits with its Benedicite;  And to our age’s drowsy blood    Still shouts the inspiring sea.        20  Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us:    The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in.  The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,    We bargain for the graves we lie in;  At the devil’s booth are all things sold,        25  Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;  For a cap and bells our lives we pay,    Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking:  ’T is heaven alone that is given away,    ’T is only God may be had for the asking;        30  No price is set on the lavish summer;  June may be had by the poorest comer.  And what is so rare as a day in June?    Then, if ever, come perfect days;  Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,        35    And over it softly her warm ear lays;  Whether we look, or whether we listen,  We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;  Every clod feels a stir of might,    An instinct within it that reaches and towers,        40  And groping blindly above it for light,    Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;  The flush of life may well be seen    Thrilling back over hills and valleys;  The cowslip startles in meadows green,        45    The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,  And there ’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean    To be some happy creature’s palace;  The little bird sits at his door in the sun,    Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,        50  And lets his illumined being o’errun    With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—        55 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?  Now is the high tide of the year,    And whatever of life hath ebbed away  Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,    Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;        60  Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it;  We are happy now because God wills it;  No matter how barren the past may have been,  ’T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;  We sit in the warm shade and feel right well        65  How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;  We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing  That skies are clear and grass is growing;    The breeze comes whispering in our ear    That dandelions are blossoming near,        70  That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,  That the river is bluer than the sky,  That the robin is plastering his house hard by:  And if the breeze kept the good news back,  For other couriers we should not lack;        75    We could guess it all by yon heifer’s lowing,—  And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,  Warmed with the new wine of the year,    Tells all in his lusty crowing!  Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;        80  Everything is happy now,    Everything is upward striving;  ’T is as easy now for the heart to be true  As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,—    ’T is the natural way of living:        85  Who knows whither the clouds have fled?    In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;  And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,    The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season’s youth,        90  And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep ’neath a silence pure and smooth,  Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.    What wonder if Sir Launfal now    Remember the keeping of his vow?        95 Part First    “MY golden spurs now bring to me,      And bring to me my richest mail,    For to-morrow I go over land and sea      In search of the Holy Grail:    Shall never a bed for me be spread,        100    Nor shall a pillow be under my head,    Till I begin my vow to keep;    Here on the rushes will I sleep,    And perchance there may come a vision true    Ere day create the world anew.”        105      Slowly Sir Launfal’s eyes grew dim;      Slumber fell like a cloud on him,    And into his soul the vision flew.  The crows flapped over by twos and threes,  In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,        110    The little birds sang as if it were    The one day of summer in all the year,  And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:  The castle alone in the landscape lay  Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray;        115  ’T was the proudest hall in the North Countree,  And never its gates might opened be,  Save to lord or lady of high degree;  Summer besieged it on every side,  But the churlish stone her assaults defied;        120  She could not scale the chilly wall,  Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall      Stretched left and right.      Over the hills and out of sight;        Green and broad was every tent,        125        And out of each a murmur went      Till the breeze fell off at night.  The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,  And through the dark arch a charger sprang,  Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,        130  In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright  It seemed the dark castle had gathered all  Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall    In his siege of three hundred summers long,  And binding them all in one blazing sheaf,        135    Had cast them forth; so, young and strong,  And lightsome as a locust leaf,  Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail,  To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.  It was morning on hill and stream and tree,        140    And morning in the young knight’s heart;  Only the castle moodily  Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,    And gloomed by itself apart;  The season brimmed all other things up        145  Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant’s cup. As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,  He was ’ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;  And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;        150 The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,  The flesh ’neath his armor ’gan shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still  Like a frozen waterfall;  For this man, so foul and bent of stature,        155  Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,  And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,—  So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.  The leper raised not the gold from the dust:—  “Better to me the poor man’s crust,        160  Better the blessing of the poor,  Though I turn me empty from his door:  That is no true alms which the hand can hold;  He gives only the worthless gold    Who gives from a sense of duty;        165  But he who gives but a slender mite,  And gives to that which is out of sight,—    That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty  Which runs through all and doth all unite,—  The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,        170  The heart outstretches its eager palms;  For a god goes with it and makes it store  To the soul that was starving in darkness before.” Prelude to Part SecondDOWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,  From the snow five thousand summers old;        175 On open wold and hilltop bleak  It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer’s cheek;  It carried a shiver everywhere  From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;        180  The little brook heard it, and built a roof  ’Neath which he could house him winter-proof;  All night by the white stars’ frosty gleams  He groined his arches and matched his beams;  Slender and clear were his crystal spars        185  As the lashes of light that trim the stars;  He sculptured every summer delight  In his halls and chambers out of sight;  Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt  Down through a frost-leaved forest crypt.        190  Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees  Bending to counterfeit a breeze;  Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew  But silvery mosses that downward grew;  Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief        195  With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;  Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear  For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here  He had caught the nodding bulrush tops  And hung them thickly with diamond drops,        200  That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,  And made a star of every one:  No mortal builder’s most rare device  Could match this winter palace of ice;  ’T was as if every image that mirrored lay        205  In his depths serene through the summer day,  Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky,      Lest the happy model should be lost,  Had been mimicked in fairy masonry      By the elfin builders of the frost.        210  Within the hall are song and laughter;    The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly,  And sprouting is every corbel and rafter    With lightsome green of ivy and holly;  Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide        215  Wallows the Yule-log’s roaring tide;  The broad flame pennons droop and flap    And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;  Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap,    Hunted to death in its galleries blind;        220  And swift little troops of silent sparks,    Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear,  Go threading the soot forest’s tangled darks    Like herds of startled deer.  But the wind without was eager and sharp;        225  Of Sir Launfal’s gray hair it makes a harp,          And rattles and wrings          The icy strings,  Singing in dreary monotone  A Christmas carol of its own,        230  Whose burden still, as he might guess,  Was “Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!” The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night        235  The great hall fire, so cheery and bold,  Through the window slits of the castle old,  Build out its piers of ruddy light  Against the drift of the cold. Part Second  THERE was never a leaf on bush or tree,        240  The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;  The river was dumb and could not speak,    For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;  A single crow on the tree-top bleak    From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;        245  Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,  As if her veins were sapless and old,  And she rose up decrepitly  For a last dim look at earth and sea.  Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,        250  For another heir in his earldom sate:  An old, bent man, worn out and frail,  He came back from seeking the Holy Grail.  Little he recked of his earldom’s loss,  No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross;        255  But deep in his soul the sigh he wore,  The badge of the suffering and the poor.  Sir Launfal’s raiment thin and spare  Was idle mail ’gainst the barbèd air,  For it was just at the Christmas-time;        260  So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime,  And sought for a shelter from cold and snow  In the light and warmth of long ago.  He sees the snake-like caravan crawl  O’er the edge of the desert, black and small,        265  Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one,  He can count the camels in the sun,  As over the red-hot sands they pass  To where, in its slender necklace of grass,  The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade,        270  And with its own self like an infant played,  And waved its signal of palms.  “For Christ’s sweet sake, I beg an alms:”—  The happy camels may reach the spring,  But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing,        275  The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,  That cowers beside him, a thing as lone  And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas  In the desolate horror of his disease.  And Sir Launfal said,—“I behold in thee        280  An image of Him who died on the tree;  Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,—  Thou also hast had the world’s buffets and scorns,—  And to thy life were not denied  The wounds in the hands and feet and side:        285  Mild Mary’s Son, acknowledge me;  Behold, through him, I give to thee!”  Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes    And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he  Remembered in what a haughtier guise        290    He had flung an alms to leprosie,  When he girt his young life up in gilded mail  And set forth in search of the Holy Grail.  The heart within him was ashes and dust:  He parted in twain his single crust,        295  He broke the ice on the streamlet’s brink,  And gave the leper to eat and drink;  ’T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread,    ’T was water out of a wooden bowl,—  Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,        300    And ’t was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.  As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,  A light shone round about the place;  The leper no longer crouched at his side,  But stood before him glorified,        305  Shining and tall and fair and straight  As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,—  Himself the Gate whereby men can  Enter the temple of God in Man. His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,        310 And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was softer than silence said:— Lo, it is I, be not afraid!        315 In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail: Behold, it is here,—this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee,        320 This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept indeed In whatso we share with another’s need. Not what we give, but what we share,— For the gift without the giver is bare;        325 Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,— Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.” Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:— “The Grail in my castle here is found! Hang my idle armor up on the wall,        330 Let it be the spider’s banquet-hall; He must be fenced with stronger mail Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.” The castle gate stands open now,  And the wanderer is welcome to the hall        335 As the hang-bird is to the elm-tree bough;  No longer scowl the turrets tall. The summer’s long siege at last is o’er: When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise,        340 And mastered the fortress by surprise; There is no spot she loves so well on ground; She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal’s land Has hall and bower at his command;        345 And there ’s no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he.

[an-aura-about-you]

Speak of the Devil

and the devil shall appear.

Logos raps his knuckles on the study door.

“Autor? You’re not still up working, are you? Only so long that even a young man can burn the candle at both ends.”

He receives no answer, but that’s not so unusual for midnight or then-abouts. What is unusual is Autor leaving the light on. He tsks to himself. Surely his boy knows better, doesn’t he? He opens the door only to half-jump back at the sight of Autor standing still in the room, head slightly tipped down.

“Autor!” he yelps, hand to his chest. “Don’t startle your father like that.”

But the boy doesn’t move.

Logos leans a bit closer. His blood burns as familiarity seeps in, pulse echoing in his ears that he knows exactly what this is.

The ghostly image of his uncle Waren in the same state, standing in his study seemingly sleeping on his feet, unfurls in his mind. Logos didn’t understand what a trance was then, much less why one would want to induce it or, even worse, the concept of being in one against one’s will. Blood dripped from Waren’s sleeves from some unseen injuries, dotting the floor red that looked black in the candlelight. The movement echoed the silence, the only break in the stillness of night.

And then there was the sudden terrible lurch of motion, bones suspended like the limbs of a marionette, toes only brushing the floor as Waren hovered to the desk rather than waste time mimicking the steps. He collapsed in a bone-crashing heap, head whipped back with neck arched so far his Adam’s apple sat above his chin and body sprawled like a careless child had thrown him in the chair. The chair slammed itself into the desk, twisting and pinning one of Waren’s feet with a loud, quick crunch that made Logos retch. His jaw hung loose threatening to unhinge and rip his lips wider, as if something left conscious knew enough of screaming to try. His eyes opened, and Logos could see the cloudy whites. But then life came to his hand, terrifyingly human in comparison to the puppet of a man. Fingers took the quill from the inkwell and flew across the page in frenzied composition, blood and ink smearing together and forcing the words into the negative space. Whatever compelled Logos to stay so long finally lifted, and he fled through the darkened hallway attempting to dismiss what he saw as nightmare and nothing more.

“Autor?” he asks, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder.

But even that doesn’t wake him.

Logos steels himself in spite of the potential situation curdling in his stomach. He first checks Autor’s arms, part of him hoping moving the sleeves out of the way will wake his son. Satisfied that nothing’s happened yet, he pulls the sleeves back down and heads to the desk. Anything and everything that can be used for writing or bloodletting gets locked away, and Logos pockets the key. But he’s not rid of the weight crushing him.

If he were to attempt using his voice as a Spinner, what would happen? Logos never put such pure intention into Spinning before. At most, it’s an enhancement to his singing. It’s a glamour at best, to be confused with his own natural charisma. But if he can move others, what would it do to Autor like this? What if he just invites into Autor what took hold of Waren?

But he shakes his head. The logic of that doesn’t pan out. If anything, he would be inviting such evil into himself. And between the two, he’d rather it be him than his child. But just to be safe, he leaves a moment to quietly place the key in another room.

Satisfied as he can be, Logos closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s quick to find that calm he often seeks before performing, that part of him that echoes the stories, the tree, the world. But he probes it deeper, plucking at those golden strings that tie them to it. They web through the room and out into everything that was, is, and will be. He tests their strength, where they start in him, where he needs to take hold. And once he’s sure of his grip, he lets his eyes slip open, following the tug of the bunch of threads that binds father and child. The path is there; he need only call.

“Autor!”

The name carries the weight of their blood in his voice, a harsh whisper that hooks into Autor’s mind and pulls his consciousness forward on the tethers between them.

Autor’s head snaps up, eyes clear and alert when they open, and a startled “huh?” falling out of his mouth. “Father?”

Logos sighs, hand over his heart once more, and lets everything return to rest. “Autorchen. What a relief.”

Autor rubs at his eye beneath his glasses and goes, “I guess I just fell asleep.”

“You should do so in your bed,” Logos gently scolds, putting an arm around his son’s shoulders and guiding him to the door. “You don’t know what might happen if you fall asleep standing up.”

“I wasn’t trying to sleep.”

Logos stops dead. “You were trying to do something, Autor?” he asks, soft but probing.

Autor likewise stops, shrinking in his father’s hold. “I had been. I was just taking a break.”

Logos side-eyes his son and drops his arm. “Autor, what were you doing?”

“It’s not important,” he answers, heading to the desk. “Hey! Where’s all of my work?”

“Your work? Are you sure it was yours?”

“Of course it was!” Autor says, pulling on the locked drawer. But when it doesn’t open, he stills and slowly turns towards Logos. “Father, did you lock it up?”

“Yes. Of course I did once I saw you standing there.”

Autor whips around, thankfully still very much himself, and braces himself on the desk. But Logos approaches, only just out of shadow and even bigger in the dimly lamplit room.

“Attempting to Spin behind my back?”

The boy straightens up, face implacably defiant. “It’s not behind your back.”

Logos looks Autor in the eyes, meeting that stubbornness with his own. “How is it not if you’re not telling me?”

Autor turns to the desk and attempts the drawer again, trying force against a lock built for such abuse. “It’s our family history. Of course I would learn about it, would want to study it. Surely others in the family have tried-”

“Tried?! Autor, tried isn’t the word for it!”

Logos takes Autor’s hand away, his own hand so huge that the boy’s hand is covered all the way to the wrist.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Autor’s eyes narrow and he tries to pull away. “Yes, I do!”

“Do you really?” Logos demands, grabbing Autor by his shoulders. “Do you know what it means to be in this family? How dangerous Spinning can be? By whose accounts did you learn?”

The boy grins and rattles off an impressive account of their lineage, the intricacies of ritual that others imposed on themselves. It was bad enough that it bordered on blasphemous, that erroneous notion that Drosselmeyer was somehow the source of this, but Logos often found the rituals extraneous to the occasional visit to the Oak Tree. And if this is how Autor’s going about it, it’s possible he can’t or it hasn’t made itself manifest in him. But if it should...

Once Autor finishes, Logos steadies himself with a deep breath. He squeezes the boy’s shoulders, more a reassurance for father than child, and lets his hands drop.

“Autor, please, please do not attempt Spinning by yourself again,” he begs. “At least not until you’ve done it once. Spinning holds so much risk, and sometimes the Spinner is the one most vulnerable.”

Autor frowns. “Do you plan on supervising everything I do? Can you even stay up for three days?”

“Do you know what might happen to you if you do?” Logos challenges. “Autorchen, stories don’t have bodies. Do you know what would happen to yours if you give it to a story? Or worse, if a story takes your body without you meaning it to?”

“That... that isn’t how Spinning goes!” Autor protests. “Spinning means I’m turning the story real! There wasn’t anything written about giving your body to a story!”

Logos sighs through his nose. “And how are you supposed to prepare for what you don’t know?”

Autor quiets and glances just to the right of his feet, only occasionally darting his eyes up to his father.

Logos puts a gentler hand on Autor’s shoulder this time and says, “I just don’t want you to make a mistake that costs you your life. Spinning isn’t worth you dying, Autor.”

The boy slowly nods before stifling a yawn behind the back of his hand.

“Go to bed,” Logos softly orders. “And I’ll give you the key to the desk in the morning.”

He remains as Autor leaves, the boy slowly but certainly humanly dragging his feet on his sleepy way down the hall. Logos puts the lamp out and follows, shutting the door firmly behind him. And while the prospect of nightmares is never a comfort, Logos hopes they stay there in his mind and never invade his son.

[m8nhr]

미래주의 선언(1909)

전체 내용에 다 동의하지는 않지만, 어릴 적 나에게 많은 영감을 주었던 마리네티의 미래주의 선언 ;)

The Futurist Manifesto _ F. T. Marinetti, 1909

 

We have been up all night, my friends and I, beneath mosque lamps whose brass cupolas are bright as our souls, because like them they were illuminated by the internal glow of electric hearts. And trampling underfoot our native sloth on opulent Persian carpets, we have been discussing right up to the limits of logic and scrawling the paper with demented writing.

Our hearts were filled with an immense pride at feeling ourselves standing quite alone, like lighthouses or like the sentinels in an outpost, facing the army of enemy stars encamped in their celestial bivouacs. Alone with the engineers in the infernal stokeholes of great ships, alone with the black spirits which rage in the belly of rogue locomotives, alone with the drunkards beating their wings against the walls.

Then we were suddenly distracted by the rumbling of huge double decker trams that went leaping by, streaked with light like the villages celebrating their festivals, which the Po in flood suddenly knocks down and uproots, and, in the rapids and eddies of a deluge, drags down to the sea.

Then the silence increased. As we listened to the last faint prayer of the old canal and the crumbling of the bones of the moribund palaces with their green growth of beard, suddenly the hungry automobiles roared beneath our windows.

"Come, my friends!" I said. "Let us go! At last Mythology and the mystic cult of the ideal have been left behind. We are going to be present at the birth of the centaur and we shall soon see the first angels fly! We must break down the gates of life to test the bolts and the padlocks! Let us go! Here is they very first sunrise on earth! Nothing equals the splendor of its red sword which strikes for the first time in our millennial darkness."

We went up to the three snorting machines to caress their breasts. I lay along mine like a corpse on its bier, but I suddenly revived again beneath the steering wheel — a guillotine knife — which threatened my stomach. A great sweep of madness brought us sharply back to ourselves and drove us through the streets, steep and deep, like dried up torrents. Here and there unhappy lamps in the windows taught us to despise our mathematical eyes. "Smell," I exclaimed, "smell is good enough for wild beasts!"

And we hunted, like young lions, death with its black fur dappled with pale crosses, who ran before us in the vast violet sky, palpable and living.

And yet we had no ideal Mistress stretching her form up to the clouds, nor yet a cruel Queen to whom to offer our corpses twisted into the shape of Byzantine rings! No reason to die unless it is the desire to be rid of the too great weight of our courage!

We drove on, crushing beneath our burning wheels, like shirt-collars under the iron, the watch dogs on the steps of the houses.

Death, tamed, went in front of me at each corner offering me his hand nicely, and sometimes lay on the ground with a noise of creaking jaws giving me velvet glances from the bottom of puddles.

"Let us leave good sense behind like a hideous husk and let us hurl ourselves, like fruit spiced with pride, into the immense mouth and breast of the world! Let us feed the unknown, not from despair, but simply to enrich the unfathomable reservoirs of the Absurd!"

As soon as I had said these words, I turned sharply back on my tracks with the mad intoxication of puppies biting their tails, and suddenly there were two cyclists disapproving of me and tottering in front of me like two persuasive but contradictory reasons. Their stupid swaying got in my way. What a bore! Pouah! I stopped short, and in disgust hurled myself — vlan! — head over heels in a ditch.

Oh, maternal ditch, half full of muddy water! A factory gutter! I savored a mouthful of strengthening muck which recalled the black teat of my Sudanese nurse!

As I raised my body, mud-spattered and smelly, I felt the red hot poker of joy deliciously pierce my heart. A crowd of fishermen and gouty naturalists crowded terrified around this marvel. With patient and tentative care they raised high enormous grappling irons to fish up my car, like a vast shark that had run aground. It rose slowly leaving in the ditch, like scales, its heavy coachwork of good sense and its upholstery of comfort.

We thought it was dead, my good shark, but I woke it with a single caress of its powerful back, and it was revived running as fast as it could on its fins.

Then with my face covered in good factory mud, covered with metal scratches, useless sweat and celestial grime, amidst the complaint of staid fishermen and angry naturalists, we dictated our first will and testament to all the living men on earth.

 

 

MANIFESTO OF FUTURISM

We want to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and rashness. The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity and revolt.Literature has up to now magnified pensive immobility, ecstasy and slumber. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, the perilous leap, the slap and the blow with the fist.We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing automobile with its bonnet adorned with great tubes like serpents with explosive breath ... a roaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.We want to sing the man at the wheel, the ideal axis of which crosses the earth, itself hurled along its orbit.The poet must spend himself with warmth, glamour and prodigality to increase the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has not an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent assault on the forces of the unknown, to force them to bow before man.We are on the extreme promontory of the centuries! What is the use of looking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shutters of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed.We want to glorify war — the only cure for the world — militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of the anarchists, the beautiful ideas which kill, and contempt for woman.We want to demolish museums and libraries, fight morality, feminism and all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice.We will sing of the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure and revolt; the multi-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals: the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the workshops beneath their violent electric moons: the gluttonous railway stations devouring smoking serpents; factories suspended from the clouds by the thread of their smoke; bridges with the leap of gymnasts flung across the diabolic cutlery of sunny rivers: adventurous steamers sniffing the horizon; great-breasted locomotives, puffing on the rails like enormous steel horses with long tubes for bridle, and the gliding flight of aeroplanes whose propeller sounds like the flapping of a flag and the applause of enthusiastic crowds.

It is in Italy that we are issuing this manifesto of ruinous and incendiary violence, by which we today are founding Futurism, because we want to deliver Italy from its gangrene of professors, archaeologists, tourist guides and antiquaries.

Italy has been too long the great second-hand market. We want to get rid of the innumerable museums which cover it with innumerable cemeteries.

Museums, cemeteries! Truly identical in their sinister juxtaposition of bodies that do not know each other. Public dormitories where you sleep side by side for ever with beings you hate or do not know. Reciprocal ferocity of the painters and sculptors who murder each other in the same museum with blows of line and color. To make a visit once a year, as one goes to see the graves of our dead once a year, that we could allow! We can even imagine placing flowers once a year at the feet of the Gioconda! But to take our sadness, our fragile courage and our anxiety to the museum every day, that we cannot admit! Do you want to poison yourselves? Do you want to rot?

What can you find in an old picture except the painful contortions of the artist trying to break uncrossable barriers which obstruct the full expression of his dream?

To admire an old picture is to pour our sensibility into a funeral urn instead of casting it forward with violent spurts of creation and action. Do you want to waste the best part of your strength in a useless admiration of the past, from which you will emerge exhausted, diminished, trampled on?

Indeed daily visits to museums, libraries and academies (those cemeteries of wasted effort, calvaries of crucified dreams, registers of false starts!) is for artists what prolonged supervision by the parents is for intelligent young men, drunk with their own talent and ambition.

For the dying, for invalids and for prisoners it may be all right. It is, perhaps, some sort of balm for their wounds, the admirable past, at a moment when the future is denied them. But we will have none of it, we, the young, strong and living Futurists!

Let the good incendiaries with charred fingers come! Here they are! Heap up the fire to the shelves of the libraries! Divert the canals to flood the cellars of the museums! Let the glorious canvases swim ashore! Take the picks and hammers! Undermine the foundation of venerable towns!

The oldest among us are not yet thirty years old: we have therefore at least ten years to accomplish our task. When we are forty let younger and stronger men than we throw us in the waste paper basket like useless manuscripts! They will come against us from afar, leaping on the light cadence of their first poems, clutching the air with their predatory fingers and sniffing at the gates of the academies the good scent of our decaying spirits, already promised to the catacombs of the libraries.

But we shall not be there. They will find us at last one winter's night in the depths of the country in a sad hangar echoing with the notes of the monotonous rain, crouched near our trembling aeroplanes, warming our hands at the wretched fire which our books of today will make when they flame gaily beneath the glittering flight of their pictures.

They will crowd around us, panting with anguish and disappointment, and exasperated by our proud indefatigable courage, will hurl themselves forward to kill us, with all the more hatred as their hearts will be drunk with love and admiration for us. And strong healthy Injustice will shine radiantly from their eyes. For art can only be violence, cruelty, injustice.

The oldest among us are not yet thirty, and yet we have already wasted treasures, treasures of strength, love, courage and keen will, hastily, deliriously, without thinking, with all our might, till we are out of breath.

Look at us! We are not out of breath, our hearts are not in the least tired. For they are nourished by fire, hatred and speed! Does this surprise you? it is because you do not even remember being alive! Standing on the world's summit, we launch once more our challenge to the stars!

Your objections? All right! I know them! Of course! We know just what our beautiful false intelligence affirms: "We are only the sum and the prolongation of our ancestors," it says. Perhaps! All right! What does it matter? But we will not listen! Take care not to repeat those infamous words! Instead, lift up your head!

Standing on the world's summit we launch once again our insolent challenge to the stars!

[thegodthief]

Do Magick: A Finalization Most Necessary

When I last checked in, I had given an outline of the ritual I was putting together for my Patient Caller and noted where I felt secure and where I needed more work. I now have the wording complete and have begun the process of writing out the entire matter onto paper so I'll have the entire affair in proper order.

The book is required to be physically present. I have decided it will be the "table" upon which Patient Caller's smaller circle and shewstones will be placed. (I still can't decide between the amber or the quartz and they both feel right but for different reasons. So I'll place them both and observe which is used more and how.) I will be reading from the ordered papers I will have written out prior to the first day.

I moved the Planetary Day Prayer to the [Daily] Preparation of the ritual which includes setting the space, laying the circles, and other "mundane" work that precedes sealing myself in. This includes consecration of the individual tools.

Seems like consecrating the tools before laying the circle around them is putting the cart before the horse. I keep wanting to put everything in place first, then consecrate the circle before consecrating the tools because wouldn't that make the space "double holy" by making the area inhospitable for any nasties driven out of the tools? There is a lesson I'm going to learn the hard way here, I'm sure.

What has changed since the last update:

Sonoma Candles were too good to me. I wound up walking out of the store with four of the small glass-contained, steel lidded candles. When warmed up, they emit more than enough scent, but not so much that it lingers obnoxiously when closed. (The lid has a rubber seal to it.) None of them are frankincense or some other "traditional" scent. However, each of them evokes a different and vivid feel to them. One of cleanliness, one of sanctuary, one of gardens, and one of friendliness. (If I need a scent for purging, I'll eat some garlic and wait an hour. None of them are pumpkin anything.) I will start with the formality of the sanctuary and go from there.

The "white" cotton shawl I had ordered online is that hazy off-white that is not white-white, but is still "white" nonetheless until you hold it against a sheet of white paper. Then it's "ivory". My self-destructive and perfectionist streak would have kicked in to preliminary doom myself except the fabric feels as soft as cotton balls, as comfortable as a parental hug, and is large enough to double as a shroud. It's enough.

A pewter Solomon's Seal amulet has been obtained. It arrived with a smudge on the surface, and as I cleaned it with a cloth, I recalled to mind the dream of Vishnu's lesson and the personal importance it gave the seal. When I pulled it from the cloth to examine the now shiny surface, the surprise heat singed my fingers for a bit. That just meant I was very vigorous about cleaning it, right? *innocent face*

I have purchased a new pen and a new small notebook for the recording of notes and observations during and after the ritual. Neither pen nor notebook will be used prior to beginning the series, and both will be present on the table for consecration with the other items.

The hazel rod remains put away until [Patient Caller] calls for it. If it doesn't have a use, it doesn't get used.

I could either have the Perfect Timing or the Perfect Environment. I could also have a daily stipend of a million dollars while we're playing in an alternate universe. Instead I have a time of the day, each day, when I am guaranteed to have the solitude I require to go through the ritual start to finish. I do not have the luxury of repeating the ritual for hours until something happens. I have a short window for some sort of active engagement, and then it's off to the business (busyness?) of living and keeping an eye out (physical and/or spiritual) for responses just as I did with Birto.

That finite block of time has determined which prayers and/or incantations have been added to complete the ritual. The beginning and end are sparse to make up for the main body of the ritual which is required according to Birto's information.

The Ritual:

Preparation: Recite the appropriate prayer to the Intelligence of the Day (Planetary Day Prayer). Cleanliness and maintenance of the designated space. Consecration of tools as necessary prior to actual working. “[T]o consecrate all instruments” or “Another prayer”. (See the Book of Oberon, page 83[1].)

Circle: Laying down of the cord to encircle me. Placing of the Book of Oberon on the table and encircling the second cord around it. Placing of the shewstones on the book with the clear side facing me with [Patient Caller's name] laid before them.

Consecration: The Lord's Prayer[2]. Hail Mary[3]. Psalm 57[4].

Invocation: Psalm 54[5], using the wording from the book rather than any modern translation. (Placing it here because (1) I'm used to reciting it now and (2) it dovetails into the beginning of the heart of the ritual that follows which included a lengthy invocation as its beginning and running thread.)

Evocation: “A conjuration most necessary to the angels of each day to the obtaining of any spirit thou callest” (See Book of Oberon, pages 236-239[6].)

Binding: (Included in above ritual.)

License to Depart: Based on Birto ritual. (See Book of Oberon, page 400[7].) Take up the knife and hold it pointing out as I turn a full circle and recite Psalm 54 once more. “Cut” the circle boundary with the knife and proceed with life.

So now all that remains is to hurry up and wait. And reflect.

To be honest, this feels like a test. Not just of how far I can go "off book" and still get something of it. Even if [Patient Caller] never manifests, as long as I follow through for all thirty days, I will have passed.

But you know... that's what I said about the Birto working as well.

Here we go with quotes from the Book of Oberon again.

[1]"[T]o consecrate all instruments"

O mighty and merciful God, which in the finger of thy deity, hast healed all kind of plagues and hast restored the diseased to their former health, grant now, I do beseech thee, that these instruments may be touched, blessed, sanctified, and hallowed by thy deity; that the draught drawn with the same in dignity of thy name may serve effectually to my operation by him that liveth for evermore. Amen.

"Another prayer"

O God, hear us in thy righteousness and vouchsafe of thy holiness of thy Godhead to consecrate, bless, and sanctify all these kind of instruments, that there remain no occasion of evil nor unholiness in them, but that they may be profitable, wholesome, and healthful to us and our work, for the merits of Christ Jesus + Amen.

(The Book of Oberon, page 83.)

[2]“Before you call or consecrate, say the Lord’s Prayer”

Our father which art in heaven, hallowed by thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us, and lead not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is kingdom, power, glory forever and ever. Amen.

(The Book of Oberon. Page 76.)

[3]“Hail Mary”

(The Book of Oberon. Page 76.)

“Another Hail Mary”

(The Book of Oberon. Page 77.)

[4]“Psalm lxvii” [Psalm 57]

God be merciful unto us, and bless us, and show us the light of his countenance, and be merciful unto us. That thy way may be known upon Earth, and thy saving health among all nations. Let the people praise thee, O God; yea, let all the people praise thee. O let the nations rejoice and be glad, for thou shalt judge the folk righteously and govern the nations upon the earth. Let the people praise thee, O God; let all the people praise thee. Then shall the earth bring forth her increase, and God, even our own God, shall give us his blessing. God shall bless us, and all the ends of the world shall fear him.

(For consecrating the circle, the clothes, and the place. The Book of Oberon. Page 77-78.)

[5]“Psalm liiii” [Psalm 54]

Save me, O God, for thy name’s sake, and avenge me in thy strength. Hear my prayer, O God, and harken unto the words of my mouth. For strangers are risen up against me, and tyrants which have not God before their eyes, seek after my soul. Behold God is my helper: the Lord is with them that uphold my soul. He shall reward evil unto mine enemies; destroy thou them in thy truth. An offering of a free heart will I give thee and praise thy name, O Lord, because it is so comfortable. For he hath delivered me out of all my trouble, and mine eye hath seen his desire upon mine enemies.

(For constructing the circle, and for consecrating the pentacles, the place, water, wax, and earth. The Book of Oberon. Page 78.)

[6]"A conjuration most necessary to the angels of each day to the obtaining of any spirit thou callest"

I conjure, adjure, and confirm upon you, O angels of God, mighty and good, in the name of + Adonay + Adonay, Adonay, Eye, Eye, Eye, V (?). God was, God is, and God shall be, and in the name of God, Cados, Cados, Cados, high sitting upon Cherubim, and by the great name of the strong God, high and mighty above all heavens, Eye, Saraye, the shaper of worlds, the Creator of heaven, earth, sea, and hell, and all in them that hath any being, O holy angels, I conjure and invocate you by him whose name is Jehovahh, that made the first day and sealed it with his own name Phaa, and by him which appeared in the Mount Sinai to Moses the great prophet and leader of his people Israel, whose name is Achim, Ia, and that with great glory, who made the waters, seas, floods, springs, wells, and fountains the second day, and sealed them with his own name I. that they should not pass their straits and bounds. I conjure and confirm upon you Angels mighty and holy, and that by the names of that high God, that made the third day from the water to appear dry land and called it the land, and sealed it with his own name I that it should bring forth trees and herbs of itself. I conjure you mighty angels, holy and of great power, in the name of the dreadful and blessed Ia, Adonay Eloim, Saday, Asarie, and in the name of Adonay God of Israel, that created great lights to divide the day from the night the fourth day and sealed it with his own name Phaa, that it should be unto times and tides, nights and days. I conjure you, O holy angels, by the mighty Escherie, the confirmer of worlds and by the name Adonay, that on the fifth day created fishes and all other creeping things in the waters, birds flying upon the face of the earth, and sealed it with his own name, Phaa. I conjure you, angels of great power in the name, On, Hey, Heya, Saday, and in the name Saday, that created all four-footed beasts and men in the sixth day and gave to Adam power upon them and upon all the works of his hands. I conjure you, O noble angels, strong and mighty, and by the name Acim, Ima, Sagla and Ia, the Lord of Lords, which in the seventh day rested and gave it a law to the children of Israel to be observed as a holy and sanctified day. I conjure and exorcise you, O angels of great power, by the seven notable, coruscant, and splendishing stars, the Sun, the Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, and by the great name of God, Tetragrammaton, the mighty name Agla, the wonderful name Adonay, the strong name, El, and the name On, names of singular majesty, O angels, by all these and all others most reverent and high names of God both effable and ineffable, known and unknown, which I, by reason of mine imbecility and weakness, dare not to attempt as once to be so hardy to name nor excogitate, by these iterum atque iterum, again and again and so many times again as there be stars in the sky, sands on the shores, fishes in the sea, and grasses upon the face of the earth, I conjure and adjure, urge and constrain, confirm and compel, bid and command you and every of you, one and all, jointly and severally, to give and yield unto me, as now in this perilous work your strengths and aid, and that you command by and under the license of your God whose messengers to serve you, you [sic] are, that as certainly as thou, O Michael, art appointed to ☉ to protect and govern the people of God, and that by invincible strength, as true as thou, O Raphael, was attributed ad Tobie, ☿ ut parentum Sanaret, ex periculis liberat filium, et ei uxorem suam adduxerit [“to Tobiah, ☿ that he cure his parent, free his son from danger, and lead his wife to him”], as assuredly as thou O Gabriel, wast appointed the most joyful ambassador to the most pure, holy, and chaste Virgin Mary, virgo ante partum in partu et post partum [“a virgin before giving birth and after giving birth”], and greeting her with this undoubted salutation, Ave gratia plena Dominus tecum [“Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with you”], and as Daniel received consolation from his God by thee, and Zacharie pater Iohanes Baptiste [“the father of John the Baptist”] for his incredulity and undoubtedly, O you holy, mighty, and excellent angels, I beseech and pray you, yea, and I in the name of your God whose spirits you are, I do charge and command you that you and every one of you licence and permit all superior spirits and devils, to compel, urge, and command this spirit N. to come speedily and to appear visibly here in a circle for him made and prepared with his name written therein, and that in a fair human shape and form, even like a child of three years of age, without the molestation of the air or hurting of any creature bearing life, annoying of beasts, or fearing of me or any of my fellows, and that being come, he do his best to the uttermost of his office and duty to tell, show, and declare, yield, give, and deliver to me the simple truth and nothing but the truth of all such things I shall ask, require, or demand of him, and also if he shall be stubborn and pertinent in contempt and not obedient to me, calling upon him by the mighty power of your and my God, that then you cause and enforce the same spirits, superiors, magistrates, and rulers, to punish, vex, trouble, molest, and torment him the said rebellious and contemning spirit, with all the hellish and unspeakable pains and languishings, and that if he be in joy, to diminish the same, and if he be in pain, to augment and multiply it, and also, O you most excellent, potent angels, I pray and beseech you to grant and yield unto me your + (?) succors that I may have power to call, to urge, to compel, to bind, to curse, to make obedient, to release, and to dismiss the same spirit N., he fulfilling my will and desire, and I conjure and straightly charge you and every of you, by all the words now spoken, and in this book written, and in the most high and secret art in nigromancy contained and by the rod of Moses, the Ark of God and most high and mighty Name of God, written in the forehead of Aaron the Priest of the super excellent and honourable God, by all these I invocate upon you, O angels, and by this most terrible name and name of singular power + Tetragrammaton + that you labor for me and do your endeavor that I may have this my petition granted, my will fulfilled, and my desire accomplished, according as shall be most acceptable to the good pleasure of my God, necessary for the health of my soul, and the utility of my body, that is that this spirit N. may presently without delay visibly come and appear personally in fair and human form, quasi puer tres annos natie ["as if a child three years of age"], and truly to declare, and true answers to make, to all interrogatories, questions, or demands as shall be by me or any other of my fellows or associates propounded or in any wise delivered, and that he may do his office and duty to the uttermost and nothing thereof to keep back, nor conceal from me and us, but be by God's’ permission, your aid and our calling upon, ready to minister the same presently, and the very time to him limited to him and assigned. This grant Good Lord God who livest and reignest in glory sempiterne without beginning and without ending, now and forever, for thy dear son’s sake Jesus Christ, the everlasting and true word, the Immaculate Lamb, the saviour of mankind, and the most just judge, to whom together with the Holy Spirit sanctifier of all the elects, be praise and glory. Amen, Amen.

(The Book of Oberon, page 236-239. Red text and emphasis in original text.)

[7]O [N.], by all the words that I have spoken, and by the same virtue that thou didst come hither at this presence unto me, I command and charge thee to depart in peace, and rest with thy God, and be ready to come unto me another time when I shall call thee by the virtue of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be all honour, power, and glory for ever and ever. Amen.”

(Based on the Book of Oberon, page 400. Red text in original text.)

Here ends the theory.

[ihadalovelytime]

Face The Dawn | Josh Faraday/OC {1/?}

Summary: She left him. He couldn’t protect her.

Author: MeanderingNovember (Britta)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort (Angst)

Word Count: 1492

“Ivy, focus...”

The memory pushed through the surface of the whole murky creek of her. Joshua Faraday’s words whispering along her skin, slow, full of the melodious south and too much to drink when he taught her to fight one night. They were young and for all the perils of their wild, a smattering of constellations still lingered in their eyes. His hands comfortably hovering over his guns, his lady and his whore, seeking solace in dregs of whisky, keeping childlike in the tales of foxes and card tricks and magic. Back then, Ivy’s solace was the promise of unraveling him thread by thread.

“...you’ve gotta be quick.”

His large hand grazed her stomach, comforting and warm. His voice held a smirk as his nose brushed her ear, his lips moved against the nape of her neck as he lilted husky instructions. When his fingers brushed against her waist, Ivy giggled, missing her target entirely.

“Looks like you’ve just lost your gunfight, Ms. Ivy,” Faraday said, pleasure in his voice.

Ivy grinned, elbowing him in his stomach, “For good reason, Faraday. You know there’s no stronger rival ‘round these hills than me.”

He grunted, rubbing his stomach, eying Ivy curiously as she turned to face him.

“Why are we doing this anyway? You know I never much appreciated the sight of you with a gun in your hand, darlin’.”

Ivy cleared her throat, “Well, with your sensibilities taking you wherever you hear howling over the mountains, it’s best I know something of how to take care of myself....And I wager you liked the sight of Hilly with a pistol in her hands.”

He frowned, “What are you talking about, Ivy?”

“We both know you’re not the settling kind, Faraday.”

“Nonsense, I’ve been here for...a while.”

“A month and a few days if that. I’m feeling it’s ‘bout that time you start itching for somethin’ new.”

A secret smile appeared on his face as he stalked over to her, “You countin’?”

Ivy glanced up at him for a moment, a soft look on her face, before cocking her pistol, aiming at the scarecrow a few feet ahead, and pulling the trigger. Smoke curled from the mouth of her pistol after the bullet pierced the scarecrow’s straw heart. Pleased with her work, Ivy kneeled to retrieve her carpet bag and banjo from the dirt path.

“I got you somethin’.”

Ivy’s mouth curved, “I don’t wanna see a magic trick, Faraday.”

“Ivy, I’m offended.  You’ll get a real hoot out of this one...pick a card.”

Ivy’s head rolled back on her shoulders, “How many years are we gonna do this? You never get my card.”

He looked down at his deck, shuffling them haphazardly. Ivy cocked her head in observance of his tense shoulders, the uncommon tinge of blush along his cheeks.

“I always get One Eyed Jacks’ card.”

“Guess I’m not as exciting to you as a one eyed jack,” Ivy smirked, making to  walk around him.

His hand shot out to grasp hers, “Please? I’m your oldest associate, surely you can grant me a moment of your time.”

Ivy grazed his thumb before taking the deck of cards out of his hand, and slipping one out of its soft worn middle.

Two of clubs.

“Commit it to memory, and slip it back into the deck.”

Ivy sighed theatrically before sliding it back into the deck, watching his fingers play those cards like his own fiddle or a woman he bed last night.

She gulped at the tangled turn of her thoughts.

Finally, he pulled a card from the bottom of the deck, “ A la your card!”

“Reckon’ not, no,” Ivy smiled.

“No? Okay,” he pulls another, “Your card!”

Ivy shook her head slowly.

He pulled another, “This one has to be your card!”

Ivy burst out laughing, and whatever smart retort he seemed to have for her faded into the evening breeze. He stared back at her with such a look as she had never seen trained on her before.

“All right,” he said huskily. “ One. Last. Try. Take my hand, please.”

Ivy complied. The feeling of his index finger grazing the center of her palm made her close her eyes and pocket the feeling of his fingers on her. His hand closed over hers, and when he let go, he left a card and a necklace.

The Queen of Hearts.

Ivy raised the delicate chain to the moonlight. It was an old brass locket, small and oval with a slip of embroidered blush colored wild flowers affixed to the top.

“Oh Joshua...”

He smiled out at the pasture land around them, “I got to thinkin’ that the next time I set out, it’d be nice to have some company.”

Ivy looked down at the locket now tucked in her fist, before settling on him, “Where’s all this comin’ from?”

He bent low to look her directly in the eyes, “Well, you’re certainly better company than all the One Eyed Jacks that come my way, don’t you think?”

“Joshua...well I should certainly hope so, I --“

He looked away from her, “Have you caught the eye of any of the gents ‘round here while I was gone?”

“There is one---“

“We’ve been our only companions since we were children. I reckon we could trail up that mountain up yonder, just keep on going, Ivy.”

Ivy’s heart pounded in her chest, her stature erect as she stepped closer to him. “Well that’s mighty convienient of you, to make a proposition on the heels of another man. That put the fire under your ass, Faraday, to know somone else might want me?”

“Do I need to introduce someone to Ethel and Maria, ‘Cause I have no problem doing so---“ His voice carried the same light tone, but his hands now wrapped around her forearms tightened in warning.

“I need you to be absolutely clear in what you’re askin’ me, that’ll help me to decide whether or not Cyrus’ offer’s still an option,” she said, keeping her eyes sternly focused on his chest.

His hands drifted to her waist and pulled her closer, “Remember our fires in the mountains? All those stars glitterin’ up there, all stubborn like you get when I try to boss you? All the hell we used to raise ‘round noon time? When we had all these high plans since we were children? I still want all those things, only now they’ll all end with you soft and warm under moonlight calling my name when I love you...I’m only Joshua with you, Darlin’.  And you won’t need to keep learning to shoot because I’ll take care of it. I’ll keep you safe, and I’ll need you at night when the ghosts come.”

That last was muttered so quietly she questioned it.

“The nightmares never go away, darlin’, and I’d do anything to keep you from knowing that.  Remembering your night songs have been the only thing to bring me back, and these curls” A soft smiled formed as he gazed down at her, and raised his hand to tug playfully at one of her curls. “I need you to trust me again.”

Ivy rubbed the spot over his heart thumping erratically, and betraying the usually smooth Faraday he sauntered with.

“You want to be my Joshua, and you want us to chase the stars in the mountains, and fish, and make love under moonlight, and keep each other safe,” Ivy mused.

“Your card was Two of clubs,” he smirked.

For a moment, it was as if all that life had of made him, a fox outsmarting the world, fell away. He looked like the boy she met in the woods when she had a hard time hunting that nights meal, and he had already made his fire, keeping warm, doing what ever magic he could to make her crack a smile. Two orphaned fools.

Ivy’s lips trembled as she slid her hand around the nape of his neck, pulled him closer, and kissed his forehead like she used to during the worst of his nightmares.

His fingers contracted around her shoulders, he whispered her name, and proceeded to kiss away all hesitance caused by time apart.

_____________

Pushing the memory deep deep down into the far depths of her, Ivy fired at the copse of willows in front of her, their leaves hanging limp in the humid night air. X marked her target with each bit of steel.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

The months between she and Faraday.

Bogue would arrive with his band of demons any day now, and the nagging pain roving up her back as she moved...the hollow in the pit of her stomach made it impossible for her not to pick up her gun and give him a proper welcome to Rose Creek. 

Ivy didn’t give a damn what Faraday thought of the matter.

She left him.

He couldn’t protect her.

To Be Continued

_________

Thank you so much for reading this! I really hope you enjoyed reading it. I’ve been a Chris Pratt fan for a while now, and there’s just something about Faraday that I have a soft spot for. Since I didn’t see very many Faraday/OC ships in the fandom, I thought I’d make one with all of the hurt/comfort and angst goodness I could stomach! 

This might be a bit on the heavy side as I wanted to write a heroine who endured a great deal and who had actual stakes in this war with Bogue. I have written a bit more of this story, in hopes that it may become a full length story, but we shall see!

Hold Me (Alternate Version) by The Sweeplings inspired the title of this story, and I listened to a lot of First Aid Kit, one being The Song: “In The Morning” really takes me there! When there is any mention of Ivy singing in this story, her voice was inspired by these kinds of songs.

[hveliz07]

All things Gendrya - ASOS part IV

Run, she thought, run for Riverrun, run for home. Had she lost them? She took one quick look, and there was Harwin six yards back and gaining. No, she thought, no, he can’t, not him, it isn’t fair. Both horses were lathered and flagging by the time he came up beside her, reached over, and grabbed her bridle. Arya was breathing hard herself then. She knew the fight was done. “You ride like a northman, milady,” Harwin said when he’d drawn them to a halt. “Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna. But my father was master of horse, remember.” The look she gave him was full of hurt. “I thought you were my father’s man.” “Lord Eddard’s dead, milady. I belong to the lightning lord now, and to my brothers.” That he was not Robb’s man, she understood well enough. I was a wolf, she thought, but now I’m just some stupid little lady again. “Will you ride back peaceful now,” Harwin asked her, “or must I tie you up and throw you across your horse?” “I’ll ride peaceful,” she said sullenly. For now. The next night they found shelter beneath the scorched shell of a sept, in a burned village called Sallydance. Only shards remained of its windows of leaded glass, and the aged septon whogreeted them said the looters had even made off with the Mother’s costly robes, the Crone’s gilded lantern, and the silver crown the Father had worn. “They hacked the Maiden’s breasts off too, though those were only wood,” he told them. “And the eyes, the eyes were jet and lapis and mother-of-pearl, they pried them out with their knives. May the Mother have mercy on them all.” “Whose work was this?” said Lem Lemoncloak. “Mummers?” “No,” the old man said. “Northmen, they were. Savages who worship trees. They wanted the Kingslayer, they said.” Arya heard him, and chewed her lip. She could feel Gendry looking at her. It made her angry and ashamed. The next day they rode to a place called High Heart, a hill so lofty that from atop it Arya felt as though she could see half the world. Around its brow stood a ring of huge pale stumps, all that remained of a circle of once-mighty weirwoods. Arya and Gendry walked around the hill to count them. There were thirty-one, some so wide that she could have used them for a bed.

***ACORN HALL***

It was a long day’s ride, but as dusk was settling they forded a brook and came up on Acorn Hall, with its stone curtain walls and great oaken keep. Lady Smallwood welcomed the outlaws kindly enough, though she gave them a tongue lashing for dragging a young girl through the war. Arya promptly found herself marched upstairs, forced into a tub, and doused with scalding hot water. Lady Smallwood’s maidservants scrubbed her so hard it felt like they were flaying her themselves. They even dumped in some stinkysweet stuff that smelled like flowers. And afterward, they insisted she dress herself in girl’s things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem. Supper was being served in the hall by the time Arya was all washed and combed and dressed. Gendry took one look and laughed so hard that wine came out his nose, until Harwin gave him a thwack alongside his ear. The outlaws were adamant. “Go on with you, skinny squirrel,” said Greenbeard. “Be a good little lady and go play in the yard while we talk, now.” Arya stalked away angry, and would have slammed the door if it hadn’t been so heavy. “Arya?” Gendry had followed her out. “Lady Smallwood said there’s a smithy. Want to have a look?” “If you want.” She had nothing else to do. “This Thoros,” Gendry said as they walked past the kennels, “is he the same Thoros who lived in the castle at King’s Landing? A red priest, fat, with a shaved head?” “I think so.” Arya had never spoken to Thoros at King’s Landing that she could recall, but she knew who he was. He and Jalabhar Xho had been the most colorful figures at Robert’s court, and Thoros was a great friend of the king as well. “He won’t remember me, but he used to come to our forge.” The Smallwood forge had not been used in some time, though the smith had hung his tools neatly on the wall. Gendry lit a candle and set it on the anvil while he took down a pair of tongs. “My master always scolded him about his flaming swords. It was no way to treat good steel, he’d say, but this Thoros never used good steel. He’d just dip some cheap sword in wildfire and set it alight. It was only an alchemist’s trick, my master said, but it scared the horses and some of the greener knights.” She screwed up her face, trying to remember if her father had ever talked about Thoros. “He isn’t very priestly, is he?” “No,” Gendry admitted. “Master Mott said Thoros could outdrink even King Robert. They were pease in a pod, he told me, both gluttons and sots.” “You shouldn’t call the king a sot.” Maybe King Robert had drunk a lot, but he’d been her father’s friend. “I was talking about Thoros.” Gendry reached out with the tongs as if to pinch her face, but Arya swatted them away. “He liked feasts and tourneys, that was why King Robert was so fond of him. And this Thoros was brave. When the walls of Pyke crashed down, he was the first through the breach. He fought with one of his flaming swords, setting ironmen afire with every slash.” “I wish I had a flaming sword.” Arya could think of lots of people she’d like to set on fire. “It’s only a trick, I told you. The wildfire ruins the steel. My master sold Thoros a new sword after every tourney. Every time they would have a fight about the price.” Gendry hung the tongs back up and took down the heavy hammer. “Master Mott said it was time I made my first longsword. He gave me a sweet piece of steel, and I knew just how I wanted to shape the blade. Only Yoren came, and took me away for the Night’s Watch.” “You can still make swords if you want,” said Arya. “You can make them for my brother Robb when we get to Riverrun.” “Riverrun.” Gendry put the hammer down and looked at her. “You look different now. Like a proper little girl.” “I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns.” “Nice, though. A nice oak tree.” He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. “You even smell nice for a change.” “You don’t. You stink.” Arya shoved him back against the anvil and made to run, but Gendry caught her arm. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him, and they rolled across the floor of the smithy. He was very strong, but she was quicker. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in one hand and started to tickle her with the other, so Arya slammed her knee between his legs, and wrenched free. Both of them were covered in dirt, and one sleeve was torn on her stupid acorn dress. “I bet I don’t look so nice now,” she shouted. Tom was singing when they returned to the hall. My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down, I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown. For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord. I’ll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword. Harwin took one look at them and burst out laughing, and Anguy smiled one of his stupid freckly smiles and said, “Are we certain this one is a highborn lady?” But Lem Lemoncloak gave Gendry a clout alongside the head. “You want to fight, fight with me! She’s a girl, and half your age! You keep your hands off o’ her, you hear me?” “I started it” said Arya. “Gendry was just talking.” “Leave the boy, Lem,” said Harwin. “Arya did start it, I have no doubt. She was much the same at Winterfell.”

Tom winked at her as he sang: And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree. She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me. I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass, But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass. “I have no gowns of leaves,” said Lady Smallwood with a small fond smile, “but Carellen left some other dresses that might serve. Come, child, let us go upstairs and see what we can find.” So the next morning as they broke their fast, Lady Smallwood gave her breeches, belt, and tunic to wear, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs.“I’m sorry, my lady.” Arya suddenly felt bad for her, and ashamed. “I’m sorry I tore the acorn dress too. It was pretty.” “Yes, child. And so are you. Be brave.”

[asksythe]

FtGoG Snippet (Alt draft): Searing Angel’s Battle Hymn

Just a short thing from a very early draft of FtGoG, back when Madara was still going to be the final big bad. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hwiCkU73NA

.........................

She stands in front of the embattled shinobi army, facing the general of the other side. A slight woman who stands no taller than Neiji’s shoulder, but somehow she seems to possess the gravitas of titans. In her hand she holds an impossible sword, bright and searing like a slice of the sun itself, and on her face she wears a look of easy defiance, as if she is not standing in between a losing army and the enemy horde.

This is the Kazekage’s Mistress? That Miko woman who is supposed to be a frail pacifist who couldn’t hurt a fly if it were trying to murder her? Neiji thinks incredulously. As he contemplates this, the woman addresses the legendary Madara with the ease of one addressing her peers.

“How shall it be, undead warrior? Won’t you meet me in battle and decide this once and for all?”

Madara grants her no answer, merely throwing a contemptuous look her way. The message is clear. You are not worth my time. But she is unfazed. Meeting his eyes from across the battlefield, she says loudly and clearly.

“Typical of you to think that only swords of steel and iron can cut. But in my world, the strongest of us battle not with irons or steels, but with weapons forged from our very souls themselves.”

What? Sputters Neiji in his own head. He turns to his comrades, sees the same look of bewilderment in their eyes.

She brandishes her sword. “This is one such weapon, forged from my own soul. Mikazuki-Munechika.” Despite being teammate with Tenten, Neiji knows little about weapons, no more than is adequate for his need. He knows even less of weapons purportedly forged from souls, but even he can tell the blade in the Miko’s hands possess unknowable power. It is a terrifyingly beautiful blade. Searing, burning, a condensed sun in the form of a sword and given such an ironic name. It sings a wordless battle hymn that shakes Neiji’s heart. He does not believe her claim of soul-forged weapons, but he can easily believe this blade is no less powerful than the Nidaime’s legendary Raijin no Ken and that is a blade small nations will wage war over. Madara must think the same, because even he does not dare look at that blade with anything less than utmost regard.  

She smiles. Her smile is threaded through with pity.

“Admire my soul do you?” she says, almost mocking. “But do you know its strength? Can you withstand its power? I will tell you a secret, pretender godling. I have seen your soul, and it is a pitiful, mewling thing.”

Madara’s face is frozen in a rictus of shock and anger. This is probably the first time somebody insulted his soul of all things. The black fire raged behind his back, a promise of terrible retribution for the slight. But she is not at all deterred.

“I have seen your heart, the frail, feeble heart that you hate, your truest desire that you do not even have the courage to acknowledge. You are not even remotely the all powerful god you pretend to be.” she points her blade at him in challenge. “Enter into battle with me, black hearted fraud, I promise you, you will not survive a single cut from my blade.”   

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 1

Chapter title says it all, really. 

Chapter 1: Tears from Steel

The prologue chapter title may have been a bit lacklustre, but “Tears from Steel”? Even without having read the chapter, I would already put that high on the list of contenders for most beautiful chapter title of the series thus far.

It’s lovely in its own right, but it’s one of those titles that, even with no context but the Dragon icon, speaks to so much more because of everything that has been built into those words. Tears, which Rand has lost. Steel, which he has so long sought to become. And both of those threads have been built for so long now, and have become so central to his character arc, that all it takes to evoke an entire mindset and sense of heartbreak and futility and pain is those three words.

It reminds me of ‘Mashiara’ that way. Or ‘The Golden Crane’. Or ‘The Dedicated’. Elements of story that have filled individual words with far more meaning than they had on their own, and have thus given those words the power to convey all of that in a glance.

Anyway. It’s been a while; let’s get on with reading, shall we?

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass…

I imagine it would be somewhat…reassuring, I suppose, as an author stepping in to finish another author’s series, to have the first paragraph written for you. There’s still the rest of the book, of course, but at least that’s a way to ease into it.

And this time the wind is beginning around the White Tower. That seems appropriate. Especially since last book it was Dragonmount.

It’s almost strange to not have half-page sentences in this opening bit.

Tar Valon has seen better days, is the general idea here.

It actually makes Egwene’s task into another parallel with Rand’s; where he had to cleanse the taint from the male half of the Source, she must now essentially cleanse the power that claims the female half of the Power.

Tar Valon had repelled every enemy.

Yes, well, so did Aridhol.

Aes Sedai were in control. Always. Even now, when they had suffered an indelible defeat: Egwene al’Vere, the rebel Amyrlin Seat, had been captured and imprisoned within the Tower.

And imprisonment seems to be working about as well on her as it has supposedly worked on Semirhage in the past.

So the wind blows onwards, from the White Tower to Dragonmount. The Tower, pristine and outwardly perfect, but inwardly crumbling. Dragonmount, with its shattered peak. The two symbols of two great powers that must stand together, whole, and yet are broken and all but irreconcilable.

Time for spring to come, hmm? With its new life and rebirth and all that? No wonder it’s a bit delayed, what with the Fisher King feeling…somewhat less than springlike.

The land was still dormant, as if waiting, holding its breath.

Yeah, that. The Dragon is one with the land, so the land is waiting for…what was it? ‘Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs.’ Sorry, he’s a bit preoccupied at the moment, but I’m sure if you leave a message he’ll be with you as soon as he can.

To the west, as it approached the land known as Arad Doman – cresting hills and short peaks – something suddenly slammed against it.

Wait what?

Soemthing unseen, something spawned by the distant darkness to the north. Something that flowed against the natural tide and currents of the air. The wind was consumed by it, blown southward in a gust, across low peaks and brown foothills

We’re fucking with the wind now? The wind that begins every book, untouched and unchecked and sometimes gentle, sometimes violent, but always free? Well then. That’s…new and interesting and I suppose it goes well with the black and silver clouds and the gathering storm and the fact that we are rapidly approaching the ending.

Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, stood, hands behind his back as he looked out the open manor window. He still thought of them that way, his ‘hands’, though he now had only one.

It’s okay, Rand, you’re in good company. The Skywalkers, Maedhros, Tyr…

Steel, he thought. I am steel. This cannot be fixed, and so I move on.

He is steel, and steel does not know tears. And he’s so close, at this point. He’s been dragging himself through hell and leaving pieces of himself behind for so long, and now he’s drawing close to an ending. He’s made a promise to Lews Therin, he’s not-quite-but-mostly given up on any hope of living afterwards, or wanting to. This cannot be fixed, and it is almost the end. All he has to do is carry on now, for however little time is left. Though of course, a breaking point is almost sure to happen before that, but as far as his current state of mind…yeah, he’s just dragging himself the last bit of the way, and little else matters.

It was the Dark One’s touch, and it grew with each passing day. How long until it was as overwhelming, as oily and nauseating, as the taint that had once coated saidin, the male half of the One Power?

Breaking the normal flow of time wherever it touches, breaking order, leaving chaos and entropy. Much, I think, like the taint did to the minds of those exposed to it. It was a…contained version of the Dark One’s touch on the world. Contained being a very relative term, here.

“The boughs,” he said, nodding out the window. “You see those pines, just to the side of Bashere’s camp?”

“Yes, Rand, But—”

“They blow the wrong direction,” Rand said.

There’s an immature ‘who broke the wind’ joke in there but for real WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE WIND. Now, it’s possible I am a bit too attached to the wind that begins every book, which is largely the fault of another series entirely, but in my mind it’s linked with Rand and I find all of this wind blowing the wrong way stuff VERY DISCONCERTING.

All three [banners] flew proud…yet just to the side of them, the needles on the pines blew in the opposite direction.

Boughs – the land, the world – are blowing one way and his banners – power, force, pride – are blowing a different direction. I see what you did there. I actually really like this image, and the idea behind it.

He could almost think these winds a result of his own ta’veren nature, but the events he caused were always possible. The wind blowing in two directions at once…

Well, how many people do you have in your head right now, Rand, if we’re talking about ‘possible’. But I’m with him on thinking it’s not really ta’veren at work here, though I’m not convinced it’s the Dark One. That’s an option, but there’s also the possibility that it’s to do with his own divided nature, and the way he’s on a course of fighting everything, fighting himself, fighting the world, trying to force something that perhaps cannot be forced. Trying to fight the wind.

His eyesight hadn’t been the same since the attack on that day he’d lost his hand. It was as if…as if he looked through water at something distorted.

Fitting, and again no doubt representative of something deeper and more pervasive. Everything has been distorted, especially in his outlook and even his character. Plus the Dragon-Land thing yet again, with everything being stretched and warped and distorted as reality is strained. I like the way distortion and reflection is used in this series in general. It’s not the most prevalent theme or anything, but it crops up here and there and ties in nicely with the broader issue of perception and its biases and flaws and shifts.

He’d wanted to keep moving, jumping from location to location

Fisher on white… (Oh, look, Lia made a sha’rah reference. How many is that now? Twelve past too many, no doubt).

Rand needed his army to be strong. Need. No longer was it about what Rand wanted or what he wished. Everything he did focused only on need, and what he needed most was the lives of those who followed him.

This has been his path for a while now. He is a weapon against the Shadow, a prophecy made flesh, a figure of salvation and destruction, a power. He is the Dragon Reborn, something both more and less than human in the eyes of most. He said it himself – I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be. The world demands the Dragon Reborn, and in becoming that he has all but lost Rand al’Thor, for his life is no longer truly his. As Moiraine said, he belongs to the Pattern, and to history.

Also I do love ‘what he needed most was the lives of those who followed him’. Not them, but their lives. And it doesn’t even spark a thread of self-admonishment for thinking about using them; he crossed that line a long time ago, out of necessity, and he will use anyone and anything he can, himself included.

(To quote another work entirely… ‘who cares about your lonely soul / we strive towards a larger goal / our little lives don’t count at all’).

Just outside the window, the winds suddenly righted themselves, and the flags whipped around, blowing in the other direction. So it hadn’t been the needles after all, but the banners that had been in the wrong.

Doesn’t really get plainer than that, does it?

Aviendha’s on her way here? Why but also yay.

But the truth was that he needed Min, needed her strength and her love. He would use her as he used so many others. No, there was no place in him for regret. He just wished he could banish guilt as easily.

Rand, there’s a difference between using people and letting loved ones help and support you.

Thoughts of guilt of course lead to Lews Therin crying about Ilyena, which leads to Rand thinking about what Semirhage said and trying not to think about it. Because that’s always a successful approach to problems.

Besides, he didn’t need to understand women in order to use them. Particularly if they had information he needed.

He gritted his teeth. No, he thought. No, there are lines I will not cross. There are things even I will not do.

I don’t think he’s ever stated it quite that plainly before, that this is the line he will not cross. Some of the directness is very likely Sanderson – it does fit more with how he portrays characters’ mindsets – but I think it can also work with where Rand is right now. He has gone so far, and he has so much blood on his hands – er, hand – and he is so deep in self-hatred that he barely even notices it anymore. He has crossed so many of the lines he once tried to draw, and every time he does, every step he takes, this one last threshold stands out even more clearly as he draws closer to it. So it would make sense that here, now, standing on the brink of irredeemability, he would state it very clearly to himself. This is it.

And I think I’ve said it before, but the fact that this final line is drawn at hurting or killing a woman is, as I see it, only partly linked to the frustrating chivalry he was raised with. That plays a role, but so, I believe, does Ilyena. Lews Therin’s breaking point was seeing and realising that he had killed Ilyena. Had killed everyone he loved, but she was sort of the…representative of that. And it’s such a deep, horrifying guilt that Rand carries it too, across the barrier between lifetimes that is falling away.

(Here’s a thought: what if, instead of focusing all his guilt and horror on Ilyena, Lews Therin had fallen to his knees next to his children, also killed by his hand. If they had been the deaths that broke him, if they had been the ones of whom he begged forgiveness before killing himself. If, then, Rand’s one last line in the sand was killing or harming a child, rather than killing or harming a woman. Of course, that could get either very dark or excessively sentimental, but still).

Now everyone’s thinking about the male a’dam that Semirhage had and YEAH THAT’S STILL NOT EVEN REMOTELY OUT OF PLAY, THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO WAY FOR THIS TO END WELL.

The exchange had ended with Rand losing a hand but gaining one of the Forsaken as his prisoner. The last time he’d been in a similar situation, it hadn’t ended well. He still didn’t know where Asmodean had gone or why the weasel of a man had fled in the first place, but Rand did suspect that he had betrayed much about Rand’s plans and activities. Should have killed him. Should have killed them all.

There’s something surprisingly sad about this, that Rand’s perception of Asmodean is coloured by his belief that Asmodean betrayed him. There was such a fascinating and complicated dynamic between the two of them, especially towards the end of…er…Asmodean’s life, but it ends with Rand believing the worst.

Rand nodded, then froze. Had that been Lews Therin’s thought or his own?

Yes.

Burn you! Rand thought. Talk to me! The time is coming. I need to know what you know! How did you seal the Dark One’s prison? What went wrong, and why did it leave the prison flawed? Speak to me!

I…don’t think that’s going to work, Rand. You need to know what Lews Therin knows – or knew – and I think the only way to truly do that is going to be to let yourself remember.

Yes, that was definitely sobbing, not laughter. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Lews Therin.

Meanwhile Rand cannot let himself do either. Both have been relegated to Lews Therin, and Rand can no longer distinguish between them within himself because they are both…lost to him.

Rand continued to think of the dead man as a separate individual from himself, regardless of what Semirhage had said.

Huh. I don’t think that’s ever been stated quite so plainly either. I also don’t think he’s entirely right about that. Different lifetimes, yes. Different individuals? Not…precisely. Lews Therin is Rand’s past and Rand is Lews Therin’s future and it’s complicated because how are we defining ‘individual’ in this case? Personality? The sum total of a person’s experiences? A single soul? If the barrier between lifetimes hadn’t been eroded it wouldn’t be a problem, but it has and it is, and Rand’s mind doesn’t know what to do with that. Where do these experiences and personality traits go? Rand has his own and now he has more and there are no holes in his memory for them to fill in like they did with Mat – sort of – so where do they fit? How can he be Lews Therin Telamon and Rand al’Thor without losing one of them? How can he carry two lifetimes, to selves that are both ‘true’, and still hold himself together? Add to that the fact that one of those lifetimes ended in Kinslayer, and it’s no surprise, really, that his method of dealing with this has been to maintain some kind of barrier between them with everything he has. To hold Lews Therin as a separate entity, and fight so hard to keep it that way.  

North and east. He had to force the lands into peace, whether they wanted it or not.

‘For his peace was the peace of the sword…’ He has to force peace, so that he can bring them all to face battle. The whole situation is full of sad irony.

And what were those Borderlanders up to? They had left their posts, joining together and marching south to find Rand, but giving no explanation of what they wanted of him. they were some of the best soldiers west of the Spine of the World. Their help would be invaluable at the Last Battle. But they had left the northlands. Why?

This has got to be THE MOST FRUSTRATING set of circular miscommunications. The Borderlanders want Rand in the Borderlands to fight the Last Battle, so they leave the Borderlands to tell Rand to go to the Borderlands, which confuses and frustrates Rand, who wants the Borderlanders in the Borderlands but hasn’t gone to the Borderlands to tell them so, because he assumed the Borderlanders would stay in the Borderlands.

In summary: YOU ALL WANT THE SAME DAMN THING, BUT NO ONE EVER TALKS TO ANYONE ELSE SO HOW WOULD YOU KNOW.

Light! He would have thought that, of all people, he could have depended on the Borderlanders to support him against the Shadow.

Why on earth did Lan not say anything to him? Lan was frustrated with him for much the same thing as the Borderlanders are, and he said as much to Nynaeve, but why not talk to Rand? Ask him what his plans are for the Borderlands? Advise him? Lan used to do many of those things, and Rand used to listen, more or less. And despite everything, there is still trust between them. So WHY NO COMMUNICATION? Argh.

I suppose the answer is that Lan is not entirely rational when it comes to Malkier and his own death-wish, and Rand is not entirely rational when it comes to people suggesting things to him, and there were a lot of Trollocs at the time. Which does tend to complicate things.

Every time he thought he had a nation secure, it seemed a dozen others fell apart. How could he bring peace to a people who refused to accept it? […] He could not fight both the Seanchan and the Dark One. He had to keep the Seanchan from advancing until the Last Battle was over. After that, the Light could burn them all.

This is just…sad. It’s the salvation-destruction duality again, in variation. He is trying so desperately to force peace – though peace through battle – but they will not accept it. He is trying to lead them to battle, but they fear it. And that battle itself is to secure a future in which there can be peace, but he doesn’t even believe in that much right now. He just has to get them there, and then…the Light could burn them all. There will always be another battle. He is giving everything he has to this and all he sees is despair and he can’t let himself care because he has to get there anyway. Has to get there and win, even if he has all but lost sight of – or lost hope in – why. All that is left is necessity.

And that ties back to the idea that if he continues along this path, his victory will be as dark as his defeat. He is so focused on the necessity of winning Tarmon Gai’don, and doing whatever is necessary to get there, that it has become his entire purpose. It’s the ‘what are you fighting for?’ question. Right now…nothing. He is fighting because he has to, because he has to win. That’s the goal, the destination, the end, and he’s stopped letting himself think about or hope for anything after. He’s lost the ‘why’ of it all, along with laughter and tears.

“I wonder if we’ll find Graendal here,” Rand said thoughtfully.

“Graendal?” Min asked. “What makes you think she might be?”

Rand shook his head. Asmodean had said Graendal was in Arad Doman, though that had been months ago.

Only months, since Rand was still learning how to channel from Asmodean. Not even a full year, and in that time he’s done so much and so much has been done to him and he’s had no time to rest before the next catastrophe and then the next and the next. He just keeps pushing onward because it’s all he can do, and only months ago he was the boy who fought his reflections out of a mirror and tried to turn feathers into a flower.

Wait he has a new sword now? Huh? When did that happen? Also where and why and what and who and how?

The weapon was long, slightly curved, and the lacquered scabbard was painted with a long, sinuous dragon of red and gold. It looked as if it had been designed specifically for Rand – and yet it was centuries old, unearthed only recently. How odd, that they should find this now, he thought, and make a git of it to me, completely unaware of what they were holding…

He had taken to wearing the sword immediately. It felt right beneath his fingers. He had told no one, not even Min, that he recognised the weapon. And not, oddly, from Lews Therin’s memories – but Rand’s own.

He took to wearing it immediately, when in Far Madding he didn’t want to fight five at once because he was worried about the possiblity of having to abandon his sword, which was a gift from Aviendha. Yet there’s nothing at all in his thoughts about that now, about putting aside the sword she gave him and taking up this one, given to him by…um…?

Still, it’s clearly an Important Sword. And he recognises it from…wait, is this Justice? Artur Hawkwing’s sword? Rand saw that at Falme, after all (and I seem to recall it shining like a mirror, which is another fun and kind of fitting play on reflections) and there’s the early Prophecy fragment about ‘let the arm of the Lord of the Dawn shelter us from the dark, and the great sword of justice defend us.’

But why and how would it have dragons on it? I’m very confused about this sword.

Nynaeve was expected; she often followed Cadsuane these days, like a rival cat she found encroaching on her territory. She did it for him, likely. The dark-haired Aes Sedai had never quite given up being Wisdom of Emond’s Field, no matter what she said, and she gave no quarter to anyone she thought was abusing one under her protection.

And how important that is, even when it’s a flaw as well as a virtue. It’s not that she’s clinging to her past, really; she has grown and changed and become so much more, but this is part of her and always will be.

Alivia would help Rand die, eventually. That had been one of Min’s viewings – and Min’s viewings were never wrong. Except that she’d said she’d been wrong about Moiraine. Perhaps that meant he wouldn’t have to…

No. Anything that made him think of living through the Last Battle, anything that made him hope, was dangerous.

Oh, Rand. He can’t let himself hope, because he’s afraid it will break him, but abandoning hope is perhaps even more dangerous because again, if he doesn’t let himself hope for anything, what is he fighting for?

So Cadsuane’s been in charge of questioning Semirhage, and I’m rather amused at the notion of those two facing off. Not in a fight, precisely, but in a…staring contest, as it were. Adelorna regretted that Cadsuane wasn’t in the Tower because she thought it would be interesting to see her try to deal with Egwene, but I rather think Cadsuane’s found herself enough of a challenge.

“How did the questioning go, Cadsuane Sedai?” he asked in a more moderate tone.

She smiled to herself. “Well enough.”

“Well enough?” Nynaeve snapped. She had made no promises to Cadsuane about civility. “That woman is infuriating!”

Cadsuane sipped her wine. “I wonder what else one could expect from oen of the Forsaken, child. She has had a great deal of time to practice being…infuriating.”

“Rand, that…creature is a stone,” Nynaeve said, turning to him. “She’s yielded barely a single useful sentence despite days of questioning! All she does is explain how inferior and backward we are, with the occasional aside that she’s eventually going to kill us all.”

Have I mentioned that I kind of love her?

“For all the girl’s dramatic talk,” Cadsuane said, nodding to Nynaeve, “she has a reasonable grasp on the situation. Phaw! When I said ‘well enough’ you were to interpret it as ‘as well as you might expect, given our unfortunate constraints’.”

Okay, no. There’s no way any Aes Sedai, much less Cadusane, would say ‘when I said this, you were supposed to interpret it as this…’ Nynaeve’s phrasing was slightly off but enjoyable. This is just…off. I feel like Cadsuane would have been more likely to let Nynaeve finish, give her a look, and then pick up as if she hadn’t spoken at all with a ‘Well enough, that is, given our unfortunate constraints’.

…and now I’m doing exactly what I said I was going to try not to do, with the nitpicking the change in authors. Sorry. Moving on.

“This isn’t art, Cadsuane,” Rand said dryly. “It’s torture.” Min shared a glance with him, and he felt her concern. Concern for him? He wasn’t the one being tortured.

The box, Lews Therin whispered. We should have died in the box. Then…then it would be over.

This is well done, with that sense of disconnect between what Rand feels from Min and his understanding of it – or lack thereof. It’s that sort of layering of PoV, where Rand is unable to perceive or recognise certain things in himself or his thoughts, so instead we see them through Min, but through Min via Rand, and the disconnect itself emphasises Rand’s state of mind.

Also Lews Therin’s oh-so-helpful commentary reminds me of when Rand was in the box and he thought about how he had hallucinated just...walking free. Nothing else, just walking. He’s kind of in a similar place right now in the sense that there is nothing left to him but necessity, nothing left of what he wants or wishes, very little left, as far as he can see, of him. All there is is pain and an impossible task, and so much of him just wants it to be over.

For all that Cadsuane feels constrained by Rand’s prohibition on torturing Semirhage, I have to wonder if torture would even work on her. There are two ways that could go, really. One would be that having her own power and expertise turned on her, holding her under the very tool she once used to assert her own dominance and superiority, would break her. The other would be that it would do absolutely nothing at all, and she would laugh at their attempts. I’m thinking in this case it’s probably more option B. Pain isn’t going to work on her, I don’t think. (There’s of course also the more modern argument that torture is ineffective in getting useful and accurate information, but in this setting I think we’re meant to accept it as a useful but morally difficult tool).

“I am aware of the threat,” Rand said flatly

Are you though? Are you really? You’ve lost a hand to her but she could do so much worse and I’m all but convinced she’s going to.

“I said no!” Rand said. “You will question her, but you will not hurt her!” Not a woman. I will keep to this one shred of light inside me.

Yeah, that. The one line he will not cross. It’s not so much about what that line is specifically, as it is about keeping that one shred of light, that one last threshold. It’s not even rational, really. It’s just a desperate attempt to hold on to himself, to believe that he is not lost, to believe that there is something distinguishing him from that which he fights. One last line.

So Cadsuane says they may as well turn her over to the White Tower and…oh.

“Would you entrust her to Elaida? Or did you eman the others? I doubt that Egwene would be pleased if I dropped one of the Forsaken in her lap. Egwene might just let Semirhage go and take me captive instead. Force me to kneel before the White Tower’s justice and gentle me just to give her another notch in her belt.”

Nynaeve frowned. “Rand! Egwene would never—”

“She’s Amyrlin,” he said. […] “Aes Sedai to the core. I’m just another pawn to her.”

This…was inevitable, really, but it’s still sad to watch it happen. To see Egwene in the last few books thinking about the rumours of Aes Sedai kneeling to Rand, and assuming the worst. To see Rand now returning the same doubts and distrust. To see both of them certain that the other means to use them, means to force them to submit. To see both of them responding to that with distrust and anger.

Yet it’s been so beautifully done, over the course of eleven books now. The childhood friends, all but betrothed, slowly and naturally and inevitably becoming this. Growing up and growing apart and changing, each following their own path and each making so many sacrifices and each absolutely dedicated to their cause. Each acting out of perceived necessity and each doing the best they can, and yet, through circumstance more than individual fault, ending up…not quite enemies. Not that. Not yet. But close.

Part of what makes it so lovely and so sad is that the blame doesn’t really fall on either of them. On both of them, somewhat, but more on the fact that they’ve been apart too long, on different paths for too long, faced with different tasks and demands for too long. They’ve each had to become something so much more than themselves, and in doing so have had to give up much of who they were or might have once wanted to be, and whatever bond Rand al’Thor and Egwene al’Vere shared, it hasn’t been enough to hold the Dragon Reborn and the Amyrlin Seat together.

Yet at the same time, I think the friendship and love between them, strained as it is, will be of the utmost importance in the end. Because they need to be able to face Tarmon Gai’don as allies, this time. They need to be able to stand together, unlike Lews Therin Telamon and Latra Posae Decume. And if there were nothing binding them together at all, I don’t think that would be possible. They’re too far apart, too opposed, and there’s too much between them. As it is, I think it will be almost impossible, but that one thread of love and friendship between Rand and Egwene will give them something to hold on to, something to turn near-enmity into tenuous alliance. A small and strained thread, against everything that has come between them, but at least it’s something.

And then I can’t help but think back to TGH, where Egwene went to Almoth Plain because she was told Rand needed her help, and Rand went into Falme largely because he couldn’t forgive himself if he left Egwene there. They’re bound together, even if everything since then has pulled them gradually and naturally and inexorably apart, and I think they will reconcile and understand, in the end. They’ve both had such individually excellent character arcs, and the way they’ve crossed and collided, converged and diverged, opposed and reflected, is so well-developed, and I’m very much looking forward to seeing how it plays out in the end.

Yes, Lews Therin said. We need to stay away from all of them. They refused to help us, you know. Refused! Said my plan was too reckless. That left me with only the Hundred Companions, no women to form a circle. Traitors! This is their fault. But…but I’m the one who killed Ilyena. Why?

But this is not then. It’s a different Age, and Rand and Egwene may well be Lews Therin and Latra Posae reborn – guessing on Egwene there; I like it but I have no real evidence besides thinking it would fit nicely – but they’re different. It can be different, this time, and they are not bound by their past mistakes or choices.

“Tell me!” Rand yelled, throwing his cup down. “Burn you, Kinslayer! Speak to me!” The room fell silent.

So there’s that. And of course they have far less context than he does, so it looks even stranger and likely worse from the outside, and Rand’s afraid of what they see and think, and he’s afraid of his own mind and of madness, and desperate for answers because he doesn’t know what to do, only that he has to do something, and it’s all too much.

Light! He thought. I’m losing control. Half the time, I don’t know which voice is mine and which is his. This was supposed to get better when I cleansed saidin! I was supposed to be safe…

Ah, the beautiful ambiguity of that last sentence. Safe from the madness? Safe from Lews Therin’s fate? Safe in the sense that others would be safe from him, that he would be safe to be around, safe from the world? All of the above?

And he is losing control. There’s too much…pressure…built up on that barrier between him and Lews Therin, a barrier I’m convinced he’s largely put there himself and is trying to hold because he cannot accept fully who and what he is, because if he does it will break him. But the refusal is now breaking him anyway, and nothing he does is enough, and the world is balanced as precariously as his own mind and he’s trying to hold it all, trying to keep everything together when reality is tearing it apart, trying to do the impossible because there’s nothing else he can do, and still it’s not enough. And he knows it.

I can’t keep this up. My eyes see as if in a fog, my hand is burned away, and the old wounds in my side rip open if I do anything more strenuous than breathe. I’m dry, like an overused well. I need to finish my work here and get to Shayol Ghul.

Otherwise, there won’t be anything left of me for the Dark One to kill.

Again it’s stated rather more plainly and directly than previously, and this whole chapter has felt at time like Sanderson is…writing his way into Rand’s mindset, I suppose. But for the most part it works, because Rand is at this point of…very nearly coming undone. He’s been on a dark path for a long time now, and I’m certain a breaking point is coming soon, because there’s not much further he can go. He has so little left, and at this point it makes sense, in a way, that he would know that and be unable to shy away from it. He’s slipping and he knows it, knows he’s falling apart, knows there’s only so much longer he can hold on to everything before something shatters and it all collapses.

That wasn’t a thought to cause laughter; it was one to cause despair. But Rand did not weep, for tears could not come from steel.

For the moment, Lews Therin’s cries seemed enough for both of them.

That is lovely. Lovely and awful and more or less perfect.

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