#tide mountain spring liquid

[homeexpress18]

From Mess to Fresh: Persil Detergent's Impact on Everyday Life

In the bustling city of Hong Kong, where life moves at a dizzying pace, everyday problems often seem magnified. One such problem that residents grapple with is the relentless battle against stubborn stains and dingy laundry. Suppose you've just returned home from navigating crowded streets and bustling markets. Once crisp and vibrant, your clothes now bear the marks of daily life in this vibrant city—stains from street food spills and smudges from crowded public transportation.

This is the story of everyday life in Hong Kong and the transformative impact of Persil Detergent. Let's delve into the challenges residents face and discover how Persil, including Persil powder, has become a household hero, making messes vanish and laundry fresh once more.

The Problem:Hong Kong, known for its energy and diversity, also presents unique challenges to its residents. The densely populated city, with its bustling markets and street food stalls, is a melting pot of cultures and flavours. While this vibrancy adds charm to the town, it also results in everyday laundry challenges:

The Everyday Struggles:

Stubborn Stains: The city's vibrant street food scene means encountering many delicious but often messy dishes. Food stains have become common, from soy sauce splatters to curry smudges.

Smog and Pollution: Hong Kong's urban environment exposes clothing to air pollution, leaving fabrics dull and discoloured.

Dampness and Odors: The humid climate can lead to musty odours and a sense of moisture, making laundry care a daily concern.

Kids and Messes: Families with active children face an ongoing battle against grass stains, mud splatters, and the general wear and tear of adventurous play.

Persil Detergent's Transformative Power in Hong Kong:

Amidst these daily laundry challenges, Persil Detergent has emerged as the go-to solution for residents of Hong Kong. Whether it's Persil powder or liquid detergent, Persil's range of products offers a host of benefits:

1. Stain Removal Expertise:

Persil's advanced formula effectively tackles even the toughest stains, from street food mishaps to grass stains on children's clothing.

2. Brighter Colors:

Persil's unique technology preserves the vibrancy of colours, ensuring that your clothes stay fresh and bright despite Hong Kong's urban challenges.

3. Freshness Guarantee:

Persil Detergent's long-lasting freshness technology combats dampness and musty odours, leaving your laundry smelling as fresh as a Hong Kong morning.

4. Superior Cleaning Power:

Whether removing pollution residue or tackling everyday grime, Persil's powerful cleaning agents ensure your laundry emerges spotless and fresh.

5. Versatility:

You can select the format that fits your needs and laundry preferences with options like Persil powder or liquid detergent.

Impact on Everyday Life:

With Persil detergent's arrival, laundry in Hong Kong underwent a significant transformation:

1. More Time for Leisure:

The efficiency of Persil detergent in Hong Kong meant less time spent on laundry, giving families more time for leisure and relaxation.

2. Enhanced Living Spaces:

The compact packaging freed up home space, promoting a clutter-free and organized living environment.

3. Confident Dressing:

People embraced Persil's stain-fighting abilities, allowing them to step out confidently, free from the worry of stains.

4. Eco-Friendly Consciousness:

The availability of eco-friendly variants encouraged environmentally responsible choices, aligning with Hong Kong's commitment to sustainability.

Home Express HK: Your Trusted Partner:

As residents of Hong Kong embrace the transformative power of Persil Detergent, one name stands out as their trusted partner Home Express HK. With an excellence and track record of providing top-quality household products, Home Express HK ensures that residents can access Persil's laundry solutions.

Conclusion:

The daily challenges of life in Hong Kong are no match for the transformative impact of Persil Detergent. Whether it's removing stubborn stains from street food adventures, combatting the effects of urban pollution, or ensuring that laundry emerges fresh and vibrant, Persil has become an integral part of everyday life in this vibrant city. With Home Express HK as the bridge between residents and Persil's laundry solutions, Hong Kong's laundry dilemmas have transformed from mess to fresh. So, as residents continue to navigate the bustling streets and savour the city's flavours, they can rest assured that their laundry is in good hands, thanks to Persil's remarkable cleaning power.

[summonerluna]

10 First Lines Challenge

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able to and see if there are any patterns!

Tagged by @mistresslrigtar!

I did one of these awhile back but have posted several new things since then so will certainly do it again!

1. It has been five years since mother died, and Zelda has spent more time in those years in the company of stone statues than she has with anyone close to her in age. The Accolade (zelda, botw) 2. It has gone on long enough. Uiscefhuaraithe (zelink, botw) 3. It will be well after midnight before the city calms down, but it is early, when Zelda falls asleep. the stars lean in (Urbosa, zelink, queenbosa, botw) 4. There is a game Link remembers from his days in the barracks, called “two truths and a lie.” in the tide of her breathing (zelink, puppet zelda horror, totk) 5. Despite her command over time, Zelda generally has a very weak grasp of her own experience of it. after all the dreaming (zelink, post-totk) 6. Sacred light shines up from the base of the goddess statue, bouncing off the water of the spring of courage, and reflecting in shimmers on the walls of the great dragon’s mouth. Tethered (zelink, botw) 7. Today is not the day for this. Make Me Lose Control (Xu/Seifer, ffviii) 8. He wakes to a voice like golden light, so bright and warm it is like liquid pulsing in his veins. Less Than (Link, botw) 9. She is fragile beside him, head on his chest where she leaned over after she fell asleep reading. Second Time Around (zelink, post-botw) 10. Nighttime in Centra is quiet, cold, and a weight sits in the air. What Is Sung Under the Mountain (Quistis, ffviii)

Cringing as I realize all three of my zelinkweek entries start with the same word, and especially because that word is "it." Overall at least there is variety in sentence length with my starters, and they establish either the narrator, time, or place.

Tagging: @aegon-targaryen @wouldyoustilllovemeifiwasawyrm @aleheartilly @suleikashideaway @angelosearch @siobhann @zellink @kazraza @spices28 and anyone else who wants to!

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Court of Faded Dreams: Chapter 50

Chapter title: Always Changing, Always Flowing

Fic summary: In her grief after Rhys sacrifices himself to restore the Cauldron, Feyre accidentally sends herself back in time. Back in her human body, in her early days in the Spring Court, Feyre must be careful how she alters the timeline as she tries to save Rhys and Prythian from Under the Mountain.

Surprise!!! All my love and gratitutde to @noirshadow for being my beta and staying so patient and supportive <33 Thank you for all of your help!

Read on AO3 ⟡ A Court of Faded Dreams Masterlist

Her sisters did not come up.

Feyre stared at the flat surface of that black, inky water, willing their heads to surface. Searching for even a bubble to rise over the too still waterline, if only to let her know that they were still under there. That the Cauldron hadn’t swallowed them whole and left nothing to mourn.

She surged towards the Cauldron, prepared to wade through the liquid herself if it meant finding her sisters. But a strong hand caught Feyre around the wrist and tugged, reversing her momentum with little effort. Feyre stumbled into a warm, broad chest, and her knees finally collapsed, buckling beneath the weight of everything she had carried. Everything she had worked so hard to avoid, crumbling to pieces before her eyes.

Rhysand held her close, half-carrying Feyre as she sobbed into his chest.

“What’s going to happen to them?” His cold, hard question was directed towards Jurian.

“I don’t know,” the human general answered, sounding shell-shocked himself. “I don’t…”

“Get away from her,” Mor hissed. Feyre raised her head from Rhysand’s chest to see that Jurian had stepped towards Miryam, dark eyes fixed on the blood that still trickled from her nose. Alive, at least for now.

Rage twisted his otherwise handsome face. “Are you planning to leave her on the floor, then?”

“If you let us go, we can take her to a healer,” Mor said, sword raised as she stood protectively between Miryam and Jurian.

“He’s already worked his spell,” Jurian spat. “You can’t leave this castle unless the King wills it.”

Azriel crouched into a fighting stance, prepared to slaughter the human—ally or not—if he made so much as a move against Mor.

“And even if I could let you leave,” Jurian went on, that rage turning sharper. He tipped his chin towards the Cauldron, where Nesta and Elain had been under far longer than any human could hold their breath. “Would you choose to leave them behind?”

Those footsteps were louder, now, nearly to the chamber. Jurian bared his teeth. “Think quickly, Morrigan. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Feyre darling.” Rhys tucked his lips against her temple in a gesture that mimicked soothing, so that no one would notice as he whispered, “The second your sisters come out of the Cauldron, you’re going to cleave the wards, and we’re going to winnow everyone out. Just like you told me you did last time. Okay?”

If they came out of the Cauldron, she wanted to say. But she didn’t let herself give merit to that voice.

They had to come out. They had to.

So instead she nodded, stifling another sob against her mate’s chest, pulling strength from him as she began to thrash against the ancient chains that coiled around her magic.

“The tides have certainly changed for you, Rhysand,” Jurian called. “A mated male. Last I saw you, Amar—”

“Finish that sentence, and you’ll lose your tongue,” Azriel warned, voice whetted with quiet, lethal rage.

Jurian gave a hollow laugh. “Just as perky as I remember, Azriel.”

Heavy, strolling steps echoed down the chamber. Feyre didn’t dare turn her face towards the entrance, already knowing who those steps belonged to from the way Rhysand tensed. The cruel, hateful face of the King of Hybern was one already etched into her nightmares.

“Treating our guests well, Jurian?” The King asked in place of announcing his arrival. “And—oh? What’s this?”

The stone beneath them began to tremble. Rhys tugged Feyre closer, prepared to use his own physical body as a shield to protect her. That thought made her push harder against the spell that bound their magic, desperately clawing her way towards its source.

Then—it was as though the entire room erupted.

If not for Rhys holding her steady, Feyre would have stumbled from the burst of wind that fled the chamber, the accompanying boom so deafening that she could not discern when it had faded. Was it still reverberating off the walls, or was that just the trembling of her bones? Was it still echoing off the stone, or was that ringing a silent song only for her ears?

Numbly, she whipped her head to see that the Cauldron had been tipped over by some invisible force. Water came pouring out in a cascade, spilling over the chamber floor. Black, smoke-coated water.

Elain and Nesta, as though they’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown. They were soaking wet, what little of their skin revealed by the Illyrian leathers they bore had turned a deathly pale color. But Elain sucked in a breath, and Nesta began coughing up air and water as she pushed onto her elbows. Alive, alive, alive—and… as they raised their faces, the faelight caught on their soft glowing skin and their delicately pointed ears. Fae.

“Incredible,” the King of Hybern murmured.

Knowing they were alive—that was all Feyre needed for her power to finally explode. She pushed past those hands that were clamped down on her power, unleashing it into the room in a flash of pure white light, all that could escape with the damper from the King’s spell.

It burst into the chamber, sending the King and Jurian hissing as they shielded their faces away. And Rhysand was instantly moving, darting towards her sisters as Feyre reached deep within Day’s light until she found that purifying, clear power. She used that light to wipe through every physical trapping, let it show her the snarls of spells and glamorous, guiding her through the King’s spell as she burned brighter, looking, looking—

And there, buried deep inside the bone-walls of the castle, were the tightly woven wards. Feyre sent that blinding light flaring once more, blinding the room as she severed the wards at their ancient arteries.

She shouted, and as the light died she could see Rhysand and her sisters had disappeared. The King began snapping orders, and Feyre could feel his magic already scrambling to reseal the wards. There was a blur of movement in the corner of her eye, and Feyre turned to see Azriel moving protectively in front of Mor as she gathered Miryam into her arms. With a flick of his wrist, a knife sliced through the air, headed straight towards the King as Mor and Miryam vanished into smoke. Feyre willed the world to fold around herself, trusting Azriel to use his momentary distraction to do the same.

Those hazel eyes found hers. Go, they screamed, his lips curled back into a snarl. Feyre knew he wouldn’t leave until she was safe. On the vow that he had made to Rhysand this morning, but also on the vow that he had made to Feyre on the night she had been sworn in as High Lady. I will serve and protect.

Shadows closed around her, and just as the world had nearly slipped away entirely, Jurian fired an ashbolt straight through Azriel’s chest.

-

Wind and shadow carried Feyre only as far as her magic could withstand. She estimated she must have covered half the distance between Hybern and Velaris before she stumbled out of the sky somewhere in the middle of the Western sea. Too drained to summon anything that could slow her descent, she hurdled through the air and crashed into the dark, awaiting ocean.

Deep, deep below the surface, the world was quieter. She could still hear the ringing in her ears, but it was subdued beneath layers of ocean water and the rush of air bubbles surfacing around her. Feyre drifted, unconvinced she would even have the strength to kick herself up let alone swim to land. This was how it would end, she thought miserably. Not by Hybern, not by War, or Fate, or Time. But by slowly sinking into the quiet abyss that grew deeper and darker beneath her.

Feyre, Rhys called desperately through the bond. Feyre, where are you? Did you make it out?

Those mental talons brushed against her mental walls, begging to be let in. As she continued to sink down, she felt Rhysand tug at the bond, gently at first and then with increasing vigor. Feyre, he whispered, yanking so hard that more air bubbles fled her lips. Feyre, please.

She opened her eyes and angled her head up towards that dying, ever distant light. It was like being back Under the Mountain, she thought distantly. Feeling that tug toward the light, knowing if she let herself drift towards that darkness there would be peace at last.

But not for Rhysand. Not for her mate, who would have lost Feyre and Azriel in the same failed mission. Not for her sisters, who would have traded their humanity in vain. Not for Azriel, who sacrificed himself so she could escape.

Sometimes it’s just about having resilience after you’ve been beaten down.

For them, Feyre willed her feet to kick. Again and again, even as her lungs blistered with need, even as her vision went spotty and every motion in her body became agonizing, Feyre kept clawing towards that light.

Just as she was about to break the surface, something heavy slammed into her. Whatever precious air she was conserving punched out of her lungs, replaced instead with a flood of seawater that had her choking. The last thing she registered was a hand wrapping around her shoulders before everything went dark.

-

She awoke to a burning heat on her face. Feyre blinked against the too-bright light, raising a stiff arm over her face in an attempt to spare herself from its intensity. She was laying on top of sun-bathed wooden boards, below a cloudless blue sky. She was on a ship—if the sound of the crashing ocean waves and cawing seabirds were anything to go by.

Slowly, Feyre sat up, wincing against her throbbing headache and aching bones to search her surroundings, looking for Rhys. Had he found her? Taken her aboard a ship and…

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” chirped a lovely, lilted voice. A female walked across the deck, holding a canteen that Feyre prayed was full of water. Her throat felt like she had swallowed sandpaper.

But more importantly—Rhys. Feyre couldn’t feel their bond. And if he was on board, he would have been here. Especially after the way he had been reaching for her, begging for her.

“Rhysand,” Feyre rasped, feeling nothing as she reached inside for that familiar golden thread that interwove their souls. “Where is he?”

“Not here,” the faerie said sympathetically.

And it wasn’t just the bond that refused to answer. The well of power, once as deep and vast as the ocean they rocked over, was gone. Sealed behind a pane of glass she couldn’t break, no matter how she banged against its surface. “My magic—Why can’t I feel my magic?”

“We had our healer look at you, but we were limited in supplies. She said the biggest thing you needed was rest, and faebane is an effective sedative in a pinch—we’d just stolen a cache off one of Hybern’s ships.”

All Feyre could think of was Rhysand, feeling their bond go mute and fearing the worst.

“How long have I been asleep?” she rasped.

“Over an entire day,” the female answered. She plopped onto the deck beside Feyre and handed her the canteen. Feyre began drinking greedily as the female continued, “We’re almost to the harbor now. Normally we don’t patrol that far North, but the Captain said he had a ‘feeling’. Then low and behold, as close to Hybern as the High Lord would sanction, we saw Feyre Cursebreaker fall out of the sky.”

With the canteen emptied, Feyre screwed the cap on and handed it back to the female. “Which High Lord?”

“Tarquin,” she answered proudly, and Feyre was instantly flooded with relief. “We’ll be returning to the War Camp on the border of Winter and Summer.”

The one that Cassian was likely stationed at. Did he know what had happened, or would she be the one to deliver the news? Feyre turned, prepared to ask if it was the very same War Camp Cassian was leading, but she looked at the female and, for the first time, properly registered her face.

Warm bronze eyes were staring at her, crinkled with a happiness that made Feyre feel as though she were choking on seawater once more. Her gold-brown hair was braided back off her round face—A face that had once been pale and sallow. Feyre remembered staring into those warm eyes as the light drained from them. And now that faerie was sitting next to her beneath a warm, sun-lit sky, head tipped with gratitude as though Feyre hadn’t once driven a blade through her heart.

“Were you the one that jumped into the water?” Feyre whispered.

The female shrugged. “You fell in pretty deep. We were all trying to find where you had landed. I just happened to be the first one to see you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Oriana,” she said pleasantly.

Feyre swallowed. “Thank you, Oriana.”

Oriana’s eyes turned solemn. “No, Cursebreaker. The debt was mine to pay. In your third task—“

“Don’t.” The word was little more than a garbled syllable in the back of her throat. Feyre tore her eyes away from Oriana’s face, blinking at the crashing waves over the starboard in an attempt to banish her lingering ghost. “I wasn’t motivated by debt, or incurring favor.” Nor goodness, she wanted to add. Instead, she whispered as a confession to the sea, “Who’s to say in different circumstances, I would have chosen the same path?”

“Circumstances inform all our choices,” Oriana said, following Feyre’s gaze toward the open sea—where it stretched for miles and miles in every direction. “The winds and currents of the water are always changing, and the quickest route to shore today may not be the same tomorrow.” Her brown eyes were so wide, the entire horizon reflected in their light. “All we can do is brave the tides as they come, and act accordingly.”

It sounded so similar to the lesson Azriel had been trying to impart. Azriel, who had taken a bolt to his chest… who might still be in that castle in Hybern. Who might be dead.

Feyre’s eyes began to sting, but she told herself it was only the seawater.

“What matters to me, Cursebreaker, is what you chose on this path. Whatever your motivations, because of you I was able to return home to my mate.”

“Your… mate?”

Oriana’s lower lip trembled, but she kept her chin tilted towards the sea. “The grief you spared her… for that alone, I will always feel indebted to you.”

The boat rocked over a wave, jostling Feyre as the nose tipped up then back down, cutting through every opponent that challenged the ship. But even once the deck had righted, Feyre still felt off balance.

In another life, Oriana’s mate had felt that same soul-ripping grief that haunted the High Lord and Lady of the Night. And in this life, in this time… Oriana’s mate had never touched that pain at all.

“Are you… crying, my Lady?”

Feyre quickly wiped at the rogue tears that had escaped. “I’m just relieved that I was able to make a positive difference.”

“More than you could understand, Lady.” Oriana reached for her hand, and Feyre might have been startled at the sudden forwardness if not for the conviction on the female’s face. “Look around the crew. You have not been fae for long, so it may not be obvious to you, but there are sailors from nearly every court stationed on this ship. Prythian hasn’t been united like this in… perhaps since its inception.”

“Prythian would have banded together regardless—”

“Not without its savior,” Oriana interrupted fiercely. “Spring and Night in alliance? Any faerie would be laughed out of the room for suggesting it was possible.”

Oriana stood up, stretching her arms above her head as though this were all casual conversation to her. “I suppose I can understand why the leaders, with their eyes turned towards the carnage, might miss what’s been happening. But I’ve been in the taverns, drinking with the soldiers of every court in the alliance. And hope is so thick in the air you can taste it. Maybe have a drink while you’re in the harbor, see if you can feel it too.”

-

The crew let Feyre be for the short remainder of the journey. Oriana had vanished in the commotion of the ship preparing for land. Feyre felt the strangest mixture of relief and despair tangle in her chest as she watched the Summer Court climb in the horizon. It meant that soon, she would be able to reunite with her mate and assure him that she was safe. Alive. But if Azriel hadn’t made it out… she would have to look Rhys and Cassian in the eyes to tell them that she had left their brother behind.

That thought made it difficult to bask in the glory of the approaching inlet. Feyre had never seen an ocean so bright—under the glistening sun, it was almost turquoise, and so clear she could see through to the sand deep below. The bay was flush with ships, each bearing a proud sail of the six courts in the alliance. Gathered together, in one place. Oriana had told Feyre that more soldiers arrived each day, and by the sheer quantity of battleships, Feyre could believe it.

Tall buildings rose over the docks as the boat came closer. Unlike Adriata, which was marked by Tarquin’s large palace, homes and businesses laid central to the harbor, so colorful in variety it was as though a coral reef had come to life above the water. A small, dormant part of Feyre itched to paint it. She pushed that instinct down, knowing she was not here to sightsee, or drink with soldiers at the tavern. She needed to find Cassian, and get back to the Night Court. Find out how her sisters were coping with the change, and create a plan to get Azriel back.

More than anything, she needed to figure out how to get Azriel back.

That singular purpose propelled her off the ship when it docked. Filing onto land with the rest of the crew, she let the flow of the crowd carry her to the edge of the harbor. A pair of sailors was carrying a large crate between them, headed towards the outskirts of the docks. Feyre started to follow, before a hand found her arm.

“Are you looking for the Illyrians?” It was Oriana, pulling her in the opposite direction of the traffic. “They’re camped away from the city center. The General moved them after a small skirmish.” At Feyre’s expression, she laughed. “Nothing he couldn’t handle. He keeps his troops in line, your General.”

Feyre expected nothing less of Cassian. Pride flickered in her chest, a small candle against the icy dread that gripped her. She followed Oriana up the hills above the city, where a cluster of tents nestled in a small, grassy vale overlooking the harbor. On top of a hill, she could recognize Lord Devlon leading a group of soldiers through a late afternoon training session. Light caught the tips of their talons, gleaming against the sweat coating their faces—and in many cases, their naked chests. It was a sight she may have appreciated on any other occasion, but now Feyre was solemnly scanning through the faces of each of the soldiers, searching for her friend among them.

They continued to the tent that laid in the center of the camp, larger than the others. Feyre was grateful to have Oriana at her side, if only because the female was willing to brush aside the tent flaps with none of her reservations. Gravity felt heavier once they’d stepped inside, met with the makeshift war table fashioned from supply crates in the center of the room. A map laid across it with pieces strategically placed over the uneven surface, and several dark heads of hair whipped up from the map as they entered.

Her eyes immediately went to the male in the center, commanding an easy authority. When he straightened, the other soldiers did too. Despite how they may have loathed his leadership, it was clear they submitted to Cassian’s superior rank—his right by the sweat and blood he’d paid. When he bowed to Feyre, the others did too.

“High Lady,” Cassian greeted, with so much warmth and excitement in his voice that Feyre’s heart shriveled. He didn’t know. Casian flicked his eyes up, a slow smile blooming on his lips. Until he properly glimpsed her expression. He froze, then barked, “Out.”

The Illyrians disappeared with no further prompting. Even Oriana, with a small smile, squeezed Feyre’s hand and wished her farewell.

Cassian waited until the flaps of the tent fluttered shut. He took a breath, the rigidity flowing out of him on the exhale, until he was looking at her with a face full of concern. “Something went wrong on your mission in Hybern,” he said.

Not a question.

Cassian leaned back against the makeshift table, grip so tight the wood threatened to splinter beneath the force of his siphoned hands. “Did Rhys and Azriel…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, and Feyre couldn’t find it in herself to answer.

“Rhys made it out,” she said, so weak a condolence that it was barely a whisper. “So did Mor. And Nesta.”

Cassian wiped a hand across his jaw. “Nesta was there?”

Feyre winced, then nodded. “She and Mor hatched some plan together. Nesta’s fae now.”

He slumped back against the crates, pushing his hands up, across his face, to shield whatever his expression gave away. It was not the celebration she had wanted for him, or for Nesta. Not when the cost of her becoming fae was…

Cassian was shaking his head. “Just say it, Feyre.”

It was her responsibility. As High Lady. As the one Azriel had risked his life to protect.

“Azriel didn’t make it.” The words were bitter. More than any metal or blood or powdered faebane. Some foreign toxin her tongue rejected. “We were the last to winnow out. The last thing I saw…” she swallowed, forcing strength into her voice. “The last thing I saw was Jurian firing an ashbolt into his chest.”

The silence that answered her was excruciating. Cassian’s face remained buried between his hands, the air between them stagnant for a heartbeat. Then two. Then three.

At last, Cassian raised his head, schooling his features until he was the commanding General she had seen when she first walked into the tent. There was not an ounce of pain in his expression—unless she looked too closely at his eyes.

“Where’s Rhysand?”

“I don’t know. The Night Court, I’m assuming.” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself. “My magic was drained, I ended up falling into the Western sea and getting fished out of the waters by a passing ship. They took me here.”

“Shit, Feyre.” Cassian glanced towards the map, studying the open waters between Hybern and the Night Court. “He’s probably losing his mind.”

She flinched, imagining her mate scouring the oceans. Would he do something rash, if he thought the King of Hybern had both his mate and his brother? A warm hand found her shoulder, drawing Feyre’s attention from the details on the map that had suddenly become so very interesting.

“You got out,” Cassian said. His fingers tightened, and then he pulled her against his chest, banding his large arms around her shoulders in a hug that expelled the air from her lungs. “That’s what matters, Feyre. To me, to Az, to Rhys. You're our High Lady. We swore to protect, and we live and die by that oath.”

“We’re going to get him back,” Feyre swore. She grit her teeth to contain the sob building in her throat. This was not the time for wallowing in her sorrow. She was the High Lady of the Night Court. It was time to regroup. To retaliate. To get back in the ring after being beaten down. She bared her teeth, hugging Cassian back fiercely as she repeated, “We’re going to get him back.”

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S FATE - CHAPTER 31

*Warning: Adult Content*   

Skylar West is good at many things but Martin Hunter appreciates some of his skills more than others. 

Skylar’s expertise with distraction and deflection for example, Martin could do without.

Every time the single dad tried to bring up what happened at the coast, the art teacher turns Martin’s attention to something else.

A kiss and like some Fairy-tale Prince caught in a spell, Martin forgets what it was he meant to say, a softly spoken word and the older man’s priorities shift.

At the same time, Martin can't help but feel that Skylar grows more distant day by day and by the time the weekend approaches again, it seems the younger man hardly has a moment to spare for him. 

Thursday morning, as Martin sees his four children off to school, he hugs himself as a brisk November breeze rattles the few remaining leaves still clinging to the skeletal branches of the trees. 

Winter will set in soon, locking the little mountain town in a cycle of snow and ice until the warm breath of spring breathes life into the land again. 

Thanksgiving approaches, Ambrose Thorne and Noah Hunter have offered to host it at their place, which is big enough to hold everyone and the winter holidays loom beyond. 

In the meantime, though, all Martin can think about is a phone call he hasn't yet received.

"You did say that he was rather old," Skylar points out distractedly when Martin brings the matter up for the fourteenth time. 

"Perhaps he simply forgot. You ought to give him a call and check into it."

Martin watches as Skylar packs more art supplies into a large duffel bag. 

"You're probably right," the older man says and sighs disconsolately, he doesn't imagine calling a doctor's office is on anyone's list of favorite things to do. "What are you packing for, anyway?"

"There's an art show this weekend down in Sacramento," he says. "Thought I'd go."

"Oh..." Martin rubs the back of his neck and glances around the cozy studio apartment which, a few weeks earlier, was nothing but a barren garage. 

"That sounds fun."

Skylar glances up at him. 

"I'd have invited you, but the children might find it rather boring."

"The children needn't be invited by default," Martin points out.

Skylar lifts a brow at him. 

"Would you leave them, though?"

Martin breaks eye contact and look away. 

"I know I'm a little overprotective. I don't want to hover but..." 

Rising, Skylar crosses the room and rests his hand on Martin’s shoulder. 

"I know. You've good reason to be protective. And I didn't mean it that way. It's only a short trip, far more business than pleasure. If it was the latter, I'd have you with me, for sure."

Martin nods, still not quite able to meet the younger man’s eyes and excuses himself as Skylar resumes packing.

                                                     ******

Martin decides to put off the call to Dr Howard, until the afternoon, when he had finished his work for the day but before the children get home and in the intervening time, he did his best to concentrate.

He nearly jumps out of his seat when his cell-phone rings around noon, narrowly avoiding a disastrous accident as he knock over his coffee cup and brown liquid spills across his desk like a tiny encroaching tide. 

Lifting his laptop to safety, he answer the call with a breathless. 

Hello?" 

He sags with relief as he hears his agent's voice on the other end of the line. 

"Hey, Martin. How are you?" she asks.

"Trish. Hi... um... good. It's good. I mean, I'm good," he says and cringes. 

His social skills are far from top tier, especially when unprepared. 

"What's up?"

"Good news," she says. 

"Sales of your last book are steady and your editor says you've got the next one in the bag. The publisher wants at least two more in this series, with a pretty good advance for your genre, if you can guarantee delivery in six months."

‘Two books in six months?’

He rubs his jaw. 

That used to be nothing, I could have done it in his sleep. 

Now, just the thought gives him heartburn.

"Two books?" he repeats. "Could you talk them down to one?"

"I tried, Martin," Trish says, suddenly sounding a lot more honest and a lot more tired. 

"You're not up and coming anymore, you've got a solid following and a reliable audience for your books but they wouldn't budge. It's a cutthroat business. For every established author, there are hundreds willing to work ten times as hard for a tenth of the pay. You know how it is."

He rolls his eyes. 

He does but it doesn't make it any better. 

In his head, he does a series of rapid calculations.

Things are different now. 

With Skylar's help, his family at his back and the weight of guilt and pain finally beginning to lift from his heart, Martin is in a place where he can say 'yes' to this without fearing it will kill me.

"Okay," he says, hearing the smile in his voice. 

"Tell them I'll do it."

"I'll send the contract over," she says, sounding relieved. 

"Read it carefully. There are some new stipulations I couldn't worm us out of but overall, I think it's fair... considering."

"Considering what?" he asks, made wary once more by her tone.

"Just... how long it took you to finish the last one," she says apologetically. 

"I've been on your editor's ass and I know she's been on yours and the publisher's been on mine. I'm sorry, Martin but this is a big deal, okay? It'll make or break you. Understand?"

Martin Hunter swallows. 

"Yeah. I understand, Trish. Thanks."

"Hey," she says, her tone warming. 

"You're my friend, Marty. I only want what's best for you, all right?"

"Yeah, me too," he says, his throat tightening at the nickname only his family use for him and ends the call.

                                                       ******

By 3:00 p.m., he’s sweating. 

Martin is both dying to know and afraid that knowing will end him but with an hour before the kids get home, he calls Dr. Braden Howard on the direct line the Doctor had given him. 

He answers after five rings, long enough to make Martin wonder if he'd been staring at his number and contemplating whether or not to pick up. 

"Dr. Braden Howard speaking," he says, as if he's answering on a two-piece receiver from eighty years ago and not the latest model iPhone Martin knows he has.

"Dr. Howard... it's Martin Hunter," I say. "Umm... I haven't gotten the results yet, and I was wondering..."

"Haven't gotten the results yet," he exclaims, so vehemently that I imagine him in black and white, clapping his hand to his forehead, like a scientist in a Mel Brooks parody. 

"I was sure I sent them along to you! Must have slipped my mind."

"Do you have them?" Martin asks.

"Have them? Of course I have them," the single dad hears papers rustling, followed by what sounds like glass breaking and Dr. Howard swearing under his breath.

Martin waits and at last, the Doctor is back on the line.

"Sorry about that, kid," he says, sounding slightly out of breath. "The truth is... Well, the truth is..."

"Doctor Howard, please," Martin says, breaking in. 

"Please, just tell me. I need to know. I mean... you understand, this is my life. My... everything."

The single dad shuts up as emotion tightens around his throat like a vice.

For a long moment, there's silence. 

Then, Dr. Howard sighs.

"Alright. You know what? Fuck it. I got good news and bad news, kid," he says. 

"Congratulations, or maybe consolations, I don't fucking know at this point. Either way, you're a father. 99% sure. Now, I know you're one of a set but your fellow triplets are fraternal, not identical, right? Even if one of them had fucked your wife, the results wouldn't be the same. Unless you got an evil twin somewhere, you're Nico and Rio's biological father, for sure.."

Martin covers his mouth to contain the sob that chokes him and then take a breath. 

"Okay, so what's the bad news?" he asks.

Doctor Howard sighs.

"That ex-wife of yours is something else, you know that? She paid me a visit. Threatened me. Told me to destroy the results or change my report. Fortunately, I'd sent everything off to the lab already, once it's out of my hands, it's official record. Nothing I can tamper with."

"Are you okay?" Martin asks him, anxiety triggering a slideshow of horrors to play through his mind.

Dr. Howard chuckles. 

"I'm eighty-seven years old, kid," he says, "And entirely human, despite my associations. She scared me, yeah. But what's she gonna threaten me with? Death?" he cackles. 

"I'm perfectly fine. It's you I'm concerned about. That bitch wasn't at all pleased when I sent her on her way, though. Best keep an eye on those sweet boys of yours. I got a bad feeling, if you know what I mean."

"Thank you, Doctor Howard," Martin says, resting his face in his palm and breathing a sigh. 

"I will. I'm sorry you were dragged into this."

"No worries, kid. I'll make sure the results are stored safely and get you a copy in the mail. Should be there in a day or two. Take care."

The doctor ends the call and Martin Hunter lets the phone fall from his hand and clatter to the floor as he drops to his knees.

The single dad doesn't know what to feel or what he’s feeling but what starts as quiet catches in his breath soon grows into deep, uncontrollable sobs as his mess of emotions overcome him like a sleeper wave, knocking him down and pulling him under hard.

And that's how Skylar West finds him, sometime later, curled in a ball on the kitchen floor. 

[sanjaylodh]

Aquatic worlds means limitless water body, world of water

Aquatic worlds means limitless water body, world of water.

But what is the meaning of Aquatic Worlds becoming?

means water

means liquid

means water

Meaning a material which is a mixture of hydrogen and oxygen

And the most important thing is that this mixture of hydrogen and oxygen, water gets mixed with any other material and becomes some other material.

That's why this entire world is a water world.

But even water has its own essence.

Friends, when I reached Mars, the surface of Mars was full of fog.

From which I purified water and drank it for the first time.

I did a lot in Mars

Then as soon as I come to earth, I am trying to do research on aquatic worlds.

The first question that arises in my mind is what is water? Where does water come from?

Where does water come from? , how Stuff Works

Water surrounds us, falling from the sky, flowing on river beds, flowing from taps, and yet many of us never stop to ask where it comes from. . The answer is complex, extending far beyond incoming tides or rain-laden clouds and all the way back to the origins of the universe.

Where does water come from? , Britannica

Where does water come from? Water is made up of hydrogen and oxygen and exists in gaseous, liquid and solid states. Water is one of the most abundant

There are various sources of water. About 97% of the Earth's surface is covered with water. There are three main sources of water: 1. Rain water. 2. Ground water – This includes water bodies like wells and springs. 3. Surface water – It includes various water bodies such as reservoirs, rivers, streams, ponds, lakes and tanks.

Origin of water on Earth: Where does water come from?

Apr 21, 2022 · The Origin of Water on Earth Various Studies and Theories About the Big Bang Truth be told, the origin of water on our planet is a complex story that dates back 13.8 billion years to the Big Bang.

Origin of Water - Science Teaching Center

The water you used to bathe this morning may have come from a local reservoir, which could be groundwater or part of a river system that collects snowmelt from mountain peaks. But this still doesn't really answer the question of where water comes from. So where did all the water come from?

Where does water come from?

Water surrounds us, falling from the sky, flowing on river beds, flowing from taps, and yet many of us never stop to ask where it comes from . The answer is complex, extending far beyond incoming tides or rain-filled clouds and all the way back to the origins of the universe.

How did the Earth get water?

One theory suggests that the early Earth was formed with little or no water. Astrophysicists believe Earth's water came from comets and asteroids at the edges of our solar system. It is believed that these comets and asteroids heavily bombarded the young Earth about 4 billion years ago.

Translate Hindi

ऐकुयाटिक वर्ल्डज मतलब है असीम जलाधार मतलब पानी की संसार

मगर यह ऐकुयाटिक वर्ल्डज का अर्थ क्या बन रहा है

मतलब जल

मतलब तरल

मतलब पानी

मतलब एक ऐसी सामग्री जो हाइड्रोजन और ऑक्सीजन की मिश्रण है

और सबसे खास बात यह है यह हाइड्रोजन और ऑक्सीजन की मिश्रण पानी किसी भी दुसरे सामग्री से मिश्रित हो जाता है और कुछ और सामग्री बन जाता है

इसलिए यह पूरा संसार ही है जलीय संसार

मगर पानी का भी एक क्षुद्र पानी होता है

दोस्तों मैं जब मंगल में पहुंचा था तो उस समय मंगल की सतह कोहरा पूर्ण था

जिससे मैं पानी बनाकर विशुद्ध करके पीया था पहलीबार

बहुत कुछ किया मैं मंगल में

फिर धरती में आते ही मैं यह ऐकुयाटिक वर्ल्डज पर रिसर्च करने की कोशिश कर रहा हूँ

सबसे पहले मेरे मन में जो प्रश्न बन रहा है यह पानी क्या है पानी आते कहाँ से है

पानी कहॉ से आता है? | कितना रद्दी निर्माण कार्य है

पानी हमें चारों ओर से घेरे हुए है, आसमान से गिर रहा है, नदी के तल पर बह रहा है, नलों से बह रहा है, और फिर भी हममें से कई लोग यह पूछने के लिए कभी नहीं रुके हैं कि यह कहाँ से आता है। इसका उत्तर जटिल है, जो आने वाले ज्वार या बारिश से भरे बादलों से बहुत आगे तक और ब्रह्मांड की उत्पत्ति तक फैला हुआ है।

पानी कहॉ से आता है। | ब्रिटानिका

पानी कहॉ से आता है। पानी हाइड्रोजन और ऑक्सीजन से बना है और यह गैसीय, तरल और ठोस अवस्था में मौजूद है। जल सबसे अधिक मात्रा में से एक है

जल के विभिन्न स्रोत हैं। पृथ्वी की सतह पर लगभग 97% पानी पानी से ढका हुआ है। जल के तीन मुख्य स्रोत हैं: 1. वर्षा जल। 2. भूजल - इसमें कुएं और झरने जैसे जल निकाय शामिल हैं। 3. सतही जल - इसमें विभिन्न जल निकाय जैसे जलाशय, नदियाँ, धाराएँ, तालाब, झीलें और टैंक शामिल हैं।

पृथ्वी पर जल की उत्पत्ति: जल कहाँ से आता है?

21 अप्रैल, 2022 · पृथ्वी पर पानी की उत्पत्ति बिग बैंग के बारे में विभिन्न अध्ययन और सिद्धांत सच कहें तो, हमारे ग्रह पर पानी की उत्पत्ति एक जटिल कहानी है जो बिग बैंग से 13.8 अरब वर्ष पहले की है।

जल की उत्पत्ति - विज्ञान शिक्षण केंद्र

आज सुबह आपने स्नान के लिए जो पानी इस्तेमाल किया वह किसी स्थानीय जलाशय से आया होगा, जो भूजल से हो सकता है या पहाड़ों की चोटियों से पिघलती बर्फ इकट्ठा करने वाली नदी प्रणाली का हिस्सा हो सकता है। लेकिन यह अभी भी वास्तव में इस सवाल का जवाब नहीं देता है कि पानी कहाँ से आता है। तो सारा पानी कहां से आया?

पानी कहॉ से आता है।

पानी हमें चारों ओर से घेरे हुए है, आसमान से गिर रहा है, नदी के तल पर बह रहा है, नलों से बह रहा है, और फिर भी हममें से कई लोग यह पूछने के लिए कभी नहीं रुके हैं कि यह कहाँ से आता है। इसका उत्तर जटिल है, जो आने वाले ज्वार या बारिश से भरे बादलों से बहुत आगे तक और ब्रह्मांड की उत्पत्ति तक फैला हुआ है।

पृथ्वी को जल कैसे मिला?

एक सिद्धांत से पता चलता है कि प्रारंभिक पृथ्वी का निर्माण बहुत कम या बिल्कुल भी पानी से नहीं हुआ था। खगोलभौतिकीविदों का मानना है कि पृथ्वी का पानी हमारे सौर मंडल के किनारों से धूमकेतुओं और क्षुद्रग्रहों से आया है। ऐसा माना जाता है कि लगभग 4 अरब साल पहले इन धूमकेतुओं और क्षुद्रग्रहों ने युवा पृथ्वी पर भारी बमबारी की थी।

[mumblingviking-blog]

Short: Inventing Siege Fireball

A man's three dimensional thinking combined with a skill or his nature as a caustic beast, carves out an unreasonably large model for fire magic. The magic's surface area determines the intentions and on such a scale no living being had the potential of execution even with this crutch. The man is chased to the caldera of a mountain spring, a dent like mount fuji, but singular and certainly not at the peak. A reverse frack. Magic fracking, that's not an anime idea I've seen yet. Oh wait, that's final fantasy's worldbuilding cardinal sin after Sephiroth came down.

The exposed and pooling magical liquid magic fantasy bullshit you want to name it, water in a magical place or otherwise an ambiguous liquid. It's valuable because it does stuff in artifacts that are essential to everyday use, it's literally oil. People don't have to deforest and the dryad population can declare peace between the two people, even if the relationship has become humans fawning over the dryad groves and ways. It's pathetic and if you can't have fun you should be trying and failing. Fawning is just the failure to engage and is pathetic and you're dumb.

The materials that are no longer needed in the workplaces has been gathered to repair the gear, trimming a bit from each piece of leather and leaving that with the church of health and forgiveness. If everything you had was lost in tragic accident, even your life ends. You need help. The church reported to the duke, who requested to take action from the kingdom's council. It was a jury of peers, the dukes of the dire lands. The man shows up at the church and pretends to be a town recluse whose equipment was designed for traversing the battlefield of an earth magic.

There is a land where no one lives comfortably at night even after surviving. Think the trenches of Arkfallen and the endless tides of remorse. No one lives in the ruins of that battle, it's just a bad idea. There is a small depression outside the clearing that was used to push waves of topsoil and ten other types of rock, all in rows of roughly cracked stone. It's low enough you only risk slipping in the rain but never flat. There is a magic pool that had been exposed there, the man is going there with his teaching tool for the true siege fireball structure of magic.

The battle was instigated when an unnamed group of men interfered with safeties and without communication they sent nine trains to their deaths. A tragedy led to a group of earth mages working in unison to bury the house of the man and all of his 'favored'. A landlord anarchist, now terrorist. The man brought his entire neighborhood, part farmland and part paradise, into a landslide that had happened to stone. An avalanche that rolls up the mountain and churned the area to nothing more that the now 'native' fauna. The trenches of Arkfallen formed from the removal of ten spans deep.

The were roughly parallel but the evidence of individuals in action served as a rekindling of suspicion to the Duke of their power in tandem. The thirty seven men shared an ideology that guided them in purpose, that wasn't the thought in the Duke's mind. The practiced hand could repeat. These earth mages were miners that travelled from land to land robbing the earth of metal ores, now proven when a knight paid for dinner in silver only to receive copper in the same denomination. The knight slew three earth mages and died clenching two silver and one copper. They had trusted.

After executing all but fifteen men for their actions, now investigated by the knights and auditors of the land. Taxes came due and heads rolled. That fifteen brought the knights to fifteen stashes, concentrated wealth for only their people. One for every head. They were given robes of thorns by the church of healing and forgiveness, identical and grown from a fragment of an artistic sadist's masterwork. Tailored in her window to skeletons. A spell from the church and the stripped men would make the clipping of the robes grow to surround and bind into the men. The vines touched bone.

Greed can be found everywhere but no one spread rumors of earth magicians carrying wealth. They were far to dangerous to invoke, akin to gods on earth.

[nacrelysis]

would you take me for a ride, would you toss me to the side

from @thormanick 's awesome prompt about phos and antarc's reunion, posted again separately. happy end of hiatus!!

_

"You're as beautiful as the day I lost you."

"Phos-" Antarcticite manages, but the rest of their name drops through their mouth like moon dust tumbling between teeth. And- they swallow back the strangeness, force themself to meet the eyes of what remains from a winter many centuries ago -

And what?

Euclase was right. Euclase, Antarcticite thinks, has always been right in one way or another; it bleeds through in the way they carry their lace-dripped shoulders, in the way they approach that redhead who always lingers by the balconies on ballroom nights, in the way they choose their words carefully so that the recipient will neither think them for the worse nor take hasty action.

Actions like charting a course to an off-limits planet on a night that the other Lunar-lustrous are preoccupied with Thirty-three's little flower cookies.

Antarcticite never liked parties, anyways.

You will not like what you find, Euclase's soft words echo like a moon bell in the back of Antarcticite's mind. Correct.

You will regret it. Wrong.

I will never regret Phosphophyllite. That had been their response. Short and hot-tempered in a way that they'd never dared when their body was all liquid cold and brittle loneliness, biased and stubborn in conviction that once had only been sworn to the man-once-machine that now chatted the days by with Aechmea.

"Not what you-ah-expected, was it." Phosphophyllite's voice cracks over simple syllables. They prop themself up at a weak angle on the beach, breathing harshly through lungs that Antarcticite suspects - with great ache - are beginning to tear their way into being.

"That is not a bad thing."

Their sigh comes out guttural and wheezing like the chimes that tinkle beside Rutile's office door. "It may well be.

"Antarcticite," Phos says slowly, like their name is bitter ash in their mouth. "Why are you here?"

It is simple. "Because you are here."

Somewhere on that human face, they think they see a furrow of the brow. "It is lonely here."

"Yes."

"You will not have the silks they drape on the moon." Phos raises a trembling, dripping silver hand to their bulbous eye. "I was there, once. It is beautiful."

A small smile. "You are more, though."

It is Antarcticite's turn to ask a question. "Why do you insist that I am beautiful?"

All of the Lustrous were beautiful. It was why the Lunarians supposedly sought them, after all- for their flesh that bled light, because the glare of their moon was not enough for their blank vanity. But Antarcticite is not Lustrous anymore. Beauty made them prey, but, the way Phos says it makes them wonder-

"What is beautiful to you?"

"To me?" The mass of mercury and gold slumps back to the ground, faded blue eyes fixing themselves on Antarcticite's gleaming hair. "Do you remember the ice floes?"

"The ice floes?" Of course Antarcticite remembers their enemy of centuries, the beast of the lost depths, the place where-

They freeze.

The place where Phos lost their arms.

"So you remember that day, too." Phosphophyllite chuckles. "Did you know the ice spoke to me?"

"I did." And Antarcticite can never forgive themself for brushing it aside, for their careless words towards Phos' body, for thinking arrogantly and selfishly that if they could be fine in the cold, then so could this creature the color of warm spring and fresh mint.

"At the last moment, I hesitated." Phos looks out over the lapping tides. "I tripped, actually- clumsy to the end."

"Do you remember the walk there?"

Antarcticite grimaces. "Phos, are you purposefully evoking memories of my guilt?"

"Eh? No." Phosphophyllite giggles, the sound quiet but effortlessly reminiscent of bright teal eyes in the winter sun. "I promise I have a point, ah.

"It was dawn. I saw you, there, atop the mountain of snow. Your hair floated around your head like strands of Shinsha's mercury, Antarcticite; I wanted so bad to touch it but I knew you'd never forgive me."

I would have, Antarcticite thinks now, old with regret and sorrow. I would have let you a thousand times over.

"You stood there, because you were doing your winter duties-" Phosphophyllite murmurs aloud, voice fragile and soft. "-but you looked back at me, and you told me to walk. Your eyes didn't catch the sunlight- I swear, the sunlight was trapped by the glitter of your pupils, Antarcticite, you were all white and pale and glowing in the sunrise-

"And I walked." They breathe, blue eyes vivid and wide upon Antarcticite. "Because you were beautiful like the colors in the north sky at night, and distant like the glitter of sun on the ocean- and I thought that if I could just walk further, and run faster, and reach out-"

They gasp to a stop, metallic hands clenching at thin air between the two of them.

Phosphophyllite closes their eyes, and finishes in barely a whisper-

"-I thought that I could touch you."

Beautiful. The way Phosphophyllite mouths it makes the word feel like something older than Yellow's pain or Sensei's life. Something unspeakably aching, unimaginably longing - unerringly human.

Oh, Phosphophyllite. What happened?

They must have stood there silently for a while, because Phosphophyllite turns their metal-flecked eyelashes down to the sand covering their ankles. "You should go, Antarcticite. The moon misses you."

"They miss me." Antarcticite agrees. "But I miss you."

And they don't, goes unsaid but understood all the same.

Phosphophyllite looks up, blue eyes cast in green under the sunlight. "Antarcticite. I'm not Lustrous anymore. I'm not one of you."

"Neither am I," Antarcticite says softly, and their sleeves ripple in the breeze.

"You're making a mistake." Blue-green eyes flinty like the winter reflection, fragile like the ice beneath. "Why would-" They stop. "-just. Why?"

"I miss you." Antarcticite's heels sink into the sand when they crouch down. They look at their hands, once stolen by the Lunarians, now one of what they used to hate. "The winter was my duty. Sensei worried that I felt lonely; I told him I was not.

"I did not realize I was lying until I met you." Pale, translucent hands take dripping metal fingers in their unorthodox grasp. One feels too faint to hold anything. The other feels too heavy to do anything but drown. "You were earnest, loyal, vulnerable. Leaping down the ice floes didn't feel so empty when I knew someone else was awake. The snow didn't feel so heavy when I knew you were there shivering too. When you fell-"

They take a deep breath. Phosphophyllite no longer stares at the ground; they trace Antarcticite's hands in muted wonder, once upon a time.

"-when you fell. Into the water, I-I was afraid." It burns to admit, but in a good way. Antarcticite thinks it might feel like the drinks Cairngorm insisted they try on the moon. "I didn't know how much I cared for you until you were almost gone, and I have always been ashamed of that."

"I was petulant." Phosphophyllite counters, though their voice is weak. "Childish."

"You were." Antarcticite agrees. "But over time, it became a petulance that made me smile. Childishness that made me want to tease you back. I never did. I was too scared.

"You endeared yourself to me, Phosphophyllite." They trace the side of Phosphosphophyllite's gleaming cheek. "I lost you that day, too, when I was taken away. I care too much to go through that again."

"It's lonely here." Phosphophyllite crosses their arms. It's so reminiscent of the mint-eyed gem that fell through snow that Antarcticite can't resist a smile. "The Admirabilis hardly come by, when they do. There are no parties. No silks. No comfortable beds. No drinks."

"I do not care much about the Admirabilis." Antarcticite nudges Phosphophyllite gently, looking them in the eyes. "I do not like parties. I do not want silks or drinks. I do not want luxurious beds. And I will never be lonely as long as I'm with you."

"There are no more Lustrous." Phosphophyllite whispers. Their final defense wavers in the air.

Had it been centuries ago, both of them fresh-faced in the snow, Antarcticite might have left it at that. They probably wouldn't even have had the self-awareness to carry the conversation as it is now.

But that was then. And even the sturdiest of gems can wear away by the tides of the moon.

"There are no more Lustrous." Antarcticite agrees. "So let us set it beside in the past, Phos. We are not Lustrous anymore. Our duties are over. Our work is done.

"And," they take Phosphophyllite's face in both their hands, and Antarcticite stares back at the wells of green and blue for all the centuries they had nothing to look at, "when the new Lustrous crawl from the shores of the beach and the cracks of the cliff sides, they will have us to show them a life without duty."

Phosphophyllite takes an impossibly small breath. Their eyes are wide and glimmering. "You promise?"

"I swear it." Antarcticite says firmly.

Phosphophyllite closes their silvery eyelids and chuckles, the genuine smile cracking through centuries of burden and wear. When they open them, Antarcticite thinks that they look just a bit closer to the color of the sunrise.

"You know," Phosphophyllite says conversationally, "I heard a tale about humans while on the moon."

"Is that so?"

"Yes." Phosphophyllite sprawls back where the grass melts into sand, casting their eyes back to Antarcticite. "Apparently, when humans wanted to seal a promise, they had a ritual."

"Which was?"

"Something," Phosphophyllite pauses, tilting their head, "called a kiss."

Antarcticite sighs. "I have seen Cairngorm and Aechmea. I know what a kiss is."

"So that's a no-"

"I didn't say I didn't want to," Antarcticite snaps so quickly, too quickly, and then they feel a sudden heat blaze across their cheeks. Phosphophyllite cackles and lays back further on the grass.

"Are you sure?" They tease, and the sunlight glitters back across their eyelashes. "Isn't it unbecoming of the frigid Antarcticite, most dutiful of the Lustrous, to give in to such worldly pleasures?"

Antarcticite sighs again.

If this is how life will be with Phos, well...they can't say they don't like it.

"Good thing neither of us are Lustrous, then." And Phos' eyes crinkle like the stars' smile upon the sea, and Antarcticite feels themselves fall to the force that the moon had been so bereft of; in the distance, the sun rises, and witnesses the becoming of humanity.

[mrfeenysmustache]

Of the Wind

Summary: She’d been free, and then she’d been taken. She moved the wind, she made the wind, she was the wind.

Also read on: AO3

——————————-

Once upon a time, humans believed that all things had spirits.

Every tree, every flower, every mountain, every stream and lake and river…

Even the wind.

They were right.

The world teemed with life that most mortal beings would never see, and though some humans the world over continued to revere the invisible Souls of the Earth, many moved their reverence to the gods who made them instead.

But still the souls lingered, thriving in the rushing of water, the branching of tree canopies, the softness of grass, playing and running and laughing and living.

Some were as brief as a spring flower, some eternal as a mountain, but they had their place and played their part, living in perfect harmony, in synch with the ebb and flow of mortal life around them.

They were free.

The freest beings in the universe, free of the conventions of man or the expectations of yokai, they expressed every emotion they had without restraint.

But none so much as the wind.

The wind blew hard or soft or fast or slow, a contingent of happy souls following their currents, writhing together to move the trees, the waves, the seeds, even hair and clothes and leaves and stems.

The wind was sisters, sisters who giggled past ears like a sigh, brushed through hair to admire its softness, tangled together in endless heaps of giggling happiness, unfettered, unconfined, uninhibited.

They saw everything as they raced across the surface of the earth, traveled on the wings of birds, rushed through rising tides, and stormed past mortal houses.

They whispered their secrets and screamed their rage and laughed out their joy, moving all in existence with every breath they took.

It was a bright day, the kind the wind loves, with sun warmed grass to breeze through and fragrant flowers to whip up and relish when the wind was no longer free.

A swirling, elated mass of transparent souls whispered across the meadow, giddy as they communed with the nature souls, when one was snatched away.

She screamed for her sisters who rushed to her aid, but the wind has no hands to grab, to swords to wield, no feet to run, and when the Magics that took their sister disappeared in a streak of vile, black smoke, the dispersed in alarm.

The little wind soul wilted.

To live, wind must move, and there is always somewhere to go.

But the bubble of darkness she was trapped in was too small, too tight, too dark, nothing like the bright clearings or dense forests or raging oceans she was used too.

She was being snuffed out. So much still to do and see so many sisters still to love, and her life was being strangled baby something she couldn’t even see.

Between one breath and the next, she knew nothingness…

And then she knew pain.

She gasped in a deep, painful breath, new, empty lungs burning, screaming in protest, foreign limbs and muscles aching to move in ways she didn’t understand, and then a dark chuckle chilled her colder than winter.

“Ah, you have awakened.”

He knelt down, red eyes gleaming evilly as he stared at her.

He helped her sit up, held out a mirror, and she gasped again when she saw what looked back at her.

A face.

A mortal face, with eyes like roses and skin like snow, stared at her from within the glass.

She’d tried to see in one of these before, like the mortals she followed to ruffle their sleeves, and had seen all of nothing.

The wind wasn’t bound by bodies or forms.

But she lifted her hand, touched her cheek, stared in disbelief as the woman in the mirror reflected every move she made.

She shook her head, felt her eyes burn as liquid fell hot from them and traced down her cheeks.

And the man spoke again.

“Hello Kagura.” He purred, and she jolted. Was that her name? That’s not what her sister’s had called her. “I have given you form, a real body to live in, crafted from my very own flesh. Isn’t it lovely? You’ll have freedom to taste, touch, love. And in exchange, you need only serve me as your master.”

“Freedom?” She asked, confused by his offer. She had been free. Free and happy and alive. This body was painful, small, limited in what it could do and feel.

And she knew something about it was missing.

The man who sat before her smirked.

“Yes. I have gifted you true life and freedom. To keep it, I demand your allegiance.”

She seethed, rage burning hotter than the summer sun, but her new body struggled to contain it.

“You have taken my freedom and offer me a mockery in exchange. Why would I serve a fool such as you?”

He smiled, anger and hatred boiling in his red eyes as he reached behind him for a clay jar. He thrust his hand inside and squeezed something, and blinding pain bloomed throughout her body.

She fell back to floor and screamed until her throat was raw and bloody, begging him to stop, and when he did he grabbed her chin and forced her to behold him in all his vengeful glory.

“That, my dearest Kagura, was you heart. If you do not serve me, then I will destroy it, and with it, all your hopes of freedom and happiness. Are we understood? You will happily serve me, or you will die. You. Are. Mine.”

She gasped for breath as her hope curdled into searing anger.

This wouldn’t be the first time mortals tried to entice the wind. They would often hang colorful bits of paper or fabric to trees and houses, and she and her sisters would brush through them in delight.

Never before had she heard of one trying to imprison the wind.

Oh yes, he was a fool. She would make him an example. None would be so brave again.

And she was not his.

“No.” She struggled to speak through her ruined throat, voice hoarse and strangled.

“I am the wind.”

[furubaa]

Notes on Mushishi - Vol 1 & 2

This is the start of my personal notes on every Mushishi chapter (anime ep # in brackets). I’ve reread the manga over and over again looking for specific stories, so this is just for easier reference. 

VOLUME 1

1 - The Green Gathering (S1E1, The Green Seat)

Ginko learns of a boy who can create life by drawing or writing and decides to pay him a visit 

“The green here is so vivid it’s eerie”

A personal invitation to a banquet, presented with clear sake in a shallow green saucer - the exquisite scent of kouki, the water of life. 

The dull pain of being frozen mid-transformation, one foot out the door; realisation of emptiness, and yearning for a full exit from the world

Color seeping out of an untouched brush; power passed down the generations

Everything covered in moss where the kouki soaked in the ground

2 - The Soft Horns (S1E3, Tender Horns)

Ginko is summoned to cure villagers from hearing problems caused by Mushi, and to cure the village head’s grandson Maho, who has sprouted four horns on his forehead.

A quiet village deep in the mountains where even the wind does not pass; absolute silence on snowy nights, when even the sound of your voice disappears.

Bombarded with a flood of sounds, the spirit tires, and body weakens til death. The murmuring of a single Mushi is a microscopic sound, until made aware of the trillions of Mushi clamouring all over the world, calling to each other like echoes.

An intimate gesture of protection - the sound of your mother. A volcanic eruption seen long ago. The lava inside of you, dissolving everything.

3 - The Pillow Path (S1E4 The Pillow Pathway)

Ginko pays a visit to a man named Jin who has premonitions in his dreams as a result of a Mushi affliction caused by Imeno no Awai. 

4 - The Light in the Eyelids (S1E2 The Light of the Eyelid)

Ginko visits a girl named Sui, who is suffering from a Mushi affliction that has made her eyes sensitive to light.

“Behind your eyelid you have another eyelid.” 

There's a river of light flowing underground that illuminates even the pitch black; there has to be total, true darkness to see it. “Light particles come from very far away/ and they flow past me.” “Stretching out for eternity at your feet”

Ginko sitting on the opposite side of the river bank; a warning from a stranger.

“You spent too much time in the dark with Sui” ... Mushi that breed in the darkness. 

5 - The Traveling Bog (S1E5 The Traveling Swamp)

Ginko is traveling through the mountains to see his friend, Adashino. Along the way, he meets a girl named Io, who lives inside a swamp that is capable of moving by itself.

Ginko finding himself travelling in step with a swamp that sinks into the earth and then floats up over and over again, passing through the mountains

A girl sacrificed to save her village from a flood, wearing ceremonial robes; a bride presented to the water god, pushed off a cliff in a storm.

A large green thing that calmly rose up through the raging water; swimming at the bottom of a river that was overflowing its banks. It said, “You should continue to live.”

“When people drink them, their bodies become transparent... and then, they flow away.” Choosing to become Mushi is to exist between life and death; slowly wearing away at your human heart.

Following the journey of a ten thousand year old swamp to its death; moving towards the sea, the dying form of a liquid mushi. Accompanying it on its final journey.

“Swamps are born, eventually they stagnate, and when the universe they have contained within themselves ends... they get up on their own and start to move.”

VOLUME 2

6 - The Mountain Sleeps (S1E11 The Sleeping Mountain)

While traveling, Ginko passes through a town settled near a mountain. He learns that a Mushi Master is living on the mountain, but hasn't visited the village for quite some time, and every person who had been sent to find him has fallen ill and died.

“A smell both sweet and rancid that rises from the ground and touches each leaf. One by one. Coiling around them and choking their skin. A light vein, where the river of light flows.”

Ginko tapping into a mushi that acts as the mountain's nerves, sinking their wills into the plants and running around. 

“The water of life (...) Women bear children like cats or dogs; twins, triplets, or even quadruplets, abandoned in the mountains.”

A travelling Mushishi who puts his roots down. The one he loves committing an unforgivable act so that they can be married. Assuming the role of a slain mountain boar god; his bones will lie here. 

An aged man, summoning an immortal spirit to take his place of guardian forever - a necessary sacrifice to return the world to natural order.

7 - The Sea of Brushstrokes (S1E20 A Sea of Writings)

Ginko comes to a house which has a library full of mushi-related scrolls. There, he meets the girl who writes the scrolls, and hears the story of the curse that has been afflicting her family for generations.

A large dark crypt; an enormous library of scripts recording ancient history

Scribes cursed with immobility and marked for death, the only way to quell the Mushi is to seal them with words. A tradition of inviting travelling Mushishis to feed the writers myths in order for them to expel their words, physically manifesting them, an excruciating process for survival of self - and if not, the survival of your descendants. Plucking words and returning them to order, duty. Little by little, a receding scar. 

8 - They That Breathe Ephemeral Life (S1E6 Those Who Inhale the Dew)

Ginko's services are requested by a boy named Nagi, who lives on a distant island, to investigate the case of Akoya, a girl revered by the people as a "Living God".

A brief moment during the spring tide is the only time you can get to the island; only safe one day per month to take a boat out. a barren island with little soil, villagers surviving with moral support from their god. 

Tapping the center of the forehead with a needle, a curlicule of a mushi spiralling out

“When i was the Ikigami and aged when the sun set i could always shut my eyes and fall asleep feeling satisfied (...) But now my legs tremble at the immense amount of time ahead of me.” Living Mushi's life cycle of a single day - every second of every day experienced fresh, so much wonder you can't keep up. “My heart was always satisfied.”

When faced with tragedy, the girl finally chooses to return to the state of suspension - the luxury to forget and detach from mortal burden.

9 - Rain Comes and a Rainbow is Born (S1E7 Raindrops and Rainbows)

Ginko encounters a man named Koro, who has a strange habit of pursuing rainbows, and helps him find one particular rainbow that he is looking for - the Kouda.

A father delirious for rain - a strange man running around happily, and a mysterious rainbow dancing in odd shapes. A body that thirsts - “I miss that rainbow so much… I can’t stand it.” 

A boy who runs away to escape the burden of a dying father; to prove his worth and his father’s.

Ginko who must travel constantly, taking a break by finding purpose in small goals - You can’t live only for the sake of living; rest is essential. 

A natural phenomena created from light and imbued with kouki - “There's a reason they occur, but they have no purpose - existing only to keep flowing. Nothing can affect them, but they affect those around them, and then they leave.”

* 10 - The Veil Spore (S1E21 Cotton Changeling)

A couple summons Ginko to investigate their sick child, Watahiko, who has developed green spots all over his body. The father explains that the child didn’t look human when born - instead, it was a strange green mass that swiftly escaped. A year later, he found a baby under the house.

A wedding procession that passes through a forest - “A green stain on my cotton wedding gown.” A boy born green and formless, that slipped out and under the house. The main body; a mat of spores spreading under the house, dirt that wriggles under the sun.

One year later, it sends out a human-mushroom; every half year, the same child born again and again. Harmless children joined together at the root, that exist only to collect nutrients, that die and spit out seeds. “Mushi that wear the skin of your dead child.”

The human instinct to kill everything we don’t understand.

A baby with a body that grows faster than the mind. Children that evolve rapidly - “After learning words i forgot how.. I forgot how.” The primal instinct for survival lost. The cost of intelligence.

The Watahiki, when faced with danger, disconnects its children from the root, in an attempt to save at least the seeds - the children change form and enter a long dormant period.

An organism that strays from its recorded life cycle. 

Not that I’m doing this for public consumption (who even is going to read all this) but anyways FYI I’ve got structured notes on the next volumes in my drafts & if I ever get round to finishing all of them they’ll be tagged as #mushishi notes 

[ka-za-ri]

Tieguanyin (Barbatos x Reader)

Idk. I just like the idea of soft tea time with butler demon. Enjoy the soft I guess? Unedited because we die like heroes here.

Obey Me! Masterlist: here  Pairing: Barbatos x Reader (GNR) Genre: Non-genre/Character study Wordcount: 1,000 ish   Tags: Fluff, hopeless romanticism Summary: Teatime with Barbatos

Tea with two sugar cubes and the smallest splash of milk. Just enough to make the bitter brew palatable to you. The swirls of white meld into the dark liquid swimming and dancing in time with the silver spoon pinched between your forefinger and thumb as you mixed your drink to your liking. Not a word between you ever needed to be exchanged during this ritual. It was a sacred moment of peace from the world for the two of you.

Tea completely black, poured after a second steeping. Steam rising from the fine porcelain of a cup older than time. The gold leaf has peeled at some point but it only adds to the charm of the piece. He’s told you many times he would get to repairing it, but something tells you he finds the imperfection endearing. He waits only a minute and thirty four seconds before taking the first sip of scalding hot tea.

Barbatos’ long lashes brush his cheeks as he admires the scent and the flavor of tea. You never understood the appeal of tea until he told you to close your eyes. Only then could you see what he tasted.

Assam felt like fields of sunshine and a gentle spring breeze. A forest yonder and mountains on the horizon as far as your eye could see. A world built on scent and comfort all in a single ancient porcelain cup. He only ever chose that for you when the sky was dark and stress loomed over your head. “It’ll give you some energy without making you jittery..” He said, carefully dropping the sugar into your cup before adding the milk. He winks and adds just a drop of honey on top of it all. “For good luck.” 

Rooibos was served when the weather was bright and  after you spent most of the afternoon in the shade of some tree, catching up on reading. He served it with fresh scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam made last summer. “It’s refreshing even if it’s hot.” he explains, pouring himself a cup and you’re transported into a nest made of the softest sheets. They keep your spirit as warm as the sun you basked in hours ago. Even as the hours passed and it became late, you brought back with you the scent of butter and dried flowers. 

He only ever gave you darjeeling when you felt down. The hints of citrus and spice always uplifted you just enough to bring you to a bustling market during the harvest season. You could imagine, if only for a moment, the two of you being human enough to wander the crowded alleyways and the cramped stalls. You could pretend that you weren’t oddly alone despite being surrounded by friends. 

You didn’t ask for comfort during those long days. He would patiently wait while you cried whatever feelings you had out until there were nothing but hiccups and stilted sobs. It wasn’t until you’d reach out with trembling fingers that he would sit by your side and let you release the last of your homesickness onto his shoulder. 

It was a burden he bore without words. It was a weight he carried silently with him and a wound he sought to help bandage with shortbread and another cup of darjeeling. This time, with a touch of honey to help sweeten the bitterness that no doubt welled up from insurmountable loneliness. The bag of candied orange peels he let you bring back with you would tide you over until the next time the weight was too much for you to bear. 

Barbatos couldn’t ask to be a solution; but he could at least be a sanctuary of safety from the chaos. 

He saved the tea from Sun Moon Lake as celebration for all the things you’ve accomplished. He only allowed himself to serve it during the full moon and with rice cakes. It was the only tea he insisted that you drink plain. You were allowed to argue with demons on a daily basis, but his prescriptions on tea were scripture. 

You understood why he was so adamant as it was the only way to taste the faint traces of cooling mint at the back of your tongue while you drank it. Through all the chaos that surrounded you, he always found the best medicine through tea. That night, you counted the stars and drew your own constellations with your head on his shoulder. You told him stories of your home and the traditions that came with the bright harvest moon. 

Chang’e and the bunny on the moon were your best friends and you recounted the timeless words of Li Bai, admiring the beauty of lunar light. While you lamented about the tragedy of poets, he wondered if you realized that you were more beautiful than any celestial goddess you named.

When you mulled over the last cup of the tea that night,  he secretly wrote your name between Perseus and Andromeda, wishing he could immortalize his love for you as the stars had. 

He’s burnt the tips of his fingers from drying young tea leaves over a flame. The wounds ached no matter how much salve he put on them. Barbatos floated chrysanthemum petals across the top of your usual milky mixture, letting a little bit of sunlight seep into the murky drink. Two cubes of sugar with a splash of milk and a tonic to fight off weariness was complete. 

Seeing  you smile as you sipped the drink that came from his hard work was worth all the pain and he forgot about the blisters hidden behind his gloves. It was hard to think of anything but what heaven looked like when you were happy.  “What’s it taste like to you?” 

“Safety.” You replied, taking a crumbling thumbprint cookie between careful fingers and nibbling on it. The crumbs dropped to your uniform, but you were too happy to care. It tasted like home, like where you belonged. You thought of all the comforting things in the world and each image came back to an ornate drawing room where two sets of cups and saucers sat on a silver tray. The only image that stood out was the ritual of brewing tea at the right temperature and the look of concentration on Barbatos’ face as he counted the seconds before he could pour your drink.  

“It tastes like… spending time with you.” 

From that day on, he took his tea with two cubes of sugar and a splash of milk. 

[boflicker]

Become a River Again

Let it flow, gush forth from our cracks, like blood squeezed from stone.

How do we open up to touch these places so hidden? How do we unfurl ourselves, so that the sting becomes a healing salve, rather than a warning to abate.

Dig, dig deeper, stretch, grow arms wider. Take up space, make my limbs mechanisms for tender touch, to flow with the flood of sensation.

When it hurts, don’t stop. Lean in, lean in deeper, find the pleasure in the pain, the ache of healing in deep wounds. Don’t be afraid, it's all a mess.

Own it, own all that you sow, release all that is not what you can control. Be humble, love deep, laugh until you cry, swell with joy from the small gestures that breathe life into meaning.

Be you and everything you are, undeniably, unabashedly. Atone for your actions, but ever apologize for who you are. Be the goof, embrace the fool. Grow from every failure, lean into each life lesson as though it were not a mistake but a choice.

You may have not chosen this path, but you can choose now how you want to walk it. May you move with grace, flow with the abundance of intention.

Hold your pieces, hug them dear; they are beautiful in their brokenness.

Rub them gently together, like a river current, let their edges round and smooth in time. They don’t have to return to their past formation; all mountains eventually become the sands of distant seas.

Be movement, transition like the phases of water.

Be gentle like the rain, fresh like the morning dew, move your body like the current of a young stream, drift between cracks deep beneath the surface, mold through spaces and pressures you never thought you could survive.

Flow stronger as your passages collide and conjoin, rage with acuteness like the force of a waterfall, carve stone with currents and all that seeks to stop you in your path, widdle it down with the force of curiosity and love.

Thrum as surges collide into massiveness, a river meeting salt and sand. Interweave your power with all those flowing with you, arriving from distant springs and mountains you will never know; making the journey to emerge in synchrony.

Patiently eddie and curl your tides together, spiraling does not mean you are going backwards. Find the softness of shores, rest in the rushes and pools, remember why you are here.

Take your time, the sea will greet you when you are ready.

And when you meet its shores, embrace the brine, the vast openness of deepness.

Flow where your heart fears, touch where it seeks comfort.

Forget the shape that has defined you; Become all instead of one.

And once you have drifted among deep cravasses, awash in the hum of wale song, along bellies of floating rays, sifting ocean rock to sand; release your molecules.

transform from liquid to become amassed by the lightness of air. Move like a feather in wind, ascend to heights you never thought you could reach, mold into the moist opaqueness of a billowing cloud.

Kiss the sun with your dreams, blush blooming hues at sunrise, gaze into the solitude of distant stars; dance and dissipate.

Let in all the joy, all the grief, thunder with thrashes and let yourself fall, like a seed carried high in the wind.

Cry, become rain.

Release and drop down, to touch land once again. To feed and nurture all life, for joy cannot grow without grounding into sorrow. Drink deep of the soil and damp earth, drip from thriving verdant leaves, channel amongst the roots of stretching trees.

Cradle all life in the awe of your fingertips. Be all and nothing; One and everything.

Start over, and become a river again.

[homeexpress18]

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[lysmune]

Fleur de Sel

     Across the waters, an algae bloom of salt crystals blossom.

[Genshin Impact | Zhongli]

      Here, the air shimmers with clustering voices, coalescing hopes, a soft-carved smile ringing like chimes across the cloudless blue of a sun-graced afternoon. Zhongli sets the lacquer box down and unlatches it, unearthing the contents in an orderly, single-file form, laying them out on the ground.

      The pouch is his first gift, filled with the seeds of hope her people had sown, an end to the blood-red dawn. In his palm, it weighs heavy, but it makes no mark when he places it upon the mound of salt centred between the monuments of a village swallowed whole.

      He exhales.

      Persimmons, mandarins, rice buns and a bowl of rice next, heaped tall so she and her people need no longer conflict over who goes home in starvation. Let these tide your suffering, if for a day. He goes onto his feet, then, and gathers all he needs for his final offering.

      This one starts with a strike.

      The brimstone-tipped match bursts alight as Zhongli burns the fallen maple leaves he’s collected. He dips the gaiwan into the surrounding sea, underground minerals swirling at his fingertips as he purifies the water clean before letting it heat. Once it does, he pours the liquid over the two teacups.

     Zhongli draws the pot full again and brings it to warm, tipping the water from the gaiwan after briefly blooming a spoonful of tea leaves. He repeats the steps for the last time, counting until thirty beats under his breath before he fills the cups with freshly brewed tea.

     Autumn petrichor and the scent of the woods, warm and rich, faintly sweetened by elderberries.

     The breeze today carries well.

     Sitting under the shade of the maple tree, Zhongli places the cup beside him. “I hope you’ve been well, old friend,” and in response, the surface of the tea in her teacup ripples. A small smile curls his lips.

     He blows the steam rising from his drink before taking a sip. Shoumei is an unaccustomed brew for him, who prefers the darker roasted oolongs or pu’er to the mild flavours of white tea, but this is surprisingly pleasant.

     I can understand why it is your favourite.

     At the back of his throat, the taste of brine lingers, an unforgotten memory.

     “Us divines,” Zhongli starts, “we belong no longer in the present Liyue.”

     Another drink and Zhongli empties his cup. “Would you like yours filled?” The wind answers with a laugh, disturbing the calm of her unfinished tea. He takes that as a polite decline and refreshes his own.

     Emboldened by the longer steep, the fragrance sharpens, a tart note akin to unripened sunsettias.

     Zhongli presses his back against the tree’s trunk. “The people have come to decide their own fates.” Through the rustling leaves, he watches the lights shift, a translucence of fire and gold. “Whatever dominion I held over them has now ended.”

     Exhaling, he glances down to the reflection of him, an amber visage on the tea’s surface. Zhongli swirls the cup between his fingers and stares at his own twisting distortion.

     “Rex Lapis, Morax—I have consigned them to the earth from whence they came,” he pauses; the air stills. A pair of eyes affixes upon him, as bright as Cor Lapis’ in the dark, glimmering into focus.

     And yet, I am never truly unbound.

     “Liyue has no need for gods.”

     Because we have created, and destroyed, and ravaged, and built.

     “We have bled and made blood,” Zhongli mumbles, “and Liyue has bled enough.”

     Beside him, she quiets at the mention of their past, shared and heavy with iron. Zhongli simply looks toward the horizon, where the sea borders the sky and splits. Whose bones is he sitting upon? How vast is this graveyard underneath? Whose history will time erase, erode, forget?

     “This land is at relative peace, now,” he states. A bare whisper flickers through the islands of Sal Terrae; it sounds like hope. How she holds the people with boundless kindness, so much forgiveness, Zhongli could never understand.

     He finishes his tea and pours himself another cup.

     This time, the scent is bittersweet.

     “I wish you could see the Liyue of today, dear friend.”

     When the breeze blows gentle against his cheek, Zhongli offers a smile to reassure her. He hears her echo, and he tells her he understands. Cruel as their actions were, their hearts held mercy, a value scarce available in such times of strife.

     “I desire naught of change, or regret.” What is done, is done; Zhongli fully subscribes to this. Still, that does not mean he feels no sorrow for the transgressions of a bygone past, of a well-intentioned mercy that begot a death deemed as salvation.

     Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a sip of his tea. A lingering sourness is all he can taste.

     I wish that you lived in gentler times.

     A comforting hand on his shoulder makes him chuckle, an act of consolation whose wearied seams betray him. Zhongli gazes out into the distance, to the shimmering tides ebbing away at the creases in their history.

     Six thousand years. He will be the first to remember, the last to forget.

     Six thousand years more, these plains he’ll walk upon alone.

     It’s a foolish thing, for this notion is one he has learned to come to terms with, but his heart aches.

     Sung in waves, she calls out to him and he looks towards the brightest star atop the waters. Tiny crystals flowering into a field, blooms of salt rime the surface in patches, like winter preserving spring blossoms in white before it melts away into the snow.

     Traceless, soundless, wordless, her presence leaves him with only the fragrance of sweet rice to contemplate upon.

     On the tip of his tongue, the tea’s aftertaste is a pleasant jasmine, mildly honeyed. Zhongli smiles.

     “Thank you.”

     In silence, in solitude, he watches as time slowly pulls the sun’s descent into the earth, accompanied by the stars, the spines of the many mountains and the untouched cup of tea gone cold.

[snailg0th]

TMA PLAYLIST!

hey party people! i made an absolutely MASSIVE entity playlists and thought i would share!

Here’s the song breakdown by entity if you want to separate it out into different entities!

The Corruption

- i’ll let it burn / kanaya

- first love late spring / mitski

- geyser / mitski

- me and my husband / mitski

- liquid smooth / mitski

- an unhealthy obsession / the blake robinson synthetic orchestra

- like real people do / hozier

- arms tonite / mother mother

- spiral of ants / lemon demon

- always forever / cults

- i wanna be adored / king woman

- in a week / hozier

- lovers are strangers / michelle gurevich

- first six moths of love / michelle gurevich

- where the watermelons rot / madelynne whitt

- loved / fein

- the masochism tango / tom lehrer

- high school sweethearts / melanie martinez

- earthworms / elliot lee

The Lonely

- ghosting / mother mother

- cellophane / fka twigs

- two slow dancers / mitski

- last words of a shooting star / mitski

- you missed my heart / phoebe bridgers

- writer in the dark / lorde

- liability / lorde

- sick of losing soulmates / dodie

- ribs / lorde

- i exist i exist i exist / flatsound

- how to never stop being sad / dandelion hands

- teenage hurt / oscar lang

- feels like we’re dying / johnny goth

- lonesome town / ricky nelson

- the ghost has no home / cocteau twins, harold budd

- heavy heart / you am i

- scott street / phoebe bridgers

- get lonely / the mountain goats

- i’m tired, you’re lonely / liza anne

- emptiness is a closet full of your clothes / wishing

- butterfly’s repose / zabawa

- xanny / billie eilish

The Slaughter

- thermodynamic lawyer esq / will wood and the tapeworms

- bloody nose / jack conte

- hand me my shovel, i’m going in! / will wood and the tapeworms

- problems / mother mother

- molly / mindless self indulgence

- resurrection / gank

- little pistol / mother mother

- my axe / icp

- to catch a predator / icp

- piggie pie / icp

- egirls are ruining my life / corpse

- i cant decide / scissor sisters

- brutus / the buttress

- thank you for the venom / my chemical romance

- you know what they do to guys like us in prison / my chemical romance

- teenagers / my chemical romance

- shitlist / l7

- lose your head / nova twins

- cop car / mitski

- pumped up kicks / foster the people

- mary / the happy fits

- 6 feet / scarlxrd

- war song / imad royal

- twist the knife / that handsome devil

The Spiral

- kitchen fork / jack conte

- stupid horse / 100 gecs

- a crows trial / vane lily

- hidden in the sand / tally hall

- stuff is way / they might be giants

- baby hotline / jack stauber

- for the departed / shatter james

- touch tone telephone / lemon demon

- they’re coming to take me away / sloppy jane

- anytime you smile / jt music

- tic toc / mother mother

- pretty little head / eliza rickman

- happy pills / weathers

- beware the friendly stranger / boards of canada

- dream / the pied pipers

- spiraling shape / they might be giants

- smile / maisie peters

- laughing on the outside / bernadette carroll

The Stranger

- stalkers tango / autoheart

- puppet loosely strung / the correspondents

- a mask of my own face / lemon demon

- sex with a ghost / teddy hyde

- bang! / ajr

- under my skin / jukebox the ghost

- turn the lights off / tally hall

- break my mind / dagames

- community gardens / the scary jokes

- mr capgras encounters a second hand / will wood and the tapeworms

- mama / my chemical romance

- have you seen my sister evelyn? / evelyn evelyn

- a campaign of shock and awe / evelyn evelyn

- my mom / kimya dawson

- who are you, really? / mikky echo

- kalinka / golden ring ensemble

- russian sailors dance / golden ring ensemble

- we’ll meet again / vera lynn

- carousel / melanie martinez

- this is the freakshow! / open minded

- the greatest show unearthed / creature feature

The Flesh

- blood and bones / the blake robinson synthetic orchestra

- the dismemberment song / blue kid

- i love you like an alcoholic / the taxpayers

- body / mother mother

- blood / my chemical romance

- body terror song / ajj

- skin / marriages

- four teeth / true widow

- tongues and teeth / the crane wives

- cannibal / tally hall

- pork soda / the glass animals

- alligator teeth / mother falcon

- animal skin / bryan dunn

- flowers of flesh and blood / nicole dollanganger

The Hunt

- it will come back / hozier

- in the woods somewhere / hozier

- hayloft / mother mother

- trrst / ic3peak

- oblivion / grimes

- i love you like an alcoholic / the taxpayers

- dear dictator / saint motel

- to my enemies / saint motel

- shaking like an animal / crash kings

- dog teeth / nicole dollanganger

- curses / the cranewives

- that unwanted animal / the amazing devil

- animal impulses / iamx

- go get your gun / the dear hunter

- i’m always walking as somebody else / american murder song

- come along / cosmo sheldrake

- the hunter / adam jensen

The Eye

- evil eye / franz ferdinand

- never meant to know / tally hall

- dirty imbecile / the happy fits

- lent / autoheart

- problems / mother mother

- southern eye / marriages

- wisdom / mother mother

- the fine print / the stupendium

- it’s tough to be a god / annapantsu

- ruler of everything / tally hall

- one eye open / lola blanc

- the competition / kimya dawson

- i see you / phoebe bridgers

- somebody’s watching me / rockwell

The Web

- silver platters / les gold

- puppet loosely strung / the correspondents

- the spiders face / emilie autumn

- twisted threads / the mechanisms

- spider in the roses / sonia leigh, daphne willis, rob the man

- lean on me / yerin baek

- shame / mitski

- devils flesh and bones / eliza rickman

The Dark

- there’s a girl in the corner / the twilight sad

- living with the black dog / emma ruth rundle

- i was all over her / sylvia palth

- welcome and goodbye / dream, ivory

- you are the coffin / flatsound

- into the unknown / the blasting company

- salem / fox academy

- i’m a member of the midnight crew / eddie morton

- sleep awake / mother mother

- no light, no light / florence and the machine

- oh ana / mother mother

- queen of darkness / ugress

The End

- for the departed / shayfer james

- achilles come down / gang of youths

- the end / sibyelle baier

- exit music / radiohead

- sex with a ghost / teddy hyde

- 13 angels standing guard round the side of your bed / silver my zion

- zombie / bad wolves

- old black train / the blasting company

- graveyard / lucy schwartz

- hangout at the gallows / father john misty

- holes in your coffin / phildel

- i’ll die anyways / girl in red

The Desolation

- turtleneck / the national

- relay / fiona apple

- a burning hill / mitski

- burn / king woman

- burning pile / mother mother

- lighting myself on fire / jukebox the ghost

- burn him down! / kitsch club

- mouth of the devil / mother mother

- high tide rising / fox

- the fire / griffinilla

- fire with fire / aliceband

- inferno pt 2 / the buttress

- all the good girls go to hell / billie eilish

- burning down the house / talking heads

- arsonists lullaby / hozier

- play with fire / sam tinnesz

- fire / delta rae

The Buried

- my heart is buried in venice / rick montgomery

- dirty night clowns / chris garneau

- hand me my shovel, i’m going in! / will wood and the tapeworms

- the mind electric / miracle musical

- bit by bit / mother mother

- weight of the world / shayfer james

- bury a friend / billie eilish

- my love took me down to the river to silence me / little green cars

- the devil went to georgia / the charlie daniels band

- jesse got trapped in a coal mine / goodnight, texas

- sisyphus / andrew bird

- bottom of the river / delta rae

- you’re dead / norma tanega

- ain’t no rest for the wicked / cage the elephant

- work song / hozier

- bury me / the hunting project

[whirlybirdwhat]

crown the king (with bloody flowers) - chapter 29

Hanahaki au drabble series, in which Luffy is in love with the sea. Ao3

chapter 29 - crocuses - crocus

“Breathe in.”

The boy in front of him does.

“Breathe out.”

The boy in front of him barely does, his chest shaking, a cough itching out of his throat. There’s a rattling in there, around his lungs, like something petal-soft blooming at the bottom.

Crocus frowns, lines etching across his face in ways they hadn’t since his captain’s time.

When Shank’s had crossed back over Reverse Mountain, he hadn’t believed it.

He said the same thing Roger said! Shanks had grinned, chattering to Crocus like he was still an apprentice and not an emperor in the making. I can’t wait to tell Rayleigh - imagine his face!

A boy, like their captain? Like the man who looked at the world and decided to turn it upside down as he breathed his last? Like the man who smiled like thunder and fought like the devil? Like the man who valued adventure and his friends over anything else?

Like Roger who-  

“I want to be - “

Well.

There really was no describing what Roger’s dream was.

No one else was like him.

(No one else coughed flowers as he fought gods, tyrants, the sea itself. No one else laugh and let the petals fall, let his body weaken as he made one last - not quite desperate - reach for the end.

No one else coughed flowers on the execution stage, and let them fly with the wind like a challenge to the world.)

But Monkey D. Luffy sits on a bench before Crocus with a grin smeared in blood and the sun high behind him, and well -

Crocus can almost believe it.

The kid fought an island whale. Crocus can’t remember Roger doing that.

(The kid smiled as he did it, and painted a straw hat (if poorly) on Laboon’s head, matching his own. Its Roger’s hat, he knows. It makes him smile whenever he looks at Laboon.

The straw hat - always a promise.)

The kid choked as he did it. Crocus does remember Roger doing that.

“No doctors on the crew?” He directs his question to the navigator, who stands idly by their captain as Crocus runs through the checkup they had requested.

The navigator - Nami, he believes her name is - shakes her head. “No. Just me - and I’m not particularly good at medicine either, not for the injuries these idiots get and - well.” She waves her hand at the petals fluttering around the ground, swept up by the sea breeze. “You know.”

He knows.

Crocus turns back to the kid, who’s eyes are chasing after seagulls flying around Laboon rather than the person currently giving him an exam. Crocus bonks him on the head to get his attention. “Hey! Brat!”

Luffy looks over and cocks his head, giggling slightly. “Shishishi! Flower Man!”

Crocus gives him a look. “When did you first start having symptoms?”

(He already knows the answer.)

“After I ate my devil fruit!”

(Shanks came back over the Red Line, regret in every feature and hat no longer adorning his head.)

“And when was that?”

(Still…)

“Ah! When I was seven.”

Crocus nods. He’s fourteen then, now. Still young and baby faced, not even old enough to be let into bars. “How often would you say your chest hurts?”

The kid goes quiet and still at that, shifting a glance at his crew who haven’t stopped glancing over like a mother wolf over her young since Crocus started this whole exam. “… Every day.”

“And your throat?”

“I dunno.”

Crocus gives him another look. Too bad the kids seems to be the only one unfazed by it and bursts out laughing. 


(It’s just another similarity to Roger, who laughed when Crocus glared at him, even as he lay bedridden and sick.)

Nami, thankfully, cuts in. “He gets worse after he falls into the sea and we can’t fish him out right away-“

“Hey!”

“Luffy! Quiet! Anyway - He gets worse then, and after a rough fight. We haven’t had too many storms yet, but I’m guessing them too.” Nami finishes, giving Luffy her own look as he brushes petals from his face.

Luffy is… He’s like Roger, in all the ways that might matter. He seems to be chasing something bigger than himself, with friends and freedom and adventure held before all else. He has a dream and a curse and a smile - but he’s not like Roger.

Crocus knows this as fact, now.

(Roger asked him to leave Laboon. Luffy would never do that.)

(Roger’s illness never fluctuated. Just got worse and worse as his poor reputation soared higher into infamy. Steady and horrible and unable to be cured. Luffy’s is like the tide, like the thing he loves above all else. Always changing.)

It means he can’t do much for him.

Luffy isn’t going to listen to him, so he turns to Nami. “Keep him dry when you can, and keep to liquids after a dip in the ocean. Get your chef to cook foods to help with blood loss, and try to find a doctor when you can.”

Nami nods, serious and stern as Luffy protests that they need to find a musician first.

Crocus will leave them to it. He’s had enough of chasing after musicians and cures for now.

Instead, he watches them leave, watches Luffy laugh and wave and smile like Crocus’s captain did before him. A crown of straw adorns his head and the bright red does well to hide the blood stains. He’s only fourteen, but he’s already managed to put together a crew that will rival any other.

Crocus is oddly proud.

“Heh. That boy…”

(As Luffy’s crew boards his ship, Crocus pulls him away for a moment.

“Kid,” he says, sternly, because this is Shanks’ bet and this kid is strong. “You’ve got three years - less if you keep setting out like this.” He’s made these estimates enough time with Roger, even if he fell to the blade in the end. He knows what he’s doing.

Luffy looks up at him, and clutches at his tank. “I know.”


The last pirate to come through here - a Portgas D. Ace - had only been 17. The rookies just keep getting younger but - there’s a desperation in Luffy’s eyes. A knowing. A steadiness in the face of his death.

There’s a pause before Luffy grins brighter and younger than Roger ever had. “But I’m the man who will become King of the Pirates! I can’t stop now!”

Of course.)

Luffy sails off, and the flowers in the water hail victory rather than death.

Crocus has always liked crocuses.

Crocus: a purple and white flower that means cheerfulness, youth, abuse not, impatience, pleasures of hope. Due to its early blooming in difficult areas, it has come to be a sign of hope - spring will always come.

[vulturhythm]

until the blue ocean turns green - part two

part one

- - - - -

It's been years since Geralt left the merman alone by the shore.

Two, three?

He doesn't know.

Nearly six months since he left Yennefer behind.

She was too much, too soon... too intense.

They were doomed from the start.

Maybe... maybe, he admits, late at night when it's just him alone in his head, he should have stayed by the sea.

Maybe he should have stayed with Jaskier.

--

He travels.

He goes north.

He goes north, and he goes east, and he goes west.

Anywhere but south to the seas.

--

He takes contract after contract, kills creatures for peasants and nobility alike... never lays a hand upon a human, not again.

Every drop of blood he spills, he remembers the glistening silver of Jaskier's. He remembers how it laid upon the surface like liquid moonlight, how it soaked into the bandages and turned them a murky platinum...

Every time he meets the gaze of a monster, he thanks the gods that it isn't Jaskier's, that his merman isn't at the point of his sword.

Every time he makes camp near the river, he watches the water flow, and he wishes it were deep and rolling, capped with foam.

--

Five years pass, and then ten.

Time is kind to his type, his only claim to age an addition smattering of scars across his body, torn into his flesh by blades or teeth or claws.

There is one blessing time continues to withhold, however...

He has not yet managed to forget.

--

He sleeps with countless women, and yet, never with a man.

He tries, once - lets a young, pretty-eyed thing woo him with his words, gets as far as setting his teeth to the side of his throat, hands beneath his shirt and thigh between his legs...

... and the image of deep blue eyes and deeper scales flashes through his head, and bright, bright silver blood.

He draws away, steps back... leaves the man behind the tavern, mounts up on Roach, leaves the town he's only barely gotten to know and leaves it all behind.

That night, he doesn't sleep.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jaskier floating in the sea.

--

It's when he sees the scales of sea things at a market that fear clogs his throat.

Harpy scales, selkie scales, merfolk scales... blacks and grays and greens and golds, and blues - bright blues, dark blues, ocean blues, sky blues...

He confronts the man running the stall, demands to know where - and why.

"They're quite coveted for jewelry nowadays," is the simple response, and there's fear in the man's eyes when Geralt looms closer. "I'm not the, ah, the collector, I don't hunt the things - I just sell them and split the profit - "

"Split it with who?" he growls, and he knows, almost before the answer comes...

"Why, the witcher, of course."

--

Months pass.

Slowly, he wanders south, along mountain trails and through little villages he hasn't seen in years, along the outskirts of kingdoms and through valleys and forests...

He sees the scales in nearly every market, and in the richer regions, he sees them around the necks of women, at the fastenings of men.

As time goes on, he realizes it's not just scales - there's teeth and claws, too, and feathers, and as Geralt rides on through or walks on by, he realizes the witcher is killing not for contracts, but for sport.

It sickens him to imagine.

Worse, however, is the nagging voice at the back of his head, the one that urges him to try and remember the exact shade of...

No.

--

Geralt loses track of time again, as he often does now. With more than a century of his life beneath his belt, the years feel more like months sometimes.

Cycles, as Jaskier would have said.

He's begun to think like that with increasing frequency, evaluating things from the merman's eyes... he wonders what Jaskier knew of the human realm before he met the witcher.

Wonders if he's found another human to tell him of tavern songs.

--

The air grows salty as he draws further south.

It feels... it feels like returning to a home he never truly had.

To a love he never allowed.

--

He awakens from a dream one night, a nightmare... awakens from the vision of Jaskier, split and flayed open on the shore, his beautiful, beautiful tail sawed off and skinned bare, his scales shorn off and cleaned and sent to be draped about the neck of a queen.

He's barely been asleep for an hour, yet if it weren't for Roach's weariness, he would have taken to the road again immediately.

--

Things begin to look familiar, though changed with the passage of time.

He remembers this tree, that stone... remembers when that husk of a farmhouse was once active and lively, remembers when this town was small, little more than houses.

He stops at the new tavern, buys himself some ale.

It's here that he learns the witcher has all but set up camp along the shore, where the rivers feed into the sea.

Geralt's stomach churns at the thought.

He pushes Roach hard the next day, urges her on, on, on...

--

It's nightfall when he reaches the edge of the sea.

The water is dark and calm, but there's clouds upon the horizon, clouds that roil with lightning and threaten to mask the crescent moon overhead.

Geralt leaves Roach tied to the fallen tree. It's splintered with age, no longer sturdy enough to support his weight. She shies from the wood, and it's no wonder - it's splashed with platinum blood, dried into the bark.

The air reeks of death. Coppery blood blends with salt and fish and sand, and Geralt snarls beneath his breath as he paces along the water's edge.

He comes to the tide pool before long.

Much the same as always, full of life, of clear and gentle water that sloshes when the tide eases in. Standing at its edge, Geralt remembers the deer hide he'd spread across the stones, the cloths he'd draped upon Jaskier's back.

His gaze wanders back to the sea.

As clear as ever, he can see Jaskier floating just past the shallows, testing the strength of his newly-healed tail, calling the songs of the sea to Geralt and laughing aloud at his bewildered stare.

The faintest of smiles tugs at Geralt's lips, but it's dashed away an instant later by the memory of that silver cloud of blood, drifting upon the surface, calling his attention to the body out in the water that night long ago.

He thanks the gods above that he wasn't greeted by the same tableau tonight.

That doesn't mean he won't encounter it soon.

Geralt heaves a quiet sigh, turns to look back at Roach, who's watching him with those soft, wise eyes. "Hopeless?" he half-asks, his voice low.

She whickers in response, and he turns his gaze back to the water.

--

Two weeks pass.

He comes across no other signs of the witcher, but, as he learned long ago, invisible demons are no less a threat than those that you can see, hear, feel.

Then again, he supposes he can see, sense, touch the evidence of the other witcher... he sees the blood splashed across the driftwood and stones. He hears the way the shore is all but silent except for the lapping of the waves, even the gulls overhead scarce. He feels the way every living thing seems to have drawn back in fear.

He hates it in a way that he cannot describe.

He's seen horrific things - battlefields sprayed with blood and brains, homes torn apart by violence, corpses left hanging half-eaten from trees or mountain ledges, bits of rotting flesh on the teeth of the creatures he's meant to kill - and yet, not in his century-odd of living has he ever encountered such a dreadful aura, such an air of gloom.

Distantly, he knows that it's because of the fear roiling deep within his chest, a constant ache that refuses to ease away. He sets up camp less than a half-mile from the sea, where the wind will waft the scent of blood in his direction, should anything... go awry.

For a while, nothing happens.

The days pass without event, and the nights, much the same.

--

It's about three days later that he begins to notice the gulls are returning.

At first, it's just a couple, cruising along overhead, their calls rare and quiet, as though they know better than to speak too loudly.

Later in the afternoon, as Geralt paces along the shoreline where he'd met Jaskier all those years ago, he notices more of them, perched upon a rock that crests above the sea a short distance out. The sight is oddly familiar, enough to jog Geralt's memory. He goes still, frowning toward the stone.

He doesn't think he's imagining the way the gulls are staring at him, tilting their heads, cawing between themselves.

It's unusual, to be frank, but...

... nothing comes of it that day.

--

The next day, there are more. A lot more.

One awakens him in the late evening by lighting upon a branch near his camp and squawking loud enough to wake the goddamn dead.

Geralt jerks upright with haste, staring at the bird in the sort of confusion he usually reserves for sorceresses and their type.

Realization strikes him a moment later, and he scrambles to his feet. Roach is already snorting her protest before he even approaches her. She seems far, far less than impressed to be saddled up and nudged into a trot all thanks to the appearance of a single gull, but Geralt pays her disgruntled sounds no mind, for a memory has risen to the surface...

... the memory of his merman, rambling on and on about the stories the gulls told him.

As soon as it sees Geralt is in motion, the gull springs into flight, rising up through the trees into the open air above. Geralt catches enough of a glimpse to track it westward; he's quick to spur Roach along, heart caught in his throat.

It's easier to follow the gull once they're beyond the trees, once it leads them out to the shoreline. It's now that the gull is joined by two - three - more, all circling impatiently then flying on ahead while Roach finds steady footing in the sand.

Geralt imagines they've gone nearly a mile before, suddenly, the wind shifts, and he's hit with -

with -

with the stench of blood, hot and wet and not... not red, no, silver, unicorn silver, a cloyingly sweet scent that bites the roof of Geralt's mouth when it settles there, horrific in its familiarity.

No longer minding the gulls above, he kicks his mare into a canter, praying to the whole damn pantheon that he isn't too late.

--

The moon is high overhead when he finally catches sight of the bleeding thing.

There's a fishing net halfway submerged in the shallows, one end tangled and tethered amongst the mess of rocks and logs on the sand. It's clear that the net was hauled ashore once it was full... hauled ashore so its contents would dehydrate and rot away in the heat of the day.

As Geralt draws near, he slows Roach to a walk, and then to a halt, his heart rising and catching in his throat.

Through the strands of the net, he can see pale skin and deep, deep blue scales.

He's out of the saddle and in motion almost before he realizes it, calling Jaskier's name, and the creature tangled in the net - they stir, they thrash, they try to pull away -

Geralt drops to his knees beside the mess of rope and blood and flaked-off scales, fumbling to pull his dagger from its home at his belt. "Jaskier," he says, and then, louder, when dazed blue eyes meet his own, "it's me, I'm here, you're - don't try to move, I don't want you hurt - "

"You came," croaks a familiar voice, weakened with illness, laden with relief. "You - I thought you were gone..."

"The gulls led me to you," was Geralt's simple response; he was frozen now, staring at - at all of it, trying to find the weak points in the rope, the points where he could cut through without hurting his siren any more than he already had. "I'm - I'm sorry, Jaskier, I should have come back before."

His merman shakes his head, or tries to, and fuck, the rope is digging into his face, and Geralt's heart fucking aches with the sight. "Don't blame yourself," he mumbles. "Don't."

All Geralt can do is look at him, look at him and try to fucking breathe.

It's been years since he's let himself cry, but he thinks he might now.

He shakes himself into motion with a muffled curse, grabs for the loosest part of the rope that he can see and - and tries to cut through, he fucking tries, but there's more resistance than he expects, and it's then that he realizes the rope is glinting with silver - silver for monsters - and the anger that rises in his chest gives him the strength to slice through the metal strands.

Jaskier, to his credit, lays still as Geralt reaches, grabs, pulls, cuts - shows no sign of fear - and Geralt breathes in, forces himself to listen, feels dread settle in his stomach when he realizes the merman's pulse is weak, so weak... when he realizes his merman is dying.

"Stay awake," Geralt grits out, and he knows he sounds harsh, he sounds cruel, but - but he doesn't know how else to sound, not when he thinks he may have to scare death off his own goddamn self, just to keep his mermaid safe. "Stay awake, Jaskier..."

It becomes a fucking mantra, one he repeats over and over again as he cuts the net apart, as he slices through what feels like fucking miles of silver thread, careful - so careful - not to cut into lacerated skin or shaved-off scales. It feels like a fucking eternity before the last of the net falls away and Geralt can breathe again, can sheathe his dagger in a hurry and look Jaskier over.

His anger returns tenfold as he takes him in.

The merman is badly sunburnt, bright and horrific red, a salmon shade joined by deep silver and deeper gray where he's bleeding and has bled. A closer look tells Geralt that the silver has done a fine job of eating into his skin in some places. As for his tail, well... it's easy to tell that it'll be marred by quite a few new scars, and the fan at the end is bordering on ruined.

"I'm sorry," says Geralt at last.

He's met with silence, and fear clogs his throat as he looks up to Jaskier's face.

Jaskier is merely... he's just watching him, those deep blue eyes glazed and unfocused.

He looks half-dead already, and yet, despite that - despite the blood on his skin - he looks... trusting.

Geralt can't quite wrap his head around that.

"Stay awake," he says again, reaching beneath the merman - just like years before - and lifting him with arms that want to shake despite his best efforts to the contrary. "Let me get you to the water..."

Jaskier gives a quiet sound in reply, and he tips his head to the side, resting against Geralt entirely even though he whines with pain. "They told me a witcher was nearby," he says, hoarse. "I thought... I thought it was you."

Anger wells up yet again - anger, and hate, and malice, and... and remorse.

Guilt.

He heaves a sigh as he carries his merman to the water's edge, wading into the shallows. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm going to set you down for a minute so you can cool off... I have potions in my saddlebag."

The other man doesn't respond, and Geralt fights the fear clenched tight about his heart. He kneels down, easing Jaskier into the water, and he can't help but grimace at the pitiful little sound of pain the sting of salt earns. "I'm sorry," says the witcher again.

He's as gentle as he's ever been as he sets the merman down in the shallows, eyes on Jaskier's tail as it rests limply upon the shifting sands. Jaskier, of course, offers no resistance, merely tenses and huffs when Geralt slips his arms out from beneath him. He dips his head back to submerge his face, and Geralt watches the subtle gills along his throat flex as he readjusts. It brings relief, almost, knowing that maybe he'll survive.

Geralt kneels there in the sands for... gods, he isn't sure how many minutes pass before Jaskier finally stirs again, opening his eyes and blinking up at Geralt from where he's only barely floating above the seafloor. He's almost limp, laying on his side, less-lacerated shoulder supporting him, tail motionless and arms halfheartedly folded.

It... hurts to see.

"I'm going to go get the potions," Geralt says, voice a bit louder than normal; he knows Jaskier can hear him. "Focus on resting."

The merman, once again, doesn't react, and Geralt tries to ignore the stab of pain that goes through his gut. He stands with a sigh, returning to Roach, who has been observing everything in telling silence. She stands patiently as he rummages through her saddlebags; he keeps the potions safe for humans and other non-witcher beings here, not wanting to clog up his own belts and pockets with things he can't grab and down in a heartbeat.

He picks out a vial full of a deep green liquid, one that glistens in the sunlight as he walks back into the gently-rolling water. Jaskier twists over onto his front when Geralt nears, and it's obvious the motion causes him pain; his tail convulses briefly, and his face contorts, but he rests his elbows on the sand to lift his head from the water regardless. "Can you drink?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier merely nods, watching him with an unreadable expression in those glossed-over eyes as Geralt kneels at his side once more. Deciding that's answer enough when Jaskier could well die before the sun rises, Geralt uncorks the vial, setting a gentle hand beneath Jaskier's chin to steady him as he tips the potion to his lips.

His eyes rake over the merman's body once more as he drinks, taking in the way his throat works, the deep and angry burns across his skin, the lacerations here and there...

He won't survive, not like this.

Suddenly lost within that train of thought, Geralt goes still.

It isn't until Jaskier begins to cough and choke that he jolts himself back into the present, pulling the half-empty vial away from the merman's mouth and waiting until he's steadied out some before he says, "Jaskier, you... is there any safe spot nearby? Like the tide pool?"

Something like pain flashes through the merman's eyes, but it's not physical pain.

Geralt recognizes it all too well.

"I'm not going to leave you," he breaks in, before Jaskier can get a word out. "Not again. I need to get you somewhere safe so I can treat the wounds and so you can rest. That's all."

Jaskier hesitates, looks away; finally, he nods, saying quietly, "Further south along the shore, there should - there's a little lagoon..."

"How far away?"

"Around the next bend," he mumbles, and he sounds tired, so tired...

Geralt curses under his breath, saying as he reaches for him yet again, "Stay awake... just a little longer."

--

It's maybe a ten, fifteen minute ride along the shore and around the curve.

Geralt keeps Jaskier cradled in his arms, clucking to Roach and nudging her with his heels to keep her straight, but the mare knows what to do; she moves slowly, head steady and pace even, as if she knows just how important the extra weight on her back is.

The lagoon is small, barely any wider across than your average tavern, shut off from the ocean by bits of shore that stretched too far into the waters and refused to draw away. The inland forest has crept up close, heavy trees fading into palms near the water's edge, and it's...

Well, it's beautiful.

Even Geralt, halfway blinded by the panic that rises in his chest with the merman's every labored breath, has to admit it.

"We're here," he says aloud, soft, and Jaskier jumps, his eyes blinking open. "I'm going to set you in the water, okay?"

He isn't surprised when Jaskier doesn't react.

That doesn't make it any easier to bear.

Heaving a sigh, he adjusts his grip on the merman, swinging his leg over Roach's back and sliding to the ground in as smooth a movement as he can manage, bearing a couple hundred extra pounds in his arms.

Jaskier stays quiet as Geralt carries him to the lagoon, stays quiet as he's laid down in the clear and shallow water. He rests his body on the sands without being told, deep enough that he's submerged except for his head and shoulders when he props himself up once again. Geralt's hand brushes over one of the worst cuts when he draws back, and Jaskier winces, nearly whines -

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, low, and turns back to Roach. He comes back with another potion and a small vial of salve, one he's opening as he kneels at Jaskier's side. "I'll set up camp here, just inside the trees..."

"Don't stay for me," Jaskier interrupts, and it's the first thing he's said in quite a while, and it's so soft, so uncertain...

Geralt feels his heart break.

He shakes his head, dipping his hand into the salve and reaching beneath the water's surface to smooth it along Jaskier's sun-raw back. It's waterproof, or at least waterproof enough, so he has few qualms with this. "I'm staying," he says, just as soft. "I won't leave you again. I shouldn't have left to begin with."

The merman says nothing.

Geralt didn't expect him to.

--

It's difficult, those first few days.

Jaskier lacks the strength to move much on his own - to do anything beyond sinking below the surface and raising back up to drink whatever potion or plant concoction Geralt is offering.

Food, he says, nauseates him to even contemplate.

Geralt tries to hide how badly that thought scares him.

--

The fourth day, Jaskier begins to decline.

Despite Geralt's best efforts - despite countless fucking hours of sitting at the shore, of kneeling beside him in the water, of pouring every potion he thinks could possibly be safe down his throat - the merman is weak.

He is weak, and he is dying, and, well...

Geralt sees only one option.

It's a day's ride to the nearest town, but it's less than a half day to the mouth of the river the other witcher is said to be stationed alongside.

Leaving Jaskier with a quiet whisper of, "I swear to you, I'll return," and a kiss upon his forehead, he mounts up on Roach, and turns for the trees.

He prays to the whole fucking pantheon that things will be okay.

- - - - -

@xdandelionxbloomx @w-s-kibela @justjessiehere @wrenbug @golden-aire-girl @the-little-red-queen @littleredhotsridinghood @ladyaulis @flootzavut @g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r @insert-cleverurl @animaniac1017 @brothers-of-the-heart @jaskierisanangel @gray-coal @weakforjaskier @xpixelle @teddylacroix @flustratedcas @1stbonesfan

i hope i didn’t miss anyone! thank you all. third part on the horizon!