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ch4singchase · 11 months ago

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The Ballad of Moths | LUKE CASTELLAN

Summary: Eurydice Gaumont receives gifts from her father and one of these proves invaluable as her journey intersects with fellow demigods.

Word count: 4.9K

Warnings: Mentions of blood and Injury, violence, grief, ophidiophobia (since the monster in this chapter is a giant snake), mentions of death, mild language

chapter one, chapter two | series masterlist

chapter 02: I Defend A Bunch Of Kids From A Giant Snake

The rhythmic tap of rain against my bus window played a lullaby, coaxing me into a swift slumber.

Abruptly, I was no longer confined to the bus; the rain had transformed into the hushed serenity of a forest. This was no typical ominous woods of a horror story; its allure lay in a distinct kind of beauty.

Drawing near a tree, my fingers traced the rough texture of its trunk, relishing the tactile sensation. The leaves gracefully danced, swaying in a tranquil wind, as if encouraging a shared nap. Smiling up at them, I entertained the whimsical idea that the tree and its surroundings comprehended my thoughts.

A soft flap of wings echoed behind me, and there it was—the moth that helped me understand where I should go earlier.

This was the same moth, its wings a rich black with subtle brown accents, patiently awaiting my presence in a circular dance.

"Hello, buddy," I greeted cautiously, extending my hand to see its reaction, "How's it going?"

Predictably, the moth remained silent. It alighted on my fingertip and then took flight, leading me along a specific path among the trees, unveiling a concealed trail through the forest. Glancing at the shadows that enveloped the moth's chosen route, a fleeting doubt crossed my mind—was it truly wise to follow?

Without dwelling on the question, I pursued the enigmatic guide, allowing instinct to override rational contemplation.

As I ventured deeper into the forest, the canopy above formed a protective shield against the sporadic drizzle that started. The moth continued its dance ahead, weaving through the foliage with an innate knowledge of the path, as if the trees themselves whispered directions to their winged companion.

Moss-covered rocks and the scent of damp earth under foot marked my journey. The woods seemed to respond to my presence, embracing me in a mysterious symphony of rustling leaves and distant calls of unseen creatures. Nature itself had become my guide, and the moth, my silent escort through this living tapestry.

The path curved, revealing a hidden glade bathed in ethereal moonlight. In the center stood a peculiar tree, its silver bark shimmering in the celestial glow. The moth settled on a branch, and as if on cue, the air became charged with an otherworldly energy.

I looked around, confused. The wind gently brazed my cheeks, guiding some leaves with it and revealing what was hiding in the glade until now.

Moths. A bunch of moths. All joining the one guiding me into a beautiful dance.

Perhaps, when I was younger, I would be frightened, but instead, I was just stunned by it. They were gracious and in an infinity of colors, painting the air like a vivid rainbow in the middle of the night. Even some fireflies had heard their excitement and joined the party, lightning the night in a blink of an eye.

“She’s here, she’s here, she’s finally going home!” They all seemed to whisper, even if I couldn’t understand what they meant by it.

Where was here? Were they following me? Were they the ones who sent the moth to help me?

There were too many questions and no answers.

“No, no,” they all repeated to what sounded like a response, “Our friend did.”

“Yeah yeah,” others agreed, circling around me as they did so, “Your father.”

For the first time since I had seen the moth from before, I ventured to speak up.

“My father?” It was just me repeating what they had just said but, still, it had taken me some type of courage to say so, “He’s dead, how is that possible?”

“Dead?” most of them laughed, as if I had told them a joke, “That’s not possible; he is a god.”

What?

“You heard us,” it seemed like I hadn’t only questioned it in my head, “You’re the daughter of a god.”

I stood frozen for a couple of seconds. A god…?

I recalled what the Cyclops had called me, a Half-Blood. Cyclopes, chimeras, half-blood, all of them were characters that my mother had once told me were tales. Stories in Ancient Greece, myths. Nothing more but stories.

But stories don’t simply come to life. They have to have always been there.

If they were talking about gods, they could only be the Greek ones, right? The Olympian ones and so on.

“How...” I tried to ask... Anything, honestly. But I didn’t even know where I could start; in the end, I was talking to moths, what was crazier than that?

“We can’t tell you everything,” some of the moths mumbled.

“Yeah yeah, he had told us just to help you find your way but we couldn’t stop ourselves,” others complained.

“Once we heard you were still alive, we were so excited,” the moths giggled, holding back screams of joy.

“Yeah, even if one of us ended up saying something about the titan, we wanted to risk a chance,” one in a million of their siblings said, and if almost every one of them were speaking at the same time, I heard it.

Every single one, but one brought my curiosity, “Titan?”

It was all I needed to ask before they went into a deep silence.

The moths hushed as my question lingered in the night air. Their whispering dance seemed to still, and the anticipation was palpable. Then, one moth separated itself from the swirling mass and approached me.

It wasn’t the same one I was already familiar with compared to the others, but its wings fluttered with a measured elegance.

“We should not say anything about it,” the moth said, “It’s just a rumor, a cruel one”

“But the prophecy?” one of the others questioned, daring the one that was speaking for them, “The prophecy says…”

Most of them hushed the little one, giving voice to the same one of before, “As I said, it’s just a rumor. Some things are better left unknown, life must unfold naturally..”

“You said about a prophecy,” I tried to reason with it, approaching the moth, “What prophecy?”

The moth shook its little head, “You must go now, Eurydice Gaumont”

“No” I persisted, stomping my feet into the ground.

But it didn’t matter what I wanted, slowly the scenario around me started to go blurry and slowly the sound of rain tapping returned.

I protested, but the scene blurred, and before waking, I heard the words, "In shadows deep, a reaper's kid must tread..."

Then, I was back on the bus again. Alone.

I looked around, trying to look for something. But despite the sleepy sleepers who snored near me, there was nothing new after the dream. It was still dark, the first sign of sun daring to peek out of their hidden spot.

Sighing, I looked at the sky, searching for an answer. At that point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the answer came in the form of a god of the sun trying to mime what I should do next. Or sing—I didn’t know much about Greek gods at that time, but I was almost sure that the god of the sun in the stories also sang.

What was that I had heard? A reaper’s kid, right?

Now, what did that mean?

Sighing once more at the dawn of that day, every time it looked like things were making sense, my life would get twisted.

A sound of wings caught my attention when I looked at the empty seat by my side. The moth from the convenience store and my dream was my company once more. If it had a face, it would look like regret or shame.

It flapped its wings, as if to call my attention again.

“I’m seeing you, stupid,” It flapped its wings one more time, perhaps it didn’t like being called stupid, “You didn’t talk like your siblings at that forest right, I don’t remember hearing you”

And I truly didn't. For some reason, I could recognize each moth that had talked in that clearing, but none of them was the one that had been with me since Springfield.

This time, the moth flapped its wings twice.

"Alright," I scoffed, contemplating the sanity of conversing with a moth. "Enough beating around the bush; what do you want to tell me?"

Rather than flapping, the moth took flight, turning beneath my seat. I didn’t know how to curse, but what I thought was similar to a ‘what the fuck?’

Leaning forward, I peered beneath my seat, expecting to find the bags from the convenience store—snacks, sweets, water, a flashlight, and some change. Yet, unlike what I remembered, there was also a backpack.

Which, by chance, was not mine.

It reminded me of the backpacks I had seen at the store or some of the other people on that bus wearing, but I didn't have enough money to buy even a fanny pack.

Puzzled, I picked up the backpack and examined it. It seemed lost, probably belonging to another passenger. To my surprise, my name was on a sticker affixed to it.

Was it truly mine?

I opened the backpack, looking for what could be inside.

If my expectations were set on receiving a cellphone, all-star shoes, additional snacks, clothing, or perhaps a map, I would find myself in a perpetual state of hope until the arrival of the non-existent date of February 31st. Alas, none of those anticipated items were to be found.

What I found was, in fact, a leather wristband with a snap button closure, adorned with small stones. Accompanying it were a couple of coins, featuring a peculiar carving that deviated from any standard penny. Doubtingly, I reached in, confirming the wristband, coins… Plus a map.

At least that.

Exhaling deeply, I hoped my godly father, wherever he was, could hear me. Was this his gift? A questionable assistance from a man presumed dead.

Truthfully, I anticipated something more beneficial for survival, perhaps a letter explaining his whereabouts and the ongoing events. It was the least he could offer after all these years.

My mother had portrayed him as a soldier with a calm heart, unwilling to return to duty but aware of their need for a reminder of peace. How every end no matter how it began, would meet peace. She would always remind me that he would be the one to go down in a nonviolent way, with his hand laying on his chest, above his heart.

Would. She never said he was. Because he was a god, a greek god.

Knowing I was aware of his divine status, he chose to bestow upon me strange money, a wristband, and a map. Well, the map, at least, seemed somewhat helpful.

I stowed away the bags containing my purchases from Springfield into the backpack, arranging the snacks and supplies meticulously to avoid any mishaps during my travels—whether it involved catching the next bus or evading a new monster.

The coins and map found their place inside the backpack as well. However, before I could tuck away the wristband, curiosity got the better of me. It was a finely crafted leather piece, elegant and delicate.

Examining it closely, I wondered if my father had crafted it himself. The mere thought tightened my heartstrings.

Looking at the inside of the wristband, I frowned when I found something carved into the leather. Something was written into another language.

I turned the wristband and looked at it closely, words were always hard to me so if I wanted to understand what it meant, I would have to take my time. If I intended to understand its meaning, patience would be crucial. Or so I thought.

As the letters began to weave into each other, a surprising clarity emerged. Instead of becoming a confusing jumble, they started to make sense.

Tenebris.

While it wasn't an exact match to what was written, it was undeniably the meaning it conveyed.

Latin, perhaps?

Gazing at the wristband once more, I opted not to return it to the backpack. Instead, I made the choice to wear it.

Perhaps my father had indeed crafted it. Wearing it became my silent expression of appreciation, a subtle invitation for him to emerge from his hidden shell.

Ultimately, it proved to be a beautiful wristband.

When I looked out the window again, the sun was already rising. We seemed to have arrived in New Haven, recognizable to me from a previous visit. It appeared we were near State St, very close to Yale.

There was a time when I thought I might study there, a distant dream from my younger self. Back then, despite never attending a real school, I held onto the possibility.

Revisiting the city at fourteen, a few years later, doubt crept in.

Knowing what I now knew, it wasn't hard to recognize that the odds were always against me. I never had the chance, not before, and certainly not now.

As soon as the bus stopped and the other passengers started to get off, I did the same. I picked up my backpack and put it on, following the others to the street, deciding to be the last one to get down.

For a moment, I waited a bit before finally getting off, looking inside the bus and waiting for the moth from earlier to appear and follow it. But, it didn't happen.

So, I went my way. If I remembered correctly, there shouldn't be another bus stop so far away, I could eat something on the way while I looked and hope my change would be enough for the next ticket. Or, hope they would accept my dad's weird coins.

As I strolled down the street, I seized the opportunity to approach strangers, concocting a flimsy tale about a new school on Long Island and my ailing parents unable to assist with transportation. However, as they began to provide directions, a sinking feeling crept in.

Clearly, I lacked the funds for the entire journey.

Faced with limited options, I considered potential avenues. One option involved seeking employment on the streets, donning a somber expression and appealing to tourists for financial assistance. Ironically, the more morally questionable choice proved to be the swifter means of acquiring funds.

Anyway, I tried to risk it, at least make it to the bus stop that supposedly was the cheapest one to my journey. Maybe, the driver could take some pity on me and take me to Pennsylvania. If not, I would have start to figure how to gain money for the whole trip, I wouldn’t dare to walk all the way to that fucking camp.

I walked, walked, walked and walked down State St. As I traversed the street, covering only a fraction of the distance, I encountered a Thai Restaurant. The sight of it made my stomach protest loudly; I hadn't eaten in a while, and the prolonged walking intensified my hunger.

However, there was no way I would eat in the middle of the street, under the scrutinizing gaze of strangers. That was out of the question.

Despite mustering all the courage, I hesitated to knock on the closed restaurant's door. Even if a waiter were to appear, what excuse could I possibly give for not wanting to dine outside?

So, I found an alternative. In less than a minute, I seated myself in an alley, extracting a snack from my backpack and indulging in it.

In fact, that was within question.

Ignoring the curious glances of passersby, I continued my impromptu meal. Candies followed, accompanied by sips of water. This brief moment of rest was crucial before resuming my walk under the scorching sun.

I just needed two minutes, or maybe ten… Honestly, a whole thirty minutes were enough for me to restore my energy.

As I rested, I took another look at the wristband I was wearing. The more attention I paid to it, the more I noticed a strange energy emanating from it. It was difficult to explain and even less tangible—an unknown aura surrounding something hidden inside the leather, beyond the engraved letters.

When I opened my mouth to express the feeling, the only thing that came to mind was the night of a day or two ago.

My mother was held in the air by the monster's hand, the only one watching her intensely and impatiently, while all she did instead of fighting was ask me to run. And run was what I did.

Until I heard her scream—a stunning, heart-wrenching scream that froze my feet in place, forcing me to witness her body flying to my side, blood overflowing from her mouth. Her torso seemed broken or twisted enough to inflict severe internal injuries.

Still, she had the strength to ask me to keep running. How could I? How could I run and leave her behind?

I couldn't do that. Instead, I stood beside her, ignoring the disturbing footsteps of the Cyclops approaching.

I held my mother's hands, hoping to somehow absorb her strength. Perhaps I did, for even though I didn't follow her request, it seemed to matter little to her. As if, in the end, she felt no pain.

Tears and sobs dampened my face, but I could swear she thanked me. Ridiculous, considering I should be thanking her for being an incredible mother, sacrificing everything for my safety. If only I had known sooner...

After that, everything was a blur, difficult to understand. Holding her hands, a strange sensation tingled down my spine, adrenaline coursing through my entire body. When I saw my mother attempting to say something but succumbing to exhaustion...

The Cyclops was already beside me, reaching to grab me.

Anything between that moment and the hospital was a haze. Fragments of memories. I recalled his hands trying to lift me off the ground, my palms facing his monstrously large fingers. Almost facing a 5-meter drop but feeling no pain.

When the ambulance arrived and I reached the hospital, attempting to explain what I had understood about the situation at the time, they were most surprised that I hadn't broken my legs or at least sprained an ankle. But I think my exhaustion and grief were enough for them to believe me.

I tightened my lips, holding back tears at the memory. What did my mother's death have to do with my father's gift?

Tenebris—was that really the only clue I had?

Gradually, a shift occurred in the air, and it didn't escape my notice.

Within moments, an unsettling realization dawned – something was amiss. The streets teemed with people running in the opposite direction of my intended path once I felt ready to resume my journey. Fear and confusion etched on their faces left me puzzled about the impending threat.

Swiftly, I rose, stowing away my belongings in my backpack and hoisting it onto my back. Approaching adults warned me of an out-of-control truck menacing pedestrians, urging me to find safety. Some chose the rational path, sprinting toward the police station for genuine assistance.

However, skepticism gnawed at me. It didn't ring true. Something felt off.

My eyes caught sight of the unfolding drama a few streets away, just beyond the dog park on the opposite side of my position.

Initially, I perceived three kids, one notably smaller than the others, sprinting from an unseen threat. The girl in black wielded a makeshift spear, while her companion brandished a golf club. How could such feeble weapons aid their escape from an out-of-control truck? Why weren't they going to a store or going to the sidewalk?

Then, I understood.

At first glance, the runaway vehicle resembled a refrigerated truck, careening down the road with a desperate screech. The driver, concealed behind black-tinted windows, eluded my view from this distance.

However, as I advanced, sidestepping the frantic adults, reality emerged.

It was no truck, but a snake. A giant fucking snake. There was no other way to describe it.

All the sense I was lacking suddenly decided to take control of my actions. My brain, which had previously been unable to muster the courage to stand at the door of a closed restaurant, had now regained enough courage to force my feet to run after that atrocity.

For no logical or plausible reason, from one moment to the next, my rationality was replaced by stupidity.

The monstrous serpent pursued the kids, including the one almost the same age I was when I met Viola. It seemed absurd to consider intervening, given the potential to continue on my way or capitalize on the disturbance to pilfer from unsuspecting pockets. Yet, I couldn't turn away.

Just as I couldn't flee when my mother's cries pierced the air or when she tried to wrench me from Viola's grasp as the Chimera's stinger pierced her chest in the past.

Perhaps it was stubbornness, authentic courage, or sheer impertinence.

It remained unclear where my resolve originated as the idea of confronting a giant snake pursuing a group of children took hold.

The snake, swift and destructive, both hindered the children and itself. Exploiting that and my familiarity with the streets and their shortcuts, I discerned an opportunity to intervene.

I ran like I had rarely ran before, until the tips of the toes hurt. My sneakers had already gone belly-up to that moment, after all the running I have being doing in the past months.

I walked around the streets, without for a second taking my eyes off the scales of that thing. Entering some alleys and following the murmurs and exclamations of the children as they tried to formulate a plan, even though they were at a disadvantage.

Swallowing hard, I took advantage of the shelter outside some buildings to avoid the fragments of asphalt, cement, poles and benches flying everywhere. Gradually but quickly managing to reach that monster.

But that didn't mean I didn’t continue to run, attempting to maintain a good and safe distance between the giant snake and the peculiar trio.

"Hey, girl!" the older girl from the trio shouted, attempting to grab my attention. "Get out of here, it's not safe!"

She wore dark clothes that complemented her short, black hair and extremely light blue eyes. In addition to the makeup on her face, which was almost gone, having been worn away by time for a long time.

It didn't take long to notice her limp, a testament to an injured foot sustained during the chase – or even before.

I just smiled, hiding behind some trash cans and away from the giant snake's senses, hoping it would continue to pay all its attention to that bunch of kids. Which, to be honest, weren't much younger than me, except for the little girl.

"No, you guys go," I shouted back, "Head into the park and blend in with the crowd there. It'll be hard for them to believe that a truck would actually enter a park."

At least, that's what I thought at the time. Nowadays, I know that mundanes would still believe in the idea of an out-of-control truck wreaking havoc, even within a park.

They didn't follow my advice; instead, they halted their escape.

“Aegis,” the girl from before exclaimed, and her bracelet transformed into an incredible shield. She shielded her friends, positioning the protective barrier in front of them, waiting to see my next move. The boy behind her appeared both confused and scared, alternating his gaze between me and his friend as if awaiting an order.

At this point, I was hoping for one too. I had no idea what to do, and I didn't even have a weapon.

However, the giant snake paid no heed. I could distinctly hear its slithering and the destruction of cars in its path. I refused to let fear or my earlier stupidity show on my face.

Instead, I glanced at my wrist, the leather band my father had given me. For a moment, I wished it were a weapon, similar to the girl's shield bracelet.

Despite having the slightest idea of how to handle a weapon, I hoped for anything that could help me assist those three.

Timing couldn't have been worse for it to resurface, but as I looked at a trash can in front of me, the usual moth landed patiently, as if awaiting something.

Perhaps it shared the girl's curiosity about what I would do.

Then, I remembered—the sound of rain yesterday morning, at the funeral, and even at night on the bus, a hostage to "what ifs" that could have transpired instead of my current reality. I remembered the blood, dark red staining my hands and clothes, and how cold it felt against my skin. I didn't care, holding my mother's hands with all my might.

Just like I tried to hold Viola that day, attempting unsuccessfully to move her body away from the Chimera's sting.

The giant snake drew closer, its slithering growing clearer by the second.

Glancing at my wristband again, the carved words caught my eye.

Out of the corner, I saw the snake's scales and its wild eyes. Emerging from my hiding place, a word escaped my mouth like a battle cry before I fully comprehended my own line of reasoning.

"Tenebris!"

A blinding light filled the air, halting the giant snake and diverting its attention towards me. I closed my eyes, feeling the wristband transform within seconds.

Suddenly, something weighed down in my hand, like the sheath of a sword. Its dark sheath matched my wristband's leather, and its slightly curved blade, made of an uncanny bronze material, felt strangely familiar. Bronze. The sword's blade was made of bronze.

As quickly as the light appeared, it dissipated, replaced by a cloud of darkness covering my ankles and part of the street and alley.

The trio gaped at the spectacle. The older girl struggled to maintain her defensive stance, her injured foot hindering her movements. The younger one's wide and curious eyes betrayed a mix of fear and fascination, while the boy among them clutched his golf club with a determined expression that hinted at a desire to help.

Without giving the serpent a chance to recover from the blinding light from before, I surged forward, the newfound sword in hand. The blade cut through the air with a metallic hum, and I slashed at the serpent's scaly underbelly.

It hissed in pain, recoiling momentarily.

In the end, the wristband was a useful gift. I had to remind myself, one day, to thank my dad.

Seizing the opportunity, I circled the serpent, keeping it off balance, continuing to slash its scaly skin. It tried to knock me down with a movement of its body, but before that could happen, I dodged it, cutting its scales once again. But this time I made a point of sticking my sword in, hoping to hit some organ of his, then pulling the sword out.

The boy with black hair, recognizing an opening, sprinted to the serpent's other side, wielding his golf club like a hero facing a dragon from the tales. His fearless determination served as a distraction, affording me yet another chance to strike.

The girl, despite her injury, bravely stood her ground, using her shield to protect us and the little girl. While, said little girl, spurred by a sudden burst of courage, found a dagger in her pocket and joined the fray.

The serpent, now enraged, lunged at us with deadly precision. The older girl skillfully deflected its strikes with her shield, while the boy continued to harass it from the side. The younger girl and I coordinated our attacks, aiming for vulnerable spots between the scales.

As the battle raged on, I felt a surge of adrenaline, my movements becoming more fluid and instinctive. My sword seemed to respond to my will, enhancing my speed and strength. Each strike resonated with power, and the serpent's resistance weakened.

Finally, with a resounding clash, I drove the sword into the serpent's forehead, or what looked like its forehead. The creature convulsed, its massive form thrashing before collapsing to the ground. The dark cloud dissipated, leaving only the echoes of the intense battle.

Breathing heavily, I turned to face the trio, equally exhausted.

They, too, looked weary, particularly the girl nursing an injured leg. Despite their fatigue, they regarded me with awe, as if I had materialized from the pages of a fantastical tale. Given the circumstances, I couldn't blame them.

I didn't blame them, I really had appeared out of nowhere.

"I'm Thalia," the older girl introduced herself, leaning against a wall as her shield reverted to a bracelet. "That's Annabeth," she pointed to the younger dark-skinned girl, now displaying a hint of shyness.

"And I'm Luke," the boy interjected, assisting his friend to stand while keeping a watchful eye on me, still processing the surreal reality of our shared encounter with the monstrous serpent.

"I'm Eurydice," I replied, glancing at my sword and back at them. "It seems like you needed a little help."

“We did,” Luke agreed, looking at me from head to toe, but keeping his eyes on mine while talking to me, “And I think we still do”

Shifting his attention to his injured friend, he examined her leg, revealing a severe wound beneath her baggy jeans. Thalia attempted to whisper something to Luke, diverting his hands away from the injury.

Feeling lost and searching for a solution, my eyes wandered, and I spotted a parked car on a nearby sidewalk—doors open and windows relatively intact. It seemed like an abandoned vehicle amidst the chaos.

"I can drive," I offered, drawing the trio's attention. "I just need to know where we should go and someone who knows how to start a car without a key."

Luke sighed, helping Thalia walk toward me, followed by Annabeth.

"Lucky for you, I know both," the grin he flashed at me while uttering those words hinted at one unmistakable thing: trouble.

#percy jackson fanfiction #pjo fanfic #pjo tv show #pjo series #dionysus pjo #chiron #percy jackson #annabeth chase #grover underwood #clarisse la rue #thalia grace #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #female original character

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kyndredravenstories · 4 months ago

Text

Eyes of Infinity: Delirium Chapter 12

Hello, I have been posting my work on AO3 and recently decided to venture here to Tumblr. Please note: This story is 18+. No minors. Please read tags carefully. Link to AO3 below but I will also be posting the chapters here.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53564641/chapters/149739049

Pairing: Sylus/Female MC with some elements of Xavier/Female MC

Genre: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Adventure, Smut, Porn with Big Plot and Big Feelings

Content Warning (For the entire fic): Explicit sexual content, spoilers and alterations to existing lore and cards/memories/tender moments/secret times, size kink, size difference, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, anal sex, fingering, all kinds of fingering, elements of consensual somno, dom!Sylus, jealousy, possessive!Sylus, Mephisto stalking, Dark!Xavier, Intense!Rafayel, Foreseer!Zayne, typical game violence, battle and combat, PTSD

Summary: To love him meant stepping over the threshold and crossing into darkness. To be with him meant accepting the lure of the shadows. And to protect him from betrayal meant sacrifice. I knew not how, only that I would not let time sever our paths ever again.

Previous Chapters: Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3 / Ch 4 / Ch 5 / Ch 6 / Ch 7 / Ch 8 / Ch 9 / Ch 10 / Ch 11

Though he holds the woman he loves in his embrace, Sylus is far from relaxed.

He keeps her close, sharing his strength with her, staying still as she leans on him and closes her eyes. He gives her the shelter and support she needs in the moment, but as he does so he takes his phone out of his pocket and makes a few calls.

Directions to Luke and Kieran, first and foremost. His bloodhounds must stay on the trail while it's fresh. Sniff out the rat and bring him to N109 alive. At this point, a quick death is not a mercy Sylus is willing to grant. In conversation, he restrains his anger as much as he can. It's tricky to speak softly and avoid saying exactly what he means. He takes care, highly aware that Ellara is likely listening to every word.

The second call is for his car. As it pulls up at a nearby curb, Ellara tugs shyly on his hand. An argument is coming. He recognizes the adorable pout to her lips, finding himself staring at her supple mouth much longer than he intends.

"Could we walk home?" she pleads.

"It's cold," he frowns.

"Don't you like the cold?" she pokes his chest.

"I'm not the problem. You'll catch a chill."

"I won't. Please?"

Sylus gives a weary sigh. He's really not in the mood to walk all the way to her apartment, but when she wraps her arms around his waist and looks up at him with her big doe eyes, he finds himself caving rather readily to her silly whim. Seeing her through Mephisto's eyes and stolen photographs is vastly different from having her close where he can smell her, feel her presence, and sense her warmth. When such things tease at his senses, he can hardly control himself around her. Affection and tenderness fills him. Relaxing his shoulders in defeat, he tousles her messy dark hair.

"Fine. You're spoiled rotten, that's for sure."

"Walking helps me think," she defends. There must be a lot on her mind now after all that's happened and all that's been unveiled this night. She doesn't like him teasing her, but her playful anger is better than weeping or mourning a dead man. She still seems dazed after the explosion, and he doesn't press her for any updates or answers. Even if this calm is temporary, he isn't willing to break it. Besides, there are worse ways to spend time than to walk with her holding his arm and sharing an umbrella.

Sylus leaves her to grab a spare winter jacket from the vehicle, dismissing his driver with a wave of his hand. Draping the black and grey garment around her shoulders, he smiles as he notes how large it is on her petite frame. She puts her arms into the sleeves, but they're much too long. The broad shoulders sag on her, too. Despite all this, she is breathtakingly beautiful in the unfamiliar moonlight. The silver glow accentuates her onyx hair and makes her skin gleam. For a moment, he ponders his fascination with her.

This small, unknowable, strange creature of his.

His to touch.

His to love.

His to protect.

It's a curse in any other name. Yet, it is one he bears gladly.

As they cruise at a lazy pace across streets and roads moist from the snow and rain, he finds himself enjoying the quiet moments with her. She tells him about her training and how hard its been to live without her Evol. She's so relieved when he tells her that what she drank earlier was an antidote. She's looking forward to the moment when her power comes back so she can seize her life again. Run missions. Use her favorite weapons. Feel like a productive member of society.

Sylus listens to her ramble, stroking the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. Her excitement is soothing, yet bittersweet. If only she knew that the current state of her power is so far diminished from what it could be. Would she be saddened? Angry? He doesn't have the heart to tell her that she'd been used as a sacrifice -- again and again -- and that there are still those out there who would continue to do so. Fate hasn't been a kind mistress, not to either of them.

She's safe now in this time and in this iteration. Safe with him. But, he's not ready to make that claim out loud. Not yet.

There are tasks still left undone.

Despite the pleasure of her company, his temper remains unsettled.

Noxis isn't dead. That much is certain.

This night, Sylus came to the Destiny Café to claim a life, but he'd been thwarted. He's not sure what makes him angrier: the fact that Malakai escaped or the fact that he believed an explosion of such low caliber could harm the leader of Onychinus. Either way, he was being underestimated, and that simply wouldn't do. If word got out that this was the second time Sylus had failed to break this upstart's neck, his reputation would be jeopardized. In the short term, that meant more challengers and nuisances to fight. But, in the long term, it meant more danger to Ellara and more interference in their lives together.

These last few weeks had been a game of attrition, a strategy to lure out Malakai into the open so that Sylus could kill him and end this circus with Noxis once and for all. Malakai had his eyes on Ellara, and Sylus used that to his advantage. He'd backed away from his contact with her, retreating into the shadows and banking on Malakai's impatience. Sure enough, when Noxis grew tired of waiting for Sylus to make a move, he positioned Ellara in harm's way in the hopes of forcing his hand.

What a pathetic fool.

She'd never really been in any danger. Kieran and Luke had been her silent and invisible guardians all of these weeks, filling in the blanks where Mephisto's communications left information out of regular reports. When she told the crow she was going to meet Noxis in person, Sylus was already prepared to intercept them. The goals for the rendezvous had been simple enough. Kill Noxis and take the antidote to LUMINIS off his corpse. So, how had so many lines become blurred in such a short amount of time?

Ellara was a wild card, that's how.

Sylus was prepared for Noxis to reveal his identity as her adopted brother, but he hadn't expected for her to defend him. Nor had he expected for the encounter to affect her so strongly. The revelation of her brother's betrayal must have been too much for her mind to process.

Initially, he isn't certain, but as the evening unwinds, Sylus begins to understand what's happened with more clarity. Based on her behavior on the walk home and all the questions she asks, she'd suppressed the events of this night, shutting the truth behind a series of mental barriers. Unexpected, but no matter. If that's what she needs to do to cope for now, then he would play along. In fact, it might be easier if she still believes her brother to be dead. He soon truly would be, after all.

One thing was absolutely certain.

There will not be a third failure.

"Well, we're here," Ellara says, breaking Sylus's train of thought. He glances at the six story building next to them. A shabby thing. Old and derelict with peeling paint and water stains. Despite its owners' attempt to market it as a luxury apartment complex, he wouldn't even label it a motel. Yet, he's curious. Luke and Kieran sent him photos of the inside, but he wants to see it for himself. The place where she lives, sleeps, and spends the free hours of her day; where she unwinds and feels the freedom to be herself.

Sylus looks at his Hunter, so small and delicate. She's thinner than he remembers, and still so pale. Had this last month taken such a toll on her? If he was honest, it hadn't been easy for him either. When her partner had taken her from him, it felt as though half his heart had vanished with her. Sylus had buried his yearning and his need for her in his hunt for Noxis and search for an antidote. But, now that he was faced with the object of his desire directly, he could hardly resist her magnetic pull.

"Then, is this where we say good night?" Sylus asks, ready to pull back if she wills it. He hopes she doesn't; wonders if he actually would be able to listen if she tries to push him away.

"Do you want to...come up?" she asks, as though reading his thoughts. Relief. Excitement. He smirks in amusement, tucking a strand or two of flyaways back behind her ear. He makes sure to graze his fingertip against her skin in passing, gauging the level of her interest, reading every one of her minute expressions. To his delight, she shivers at his touch and covers his hand with hers.

"Is that what you want, kitten?" he smiles, wondering if he should take the high road. She's just been through something of an ordeal. She's likely exhausted. He should leave her be. Let her rest. Recover in mind and body. But, where's the fun in that? Especially when she's looking at him with such raw yearning, barely contained by the silly notion of what she calls "propriety".

If anyone asked him for his not so humble opinion, she was far from proper. Nothing about her was. Her eyes were pools of verdant ocean, light in places and dark in others. It was that darkness that now called to him and tempted, like a vast unknown crying out to be discovered. She was molded like a tempting little morsel, too. Firm and shapely with a slim waist and flaring hips, soft thighs he was dying to bite into, and perky breasts just begging for his affection. A bite-sized feminine package that he wanted to --

"I'd like that. For you to come up that is..." Her eyes skitter away from his. She deigns to blush. The little minx. Never honest and always so prideful. As if she could hide her thirst from him; as if he would ever leave her unsated.

"And what are you expecting me to do once you have me there?" He licks his lips, running his fingers through her hair then moving his hand down to the small of her back. Her breath hitches. The air between them grows charged and heavy.

"Well..." she still doesn't meet his eyes. "Your clothes are torn. And dirty."

"Mhmm..." He leans in, wrapping his arm tighter around her so their chests are flush. "And...do you have some spare shirts up there for me?" Her breasts rise and fall against him, her nipples already hard and pebbled. "Do you have so many men stop by that you keep such things on hand?"

"W-What?" she blinks up at him, and he finds comfort in the confused expression on her lovely face. Still, a flare of jealousy bites at him. Like a taser to the gut. He knows his words ring hollow, but just the thought is enough to sting. Sylus allows her blue-eyed partner a spot in her vicinity. For now. Out of necessity. Even then, the nuisance shows far too much interest in what is his.

Her phone rings out with an irritating and unfamiliar melody, breaking the moment. Sylus doesn't appreciate her rush to answer it.

"Xavier," she says, her brow furrowing.

Well. Well. Speak of the devil.

"I'm sorry. I know my message earlier was out of the blue. Everything is OK now."

A voice speaks on the other end, muffled by her ear.

"No, honestly I can't tell you what happened. Everything is a blur at the moment. I think I'm just in shock. There was a fire, and I think Malakai was involved. I'm safe, though."

More useless words and questions on the other end.

Impatient, Sylus reaches for her, but she pushes gently at his hand. He raises a brow. She doesn't meet his gaze. Irritation flares like a sparking firecracker in his chest. Really, now? What is this subtle body language? Does she have the audacity to ignore him? To command him to wait?

Ridiculous.

His Evol wraps around her wrist and hand, keeping both still as he pushes her up against the wall of the building behind a decorative set of trees. His jacket slips off of her onto the ground. She doesn't have time to be shocked before his lips press against hers. His tongue pushes into her mouth, breaking through a resistance so feeble its almost laughable. Slipping and dipping. Hands aggressively lifting her shirt and sliding beneath; caressing soft skin. In moments, she's writhing against him, gasping when he presses her other hand against the bulge in his pants.

"Ellara? Are you there?" the voice asks over the phone.

Sylus moves her thumb to push the "speaker" button. He lets her break the kiss, far too amused by the rising flush in her cheeks and the angry glint in her eye. She looks like she might hit him; he kind of wishes she would try. It would thrill him to watch her struggle, to tame his little vixen into writhing, wanton, and panting submission. Let her scratch at him with her little claws, too. Oh how he loves when she does that.

"I-I'm here," she says breathlessly. "Sorry, trying to find my keys so I can get inside."

"So you're at home now? You're safe?"

"Y-Yes. Everything is --mnn---" She bites her lip as Sylus's hand slips under her bra and cups her breast, rubbing against a hardened nipple with his finger. "---Everything is fine."

"You sound weird. Are you sure you're OK?"

She glares at Sylus again, but his smile only widens.

"Xavier, I promise I'm OK." She hesitates. A few emotions cross her face at blinding speed. She bites her lip and grimaces. "The truth is...I'm...not alone."

The voice over the phone goes silent.

Check mate.

Sylus can't help how his eyes grow wide in surprise at her admission. Truly, she is entirely unpredictable. Yet, so naïve. He's certain that she's completely oblivious to how the man on the phone feels about her, but despite that ignorance, his first guess would have been that she would shy away from revealing their connection. Yet, here she is. Being honest. And not in a subtle way either.

Despite this bold admission, the fire in her body doesn't abate. She's trembling against him, her pupils blown wide with lust and her lips swollen from his kisses. Should he make her moan louder? Until she can't talk at all anymore? She turns to him. Sees his intent. And the fear that widens her lovely eyes is just so delicious. That exquisite cocktail of anxiety, anticipation, embarrassment, and want makes his body grow hard and tight.

"Um...I'll call you first thing in the morning, OK? A lot's happened tonight, and I need to make sense of it all."

"As long as you're safe..." the voice says in a controlled monotone, the underlying anger there somehow satisfying.

Sylus pulls back his Evol and lets her end the call. As soon as its over, he grabs her by the hips and turns her towards the wall. As her soft ass presses against him, he can't help but make a sound of arousal. He ignores her when she whispers his name, rubbing against her, driving himself crazy at the thought of rucking up her skirt, ripping off her panties, and --

"No...Sylus...someone will see..."

He presses his nose against her ear, taking a deep breath of her scent, letting her soft hair tickle his jaw and send shivers down his core.

"Is that your only complaint?" he growls. "If so, then..." he grinds against her.

"Please..someone will see us..." she breathes, arching her back.

"You're not doing yourself any favors by begging me like that, sweetie," he warns. "One more word and I'll have you right here..." he drops to a whisper, relishing her helpless whimper as he sucks on her earlobe. "Unless that's what you wanted me to do from the beginning."

Ellara bites her lip. Through the haze in his thoughts, he feels how cold her skin is, and some rationale returns. Wasn't he the one who was concerned about her moving through the winter chill?

"Please," she whispers. "Let's go inside."

He sighs. Gathering her against him, he Jumps to the third floor then through the wall until they're standing in her dark entryway. Her apartment smells as sweet as he imagined. Strawberries, perhaps. Or cherry blossoms. It's a subtle scent; not purposeful. Something gathered over time rather than forced with candles or oils. It's soothing, though at the moment there isn't much that can be done to quench the fire in his blood.

She wanders off to put on her slippers. Or tries to. Sylus doesn't wait until she's taken off her shoes; he can't. The phone call set off something feral in him. Territorial. As soon as possible, he wants to ensure that he is the only one occupying her thoughts and worries. Ignoring her weak and shy protests, he roughly pulls her up against him and into his arms.

Shower first. To get the smell of that fire off of her. Get her warm and comfortable. Help her relax in the steam with his hands and fingers. Check her skin for burns and injuries with his mouth and tongue. A noble pursuit, one should think. Look at him taking the high road after all.

I missed you.

I've needed you.

I've longed for you.

In all the ways he can, he tells her this without words. Through mind-numbing frantic kisses. Through bold caresses and touches. He tries to be mindful of his strength, but she tests his self-control. He bites. His fingers hold too tight. He's so hard it hurts, but he refuses to take her. Not yet. First, he wants to hear her scream his name. Moan and whimper and beg him to come.

He shoves her back up against the shower wall and kneels down, holding her hands and wrists in place with his Evol so his own are free to wreak havoc on her senses.

"Spread your legs," Sylus tells her, pressing his lips against the flat of her belly. He rubs his jaw against her skin. Up and down. Letting her feel him and gasp in anticipation. His lips ghost downwards, hands running over her thighs and to her calves. Down then up again until she's squirming. "More," he croons, pressing a kiss to the apex of her thighs. She throws her head back and shudders. Even under the hot water, goosebumps run across her skin.

In the end, she proves too shy. Or maybe the sensations are simply too intense.

He grabs the back of her knee, nudging her leg up.

"Wait...Sylus..."

"You know I won't," he chuckles, placing her knee against his muscular shoulder and spreading her wide open to his burning gaze and eager touch. When she fights, he steadies her with more of his Evol, unwilling to entertain her shyness in this moment. With his hands, he smoothes her legs apart, easing her open even more, baring the glistening petals of her sex to his blazing red eyes.

"Are you ready for this, sweetie?" he rasps, nearly delirious with his need to taste her. He doesn't wait for a coherent reply. Slowly -- torturously so -- he nudges her clit with his nose, blowing a faint stream of air over the hypersensitive flesh. She jerks against his restraints. Above his head, she gives a broken sigh. He looks up, staring into her wide lust-filled eyes, the color darker than he's ever seen it.

Unable to wait any longer, he laps at her, his tongue moving in darting, twisting circles against her folds. His eyes close at the euphoric taste of her. She shudders, her head shaking back and forth as her hips dance against his mouth. He moans against her core, intentional with the vibrations of his rumbling voice. She cries out wordlessly, her voice raw, straining so much against his Evol that her whole body shakes. Her knee quivers on his shoulder, toes curling.

Squeezing the thigh resting on him, he brings his free hand up to her opening and eases a finger inside to his knuckle. She rewards him with a squeal, and he starts moving it in and out of her. He pulls against her shivering walls then pushes back inside. Again and again as she wails and thrashes in ecstasy. Honeyed juices rush out against his lips and tongue, and he adds another finger.

"Yes!" she whimpers desperately. "Yes...yes, please!"

He hums against her, her excitement driving his own. Still pumping his fingers in and out of her, he pulls her clit into his mouth and starts sucking. Her insides quiver and tighten around his fingers, flesh swelling under his ministrations.

"Don't stop," she begs, tears running down her cheeks. "Don't stop, please!"

He groans as she shudders wildly against him, her orgasm catching them both off guard. It's sharp and intense, and she's clearly overstimulated. He eases her down, maintaining steady soft motions against her with his tongue. Gradually, she softens against him. Sated, silky. He backs away from her sensitive bud, pressing a soft kiss to her folds and then her thigh. With a stray thought, he releases his Evol from around her body.

Small, delicate hands weave into his hair. Nails graze at his scalp. He hooks his hand around the back of her knee. This time, as he stands, he lifts her leg up and presses himself between her folds. She's still coming down, still dazed, and its in this half delirium that he finally surges into her. She's so tight that he nearly comes on the spot, but he reigns himself in. Not now. Not yet. It's been too long and he needs to be joined with her, to rail her until there's no room for anyone in her thoughts but him.

Both of them groan loudly when Sylus finally settles himself all the way inside, so deep that the head of his cock pushes right up against the opening of her cervix. Despite his vicious and desperate train of thought, he's careful with her. Gentle. Slow. Lost in his love for her. Bewildered, as he thrills at hearing her chant his name in soft cadence to each thrust. Like she's claiming him. Like he's hers just as she is his. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he lets out a ragged breath of pleasure as she brushes her lips across his jaw and ear. Surrendering. Accepting him. Urging him to go faster without saying a word.

She explodes right as he does. He groans as his orgasm washes over him. He spills his passion inside her, spearing into her tight passage over and over as the madness holds him in a vice. His body tightens, muscles quivering as instinct has him thrust once more as deep as he can possibly go. Her nails rake down the back of his neck, and he sees white at the euphoric pain.

Piece by piece, the haze falls away. He grows aware of her silence and slow breathing. Concerned, Sylus brings an unsteady hand to the back of her head, stroking through her wet hair.

"Sweetie," he calls. "Are you alright?"

She makes a little sound of agreement, but doesn't move. Carefully, he lowers her leg to the ground. When she's steady, she hugs him tight. He turns off the water and snags a nearby fluffy pink towel, wrapping it around her.

Their bodies are slick and wet. As she moves against him, the friction of her silky skin slipping against his abs sets his heart racing for a moment. It's an unfamiliar and dizzying sensation, and she is the only one who can trigger the phenomenon. He feels himself swelling against her belly, already hungry again.

She inhales sharply when she realizes, her fingers exploring him. He grips the hair at the back of her head, suddenly fantasizing about how her mouth would feel wrapped around him. Perhaps soon, he can find out.

"Sylus..." Her brilliant green eyes meet his. She's blushing, still shy despite everything thats happened between them. Just as earlier that day, he's helpless to refuse what she's about to ask. "Please, will you stay tonight?"

Strange. Unknowable. Wonderful. Terrible little creature.

His weakness.

If she wanted, she could completely and utterly destroy him.

She'd done it before, after all. Many a time.

"What is it? Have I not satisfied you enough?" he teases, tracing the lines of her back.

"It's not that," she burrows her flushed face against his shoulder. "I just...I've missed you..."

"Hmm...such honeyed words for me."

"I mean it," she hugs him tighter.

He makes a sound, half sigh half chuckle. It's his turn to surrender.

"Alright. I'll stay." He presses a kiss against her forehead. "But, I doubt you'll be getting any sleep."

#eyes of infinity delirium #love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylus/mc #sylusposting #sylus #lnds #lnds sylus

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gandergaal · 5 months ago

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Okay I read the Grandest Game.....

Spoiler warning

So I got the epub.

It was in one word... intense. So much going on so much tension yet it feels like nothing had happened and we only got the introduction.

LOVED

The OG characters, this book made me love them more. Like- Nash, Xander and Avery.

NASH n'Libby had BabieS ? Jaw drop movement.

The Game was truly grand. JLB fed us exactly what we wanted.

Esp, when the symbols unveiled and the infinity to eight movement (so many callbacks)

Tho I knew that Gray is a player, literal GoOseBumpS.

The callbacks, and how everything Jen posted- the cards, the sneak peaks and the book cover; they all just pieced together. It was lovely.

I am happy that Grayson is ready this time, he isn't that tortured person anymore, he is healing and admitting to his faults and flaws.

Lyra's POV was my fave

Rohan's grew on me a little late but it still did.

DID NOT LIKE

It got a little confusing at times I loved Gigi's chapter and by that I mean Gigi. But the Knox-Brady thing was a bit too much for me.

Idk if anyone will share this opinion, but

GRAY AND LYRA FELT RUSHED, IF ONLY A LITTLE BIT.

Like three phone calls and 12 hours together could just do it. This is Grayson, he had said he doesn't fall at first sight. The way Odette talked, 'twas like they were meant to be but how does she get to say that?

Lyra's POV was centred around the game and her trauma and she was really great but how fast she fell for Gray was a bit off putting for me. I felt a slow burn would have worked great. But in the end it's JLB's book and I'll still eat up her work.

The Cliffhangers,

Gigi being more involved with Eve and Slate, I predicted that. (Elated)

Sav- we knew that deep in our hearts didn't we?

Rohan, half a point to my prediction?

Odette Mora- Idk what to tell, admittingly, I do not quite understand whatheheck happened. Maybe more to be told in Games untold.

#the grandest game #the inheritance games #the inheritance trilogy #jennifer lynn barnes #lyra catalina kane #lyra kane #the brothers hawthorne #avery grambs #gigi grayson #grayson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #rohan #savannah grayson #avery kylie grambs #averyjameson #lyra x grayson #Watch me honk

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shamanfox · 3 months ago

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To embrace the world with compassion’s light,

Like mountains reaching their towering height,

From thickened mud where dreams still lie,

Unborn dragonfly, shadowed and shy.

To become a star, a mystery unveiled,

A grain of sand, in the cosmos sailed,

Floating free through eternity’s span,

An inside joke by a cosmic hand.

And to laugh like Buddha, in serene grace,

Existing in every familiar face—

As you, me, I, us, and them,

United beneath the heavens’ hem.

Watch as we pull the darkened sky,

Into our hearts, where dreams can fly,

Beyond the black holes’ endless pull,

Through portals where infinity’s full.

Now we hold them, within our grasp,

In the fleshly hand of humankind’s clasp,

And speak the deepest secrets known,

In the silent stare, where love has grown.

#shamanfox #poetry

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weebz182 · 12 days ago

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Infinity Nikki- Whimsical Wardrobe丨Froggy Fashion

丨> Ability Outfit

"The Croakers are the cherished, charming neighbors and friends of Florawish,"Mayor Grace has noted. In celebration of this special bond, the town has launched the "Croaker"Fashion Style Award, and we are thrilled to unveil the most beloved design—the winner of the Best Popularity Award.

>>Ability: Electrician

Grants the ability to identify and fix electrical problems.

※ Equip the Lotus Umbrella or Twilight Lotus pieces to open a lotus umbrella in the game and stay dry in the rain!

※ During the event, use Revelation Crystals or limited-time Revelation Crystals to resonate in Croaker's Whisper. Every 5 Resonances guarantees a piece of the Froggy Fashion outfit. Reach specific Resonance milestones to earn corresponding 5-star outfit pieces from Deep Echoes.

#nikki game #infinity nikki #news #fashion game

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eloquentspeeches · 3 months ago

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book recommendation tag game!

rules: recommend as many books as you like. please include genre and some basic information on it (either your words or a copy+paste synopsis). feel free to include cover art, a personal review, trigger warnings, and anything else! just don’t spoil the book!

tagged by @dekarios!!! thank you for the tag I'm usually too busy and or shy to randomly talk about things but here I am. I'm putting it all under a read more because million bajillion words

American Elsewhere by Robert Jackson Bennett

Some places are too good to be true. Under a pink moon, there is a perfect little town not found on any map. In that town, there are quiet streets lined with pretty houses, houses that conceal the strangest things. After a couple years of hard traveling, ex-cop Mona Bright inherits her long-dead mother's home in Wink, New Mexico. And the closer Mona gets to her mother's past, the more she understands that the people of Wink are very, very different ...

this is sincerely my favorite book ever. i bought it from a sci-fi only bookstore that i visited once and that closed down shortly after. it's got horror. it's got sci-fi. it's got eldritch sci-fi horror set in a small town. i re-read this book almost every year and i still find new details i missed.

Mistborn: The Final Empire by Brandon Sanderson

For a thousand years the ash fell and no flowers bloomed. For a thousand years the Skaa slaved in misery and lived in fear. For a thousand years the Lord Ruler, the "Sliver of Infinity," reigned with absolute power and ultimate terror, divinely invincible. This saga dares to ask a simple question: What if the hero of prophecy fails? Mistborn: The Final Empire — Kelsier, a brilliant thief has turned his talents to the ultimate caper, with the Lord Ruler as the mark. Kel's plan is the ultimate long shot, until luck brings a ragged girl named Vin into the fold. But she will have to learn to trust if she is to master powers of which she never dreamed.

i can only recommend the first triology of this series - final empire, the well of ascension and the hero of ages - since i haven't read the other books from this world. definitely worth the read, this book changed my brain chemistry when i first read it in high school.

The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

The youngest, half-goblin son of the Emperor has lived his entire life in exile, distant from the Imperial Court and the deadly intrigue that suffuses it. But when his father and three half brothers in line for the throne are killed in an "accident," he has no choice but to take his place as the only surviving rightful heir. Entirely unschooled in the art of court politics, he has no friends, no advisors, and the sure knowledge that whoever assassinated his father and brothers could make an attempt on his life at any moment. Surrounded by sycophants eager to curry favor with the naïve new emperor, and overwhelmed by the burdens of his new life, he can trust nobody. Amid the swirl of plots to depose him, offers of arranged marriages, and the specter of the unknown conspirators who lurk in the shadows, he must quickly adjust to life as the Goblin Emperor. All the while, he is alone, and trying to find even a single friend . . . and hoping for the possibility of romance, yet also vigilant against the unseen enemies that threaten him, lest he lose his throne–or his life.

if you like complicated political court drama!!! then oh boy this is the book for you!!! my cousin made me read this book because complicated political court dramas are her specialty and she was not wrong. this is a banger.

gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir

The Emperor needs necromancers. The Ninth Necromancer needs a swordswoman. Gideon has a sword, some dirty magazines, and no more time for undead nonsense. Tamsyn Muir’s Gideon the Ninth unveils a solar system of swordplay, cut-throat politics, and lesbian necromancers. Her characters leap off the page, as skillfully animated as arcane revenants. The result is a heart-pounding epic science fantasy. Brought up by unfriendly, ossifying nuns, ancient retainers, and countless skeletons, Gideon is ready to abandon a life of servitude and an afterlife as a reanimated corpse. She packs up her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and prepares to launch her daring escape. But her childhood nemesis won’t set her free without a service. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House and bone witch extraordinaire, has been summoned into action. The Emperor has invited the heirs to each of his loyal Houses to a deadly trial of wits and skill. If Harrowhark succeeds she will be become an immortal, all-powerful servant of the Resurrection, but no necromancer can ascend without their cavalier. Without Gideon’s sword, Harrow will fail, and the Ninth House will die. Of course, some things are better left dead.

if you follow my blog at all then you know i'm like a hardcore fan of TLT. i love this book series. it's such a good read. this is one of three with a fourth on the way. please read it. pelase.

bullet train by kōtarō isaka

Kimura’s young son is in a coma thanks to the Prince, and Kimura has tracked him onto a bullet train heading from Tokyo to Morioka to exact his revenge. But Kimura soon discovers that they are not the only dangerous passengers on board. Satoshi—the Prince—looks like an innocent schoolboy but is really a stylish and devious assassin. Risk fuels him, as does a good philosophical debate, such as questioning: Is killing really wrong? Nanao, nicknamed Ladybug, the self-proclaimed “unluckiest assassin in the world,” is put on the bullet train by his boss, a mysterious young woman called Maria, to steal a suitcase full of money and get off at the first stop. The lethal duo of Tangerine and Lemon are also traveling to Morioka, and the suitcase leads others to show their hands. Why are they all on the same train, and who will make it off alive?

okay i saved bullet train for last solely because. i didn't like. the book. as much as i really wanted to like the book. BUT i really do like isaka's writing and i think reading the book and watching the movie is the way to go to really appreciate what's going on in Bullet Train. that's my personal opinion.

#fighting for my life with the tumblr formatting #who to tag who to tag.#eso talks #tag game #i never tag people LMAO I don't know what to say here #thank you for the tag fray <333 #know we've. never really talked but i'd like to be more chatty on tumblr so thank you <3

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night-dark-woods · 8 months ago

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ok Exordia review time (not spoiler free!) since i finished it a few days ago. this is long and rambling and unedited.

4/5 i love Seth's writing and im glad they got to play with scifi again BUT i think they needed a better editor OR to split it more cleanly into sections- in one of the interviews they said it was originally a series of novellas each from a single POV, and i think the constraint of that would have made it a much tighter story.

one of the best things about their Destiny lore is how much they do with so little- thinking of this section from the Beyond Light CE:

Disaster at the worksite. Clearly we will not be moving Clarity Control like we did the K1 artifact. It reacted violently to the attempt. I have entered 19 casualties into the log, since 19 engineers from the Hannu team were caught in its reaction...though there were many more than 19 bodies when it was finished. I have sequestered the recordings. Especially the sensorium telemetry. Quite upsetting. Yet I do not believe it was an act of hostility. Even this outburst carried themes of duplication...as if Clarity Control wanted to show it could help me.

which i was originally thinking of as a first run at Blackbird, but i think these may have been simultaneous? i'm not actually sure. i know Exordia was started after the first Baru book was published, but i'm not sure how much lead time there is for the CEs.

or the clarity of Unveiling compared to a lot of what felt like similar ideas that took much longer to get thru in Exordia. primes. pink noise. math. alright lets fucking gooo oh wait. five more pages of ethics first. okay sure i'll do that for ya Seth bc i love your prose. which also. a) conway game of life mentioned!!! b) this part from Exordia made me LOSE MY MIND:

But that was impossible. The whole universe came from the same source: the same designers. I was part of one of them. If I could only remember... We were arguing, I think. Or maybe we were the argument, because gods cannot do things, they can only be them. We were in contest over the morality of infinities: the cardinality of all possible souls measured against the mere infinity of souls to ever be born...

(this is the part from Unveiling, for the optimistically two people who will read this who haven't read Destiny lore):

Once upon a time,* a gardener and a winnower lived** together in a garden.*** * It was once before a time, because time had not yet begun. ** We did not live. We existed as principles of ontological dynamics that emerged from mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes. *** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence. They existed, because they had to exist. They had no antecedent and no constituents, and there is no instrument of causality by which they could be portioned into components and assigned to some schematic of their origin. If you followed the umbilical of history in search of some ultimate atavistic embryo that became them, you would end your journey marooned here in this garden.

at the same time, idk what i would remove- at very few points was i reading something that dragged, with the exception of spending a LOT of time with Erik and Clayton in the middle (this is when i put the book down for a month and a half or so). and i know so many people were like sickos.jpg about them However their dynamic did sooo little for me and i don't think Rosamaria was given enough time on the page (and i think having her Be the ship was weird- i recognize that Blackbird needs to have a voice to make the plot go, but i don't think this was the best or neatest way to do it, and collapsed a lot of what i found fundamentally so interesting about Blackbird into something akin to a standard scifi Ship AI).

again i think the restriction of each section of the story being from a single POV might have been the restriction needed to end up with a tighter story- at no point were the multiple plot threads & POVs confusing, per say, but i'm not sure what the structure did for the story bc we could switch to whoever could tell us the most about what was happening whenever convenient, instead of having to piece things together from a limited POV. i'm thinking again of the BLCE, this time the part where Clovis is talking about Maya Sundaresh behaving erratically- i'm no Ishtar group expert but i believe we are supposed to put together that these are all different iterations of her from within the garden). oh- i also wonder if Aixue and Chaya are another run at Maya and Chioma to some degree...

anyway. i also think i am also less the target audience for this book because seth loooves their trolley problems and i simply do not have the patience for it! i loved the hard scifi and the first contact aspects and the character work (Seth's character work is, as always, spectacular. their characters always feel deeply real and flawed in very human ways, while still being exaggerated in the ways characters have to be to function as plot fulcrums), but this isnt something like Baru where i can be like yes you should read this to everyone i talk to.

I think the language in the book is DELIGHTFUL, as always, especially how Seth plays with the idea of an alien translator that sometimes can get an English equivalent to something and sometimes can't! i think that's very fun. because it's on my mind bc ive been listening to the Shelved by Genre episodes on it, it makes me think of Book of the New Sun, and how the "translator" figure of G.W. talks about picking words that are close but they aren't being used like we would use them now- e.g. "metal" in BotNS isnt the same thing we think of as metal! its used more broadly! but its close enough in purpose and point to work just fine. the destriers have horns. i need to know if Seth has read these books.

but back to Exordia. here are some specific prose parts i fucking loved.

this part of the full-page loving, detailed, and technical description of 40 alien nukes detonating in atmosphere:

In the band of thickening atmosphere twenty-five to thirty-five kilometers above the Earth, these gamma rays slam into atoms of oxygen and nitrogen, stripping their orbiting electrons. The orphaned electrons hurtle away at 90 percent of lightspeed. They want to go in a straight line, but hold on now, it's not so easy to leave home. Earth's magnetic field bends their course. They begin to spiral down. When an electron moving near lightspeed has to turn, it emits synchrotron radiation. Poison light. And beneath each bomb there are 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 electrons swerving at once. The result is a blast of electromagnetic noise. No: not noise. A coherent pulse, spiking and faling in harmony. Shiva's own beat drop on electrical civilization. An EMP.

This part. i love Anna and wish we got more of her.

He gives her back her Glock. She accepts it with resignation. "You'd better get your men ready," she says. "It's going to be bad." "Women too," he says, trying for lightness. "The pilot's a woman. We've got a female forward surgeon, a psyops lead, a linguist- she's pretty badass, ran with SEALs in Afghanistan. And Lt. Gainer, she might have some advice for-" "For what?" Anna says calmly. "Advice for what, Erik? How to get killed in a feminine way?"

Seth has such a good and specific way of writing metaphors. a little bit Douglas Adams:

The upshot is: the air around the engine exhaust beam explodes outward with a sound like a tuning fork hit by a Space Shuttle launch. Lung-jellying power. Anything in the beam path suffers the short, severe influence of a needle faster and hotter than a vajra thunderbolt. Anything around the beam eats fireball.

& this part. again. i wish more of the book was Anna and Ssrin's fucked up kismessitude. or whatever.

She slides the barrel of the weapon into the uppermost crater on Ssrin's spine. Slick pain makes Ssrin hiss in psuvoluntary fury: psuvoluntary because it is reflex subject to veto- she could quash it, but the feeling is deliciously wrong, and it is so good to bare her fangs and to unleash that ancient khai instinct of pain-as-motivation. "Questionsss," Ssrin gasps. "I want to know how this story ends." Oh serendura. You'll wish you hadn't asked. You'll wish you'd gone in with your eyes shut and your tongue in your throat so you couldn't smell the poison til it was too late.

which also!!! that's something i love about the Ssrin POV like. Seth is always good at writing aliens and slipping in details that tell us about them. "tongue in your throat" to not smell the poison bc she is a snake alien and smells with her tongue!!! that rules!!!

#bookposting #exordia #this is sooo long sorry #before i reread this i am going to reread blindsight. bc i think a lot of it in in here.#also i cant believe i hadnt even finished exordia when i was writing the gunplay fic. that passage was sitting there waiting for me.#anyway.

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year ago

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Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

genre: pre-Infinity War, slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, teacher/student to friends to lovers characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC), Moraine of Hadeeth (OC), additional OCs as Kamar-Taj staff rating: general audience to begin with, later chapters will contain 18+ material

Chapter Seven (ANGST, wherein Stephen experiences a guilt induced nightmare)

Stephen had suggested that they return to the Sanctum, hoping to allow Teyla a chance to process all that had happened, and to begin to grieve. She had declined, her eyes brimming with determination and an eagerness to share with him, her happiest memories of her father. He watched her move about the flat, while telling him a series of stories in a sort of stream of consciousness--leading him to realize that this was how she chose to mourn. Eventually, she came to sit beside him on the sofa, her focus on showing him the contents of several photo albums encompassing the time she’d spent living with her dad.

In the quiet moments in between, Stephen sensed how desperately she was trying to fend off her heartbreak. He hurt for her, but remained patient for the moment she might trust him enough to ask for what she needed.

As dusk colored the sky outside, Teyla located those pieces of her father’s work which he had saved for her, covered loosely in several layers of muslin cloth, waiting for her hand to reveal. Worn and weary as she was, she found the fortitude to hang on just a while longer—though with each piece she unveiled, Stephen noted her tears remained barely in check

First there was a thick sketchbook that Charles had kept during the years that Teyla lived with him. Much of its content was concerned with Teyla herself; studies of her at the breakfast table or amidst a pile of schoolbooks; sketches of her laughing, or at play; even a few which caught her sleeping--all of them created with a father’s loving eye. Stephen enjoyed seeing this younger version of Teyla, imagining the daily joy she had brought to her father’s life.

There was a softly romantic portrait of Moraine in the nude, which Teyla explained had been painted early in their courtship; that the Artist was head over heels for his model was evident in every brushstroke. A second painting depicted Moraine in the fertile bloom of pregnancy; set against the night sky, framed against an open window of a smaller apartment of decades ago, she was clothed in a translucent ivory nightgown, her hands resting protectively upon her protruding belly. Stephen found it nothing short of breathtaking; a magnificently rendered image of womanhood in its unassailable glory, and beautiful with understated sensuality.

“You like this one,” Teyla observed quietly, but clearly proud of her father’s handiwork.

Stephen let out a low whistle, “This piece is amazing, Teyla. Your dad was a talented artist.”

Her voice caught a moment, but she readily agreed.

Two sculptures sat draped in linen slip cloths, lined with tyvek for extra protection from moisture; Teyla uncovered them reverently to reveal a bust of her mother—looking like some Grecian goddess—while the other captured Moraine with a wee Teyla. Though made of marble, the piece was alive with their family bond, as mother bent low, cupping her daughter’s hands in her own, allowing both to study a small winged creature (Stephen’s mind insisted it was some sort of Hadeethan butterfly) which rested upon Teyla’s open palm. “Fantastic,” he murmured.

“That he was,” she agreed, with a plaintive finality that voiced her sorrow. A large, rectangular shape rested beneath the remaining storage cloth. Teyla gasped as she slid the cloth away. “I have…I have never seen this one…” She bowed her head to hide the tears she could no longer hold at bay.

Stephen draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She shivered against him. “He must have done this after I left Earth. I wish…” Teyla sobbed, “I wish that I had known.”

This painting was unquestionably the finest of the works that Charles had set aside for his daughter. A crowning achievement. Teyla gazed wide-eyed at them from the canvas, her truth beautifully captured; the small curve of her smile, the soft fall of her hair, the unassuming kindness that lived in the depths of her doe-eyes. She rested her chin against her palm, her hand angled so that the rich purple stone of her mood ring was visible. She looked happy—and as though she knew the secret to happiness and would share it freely if only the viewer could awaken her image to speak aloud. Walter Charles had painted the quiet miracle that had brought him fulfillment as no other soul in the world ever had, in a language that articulated his heart as no written or spoken word ever could.

Surely Teyla understood the image for all it had meant to her father. She breathed hard several times, then made a desperate, strangled sound, before nestling her face in the crook of Stephen’s neck.

The bitter taste of remorse filled his mouth, and Stephen’s hands flared with fresh spikes of pain, as he considered the talented hands that had created this striking portrait of a beloved daughter. An artist’s hands that might have been given more time to share his talents with the world, if only a ‘hot-shot genius doctor’ had actually cared about the patients that had sought his help. The painting seemed infused with the soft light of her gentle spirit, imbued with all the love her father held for her. An exceptional creation—and I failed the man without a second look back.

“I’m so sorry, Teyla,” he whispered, “So, so sorry. I’d give anything to make this right…”

She was shaking her head against his words, “Please, Doctor, please just take me from this place. I cannot bear this pain inside my heart. I feel my father as though he is near, yet I will never hear his voice or feel the comfort of his embrace again.”

“Of course,” he assured her, “Whatever you need, honey.” He released her as gently as he could, to conjure a portal back to the sanctuary of Bleecker Street.

Understandably, Teyla had no appetite, but at Stephen’s stern insistence, she ate a little yogurt, and a few slices of mango, before retiring to the small room he directed her to for the night. Though her body’s clock was still set to Kathmandu time—where it was early afternoon--he had a hunch he could coax her into some healing sleep. Failing that, he would employ a small sandman spell, though that turned out to be unnecessary.

Feeling both the weight of his responsibility as her mentor, and the gnawing guilt that he might’ve made a difference in the quality and length of her father’s final days, Stephen sat at Teyla’s bedside, watching over her a while. Watching as her breathing evened out and the lines of her body softened, knowing she had found the sort of solace—for a time—that he’d been unable to give her. When satisfied she rested easy, he headed to his own room, planning to immerse himself in study, certain the peace of sleep would elude him—which was precisely as he deserved.

It was that same old dream again, but with a wicked twist. He dreamed it far less frequently these days, and if he took the time to analyze just why, Stephen would realize it was because he had finally shed much of the guilt which he had carried for more than half a lifetime. Accepting that he bore full responsibility for his horrific accident, facing his demons in the aftermath, and recognizing that his medical career had never been of one of true service to others, had been a struggle that rivaled the constant physical challenges presented by his ruined hands. Only the enlightenment that had come to him with his studies in the mystic arts had enabled him to accept the truth about himself, humbling him and inspiring him to be a better man than ever in his life.

His dream-self stood—as he always did--on the shore of one of the smaller Fremont Lakes, drinking a can of Coors, laughing with his friends, and flirting with the prettiest of his sister’s high school classmates. He was only weeks away from beginning freshman year, and Stephen had been thinking that a little fling with Chloe Butler might be the perfect way to end the summer before heading off to study medicine at Creighton University. His sister Donna had swum out toward the the center of the lake, headed for the swim platform to bask in the afternoon sun—swimming as effortlessly as she’d done at least a hundred times before, and he frankly wasn’t paying much attention. He should have been; if he had been, he might have reached her minutes sooner, reached her in time to keep her from going under that last time.

In reality, he’d only heard her call his name once, but in the dreams, her frightened voice always carried across the water to him, repeatedly calling for help, calling his name, begging him to save her. When he realized she was in trouble, he’d shucked off his scuffed leather boat shoes, the first of the young men on the narrow strip of beach to dive in, swimming frantically in her direction. He was never to know for certain what had put her in distress; without a full autopsy (their mother couldn’t bear the thought of one), the best explanation they’d been given was a seizure of sorts, or something as innocuous as an ill-timed cramp. And though his lungs burned with his effort to reach her, Stephen was still a dozen yards away when Donna sank below the surface with heartbreaking finality.

In his dream, he relived again his frantic search for her in the dark depths of the lake, finally finding her, bringing her to shore, and breaking down after he was unable to resuscitate her. But this time, instead of waking sweat-soaked and heart hammering the insistent beat of his failure and his guilt, the nightmare continued. Though she was long dead and buried, Donna was there, in the flower of eternal youth, riding passenger with him in his Lamborghini Huracan. You failed me, Stephen, she intoned, her eyes flashing with bitter accusation; you were my older brother and you were supposed to look out for me, but you failed miserably; and as the rain began to pound the windshield, she questioned him without remorse: how many others did you fail in your egotistical short sightedness?

Stephen faced her, helpless to change the past, knowing his own fate was already sealed; in moments would come the crash and his car would hurtle off the road, breaking his hands beyond repair, robbing him of the life he’d worked so single-mindedly to establish for himself. You failed me, Stephen, she repeated, as you always fail the ones in greatest need…and just before the collision, Donna’s face transformed, and she was Teyla, but not angry--only sad, her indictments delivered quietly, regretfully, with a tenderness that matched her spirit in the waking world. You failed him, Stephen Strange; a better man might have saved my father. Somehow her words stung even more, for the gentle way in which she delivered them. You were ever selfish, and blind to the needs of others, so perhaps there is some justice in your fate, after all. And then she was gone, as his car spun and spun, and the pain was excruciating, and he knew in that moment that he deserved the pain, he deserved to have his old life ripped away…and if he spent a hundred years expunging his guilt through selfless service, he could never erase the misery, the loss, the deaths, of those he’d failed. His dear, doomed sister. Walter Charles, and those patients, who, like him, were not challenge enough to merit his valuable time and attention. And now, his gentle Teyla…

“Stephen”. Softly, yet urgently, spoken. “Stephen, you must awaken.” A concerned, familiar voice, summoning him away from his pain and self-recrimination. Pulling him from the depths of his dream. A hand—her hand--upon his shoulder, soft but insistent, lightly shaking him back to consciousness.

“Teyla,” he murmured, still caught in the nightmare. He needed to tell her. Wanted to, but that would only bring her pain. “Teyla…”

“Yes, I am here,” she answered, “I am here, Stephen. Open your eyes. See me beside you and know that all is well.”

His eyes fluttered open, unable to focus at first, and his heart was pounding, just as it always did in the wake of that nightmare. Her hand on his cheek was soft and cool, her face hovering above his quietly merciful, the ends of her hair just brushing his skin. Teyla of Hadeeth. How was she here, sympathetic as she tried to soothe him, the embodiment of clemency when he deserved only her scorn? “Teyla?” he whispered, wondering if she was just the remains of his dream, and would vanish like mist if he dared to trust she was real.

“Yes, Stephen,” she answered patiently, “Leave those painful memories behind. You must not torment yourself so.” Despite the grief he knew dwelled in her heart, her focus seemed to be solely on comforting him.

“I was dreaming,” he rasped, feeling he ought to explain, and hoping he didn’t appear as weak as he felt.

“I know,” she told him, the calm of her voice and in her touch beginning to banish the anguish that had enveloped him. “I dreamt as well, Stephen. I saw enough to know, and I felt your distress, and now I am here because you are more than worthy of mercy—but such mercy must begin with yourself.” She laid a hand over his heart, and an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.

Amazed at her perception, Stephen searched her eyes, reading her sincerity, unbelieving that redemption could be so easily gained. He shook his head to clear away the vestiges of his nightmare, sitting up against the headboard. He laid his hand atop hers, swearing he could feel the beautiful life force that inhabited her slender form. “Teyla,” he confessed, “If you knew the truth, you might not be so generous…”

Her eyes told him before she spoke, that she was well aware of the part he’d played in her father’s story. “I already know all that I need to know, Stephen.” His given name upon her lips, spoken without a hint of her usual formality, was a balm against his shame. “You have paid a heavy penance for your past mistakes; you need punish yourself no longer.”

Stephen breathed deeply and closed his eyes, feeling entirely unworthy of the absolution she was offering. “Do you understand, Teyla? Your own father…”

She cupped a hand against his cheek, silencing him with a wise, sweet smile. “I assure you, Stephen—I understand it all…and I promise you that you are not the man you were in those days.” He opened his eyes, finding only compassion in her own. “You have become your best self, through trial and pain. I swear that you are now the man you were destined to become…but you must forgive yourself--for that will finally free you from this burden of guilt that weighs upon you so.”

Though awestruck by her heart’s true generosity, Stephen suddenly felt tired enough to sleep for a week. “Yes,” she smiled, relieved on his behalf, “You must rest a while now, and come the day this darkness will fade to naught.” Come morning he would wonder too, if she’d worked some gentle magic by simple touch alone.

At her prompting, Stephen slid back down onto his pillow, allowing her to tuck the blanket around him. He caught her hand in his before she stood up to leave; she didn’t seem surprised. “You are most welcome, Stephen Strange,” she told him, then headed to his door.

“Just tell me this,” he said, a ghost of his usual cheekiness restored, so that she turned back to him from the doorway, “How are you so young, and yet so wise, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

She raised a brow—quite insouciantly—and he saw in her a bit of Moraine’s regal bearing, as she proudly replied, “I am both my mother’s daughter, and my father’s child as well. I dare to believe that the best of both of them have found their union in me.” Teyla gave a little shrug, and left the room—though the surprising smile she left upon Stephen’s face lasted long enough to see him into a more peaceful sleep of his own.

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the-elusive-soleil · 11 months ago

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Thinking again about a Silmarillion TV series, and how I would set it up if I were High King of Hollywood and also copyright law (long post):

Let's say we have a three-season setup. Three Silmarils, three acts, and everyone making and watching it knows there's a predetermined endpoint. No spiraling out into infinity, no matter how popular it gets. And I'll roughly hazard ~8 episodes per season; that seems to be the average amount these days.

Will there be whooping great battle sequences? Probably. But as is my wont, I'm focusing more on the ~interpersonal drama~

Season 1 would start off like I've posted about before, with Finwe telling the Ainulindale as a story to kid!Feanor, as a segue to bringing up the remarriage, and then a post-opening-credits cut to Feanor as an adult. We're in the very early YT 1400s. In the first episode, we're laying a lot of groundwork for a Normal Day in Tirion. Various members of the House of Finwe are introduced, and we get a sense for the familial and political landscape. Everybody seems to believe that life is completely perfect--and then there's Feanor, who knows it's not.

And then the news comes that Melkor is being released on parole.

In the next couple of episodes, we see reactions to this, through dinner-table conversations and such in each of the three households. People are tense, but...for the most part, life goes on.

Except for Feanor, who gets an Idea and eventually unveils the Silmarils.

Through part of the third episode and escalating through the fourth, we start to see Melkor stirring the Noldor up. They're making weapons, and the political tensions are starting to get higher. The different sets of Finwean cousins are training with swords and such, and coming up with increasingly thin excuses to each other as to how they picked up those minor injuries.

Episode four ends with a bang, as Feanor's sword incident and banishment occur.

Episode five jumps five years ahead to the festival in Tirion that Feanor's supposed to go to. We get the "jail-crow of Mandos" scene in flashback as he leaves the Silmarils behind. Everything seems fine on the surface, but the background music keeps slowly increasing in tension, and everyone's happiness is just a little too frenetic--and then the Trees go out.

Next episode, we get the Oath, the Flight of the Noldor, the Kinslaying, Losgar. (We're keeping the version where Amrod lives btw.)

(Side note: I think it would be very cool if we got little flashes of foreshadowing that gradually escalate as time goes on. Give me shots of Maitimo's right hand that linger just a little too long. Give me Maglor or Curufin in an early episode, talking about upcoming wedding vows that bear a suspicious resemblance to what the Oath will be. Give me Finrod wrestling with a family dog; give me Turgon and Aredhel teasing each other about his love of cities and how she'd rather die than be kept from running wild. Give me Feanor by firelight, Feanor being gently reminded by Nerdanel that he doesn't have to rush ahead and tackle a dozen projects all at once, Feanor insisting over and over again that things need to be written down and portrayed and preserved because nothing is really, actually permanent...)

Episode seven cuts back and forth between the people struggling across the Helcaraxe and the Feanorians in Middle-earth. The Feanorians fight orcs and lose Feanor, and the Helcaraxe group has their own battles with ice monsters and also the sheer. horrible. cold. Maybe we can have Fingon and Turgon and Aredhel arguing about the Feanorions along the way. Maybe we can have the argument cut short by Elenwe falling through the ice. Maybe we can have that lead Turgon to reiterate that the Feanorions are Doomed and have doomed everyone else with them - and then cut to Maedhros about to ride out to parley with Morgoth.

The episode ends with the Nolofinweans mourning Elenwe, and Maedhros being dragged out to hang from a cliff.

Season finale starts with the Nolofinweans arriving. There is most definitely an emotional, sweepingly epic sequence of the Thangorodrim rescue, the stuff edits and gifsets are made of. And we end with Maedhros ceding the crown, and with Fingolfin's coronation.

Season 2 starts with the Mereth Aderthad, which gives us a chance to catch up, via dialogue, with how everybody's been settling in and what they're planning to do next. We also get the skinny on Thingol and Melian and Doriath. (Luthien should definitely be mentioned at least once.) (Celegorm should definitely be in the shot when she's mentioned, although 50/50 whether he visibly pays attention or reacts.)

We get Finrod and Turgon's dream sequences and them discovering the places where they're going to put their respective cities. Also Artanis meets this Guy...

Dagor Aglareb is probably an episode 2 thing. After it, and after any significant conflict this season (attack on Hithlum, Glaurung, etc.), there should be someone assuming out loud that they are now past the worst of things. Bonus points if there is fire in the background of the shot when the person says this.

We meet Dwarves. I think the optimal way to handle the Dwarves-and-Caranthir thing is to have them be very blunt and no-frills with each other, and leave it up to interpretation whether this is actually them getting along.

Finrod, of course, is so very (gestures demonstratively) Finrod at his Dwarves, and also at the Men when they show up.

(checks timeline) Maeglin is born in YS 320, and he and Aredhel flee to Gondolin in YS 400, and Andreth is born in YS 361. I think it could be interesting to start out an episode with Aredhel being snared and having Maeglin, and interspersing creepy Nan Elmoth stuff with Aegnor/Andreth and Athrabeth stuff. Towards the end, Finrod has a conversation to the effect that it's not just that Aegnor and Andreth's romance was doomed, it's that they're all doomed here (possibly referencing the Amarie situation) and there is no way to have a good love story under such circumstances. And then, of course, we have Aredhel and Maeglin running to Gondolin (and Maeglin meeting Idril) and the deaths of Aredhel and Eol.

I have less of a specific outline for this season, because I want a lot of it to be filled up with...just Long Peace stuff. I want to see the Noldor having their Beleriand Renaissance. I want to see hunting trips that give us beautiful sweeping shots of the landscape, and glittering social events laced with politics, and little moments of relationships between different characters.

Basically, I want this season to make it very clear just how much stands to be lost here.

And then, of course, the season finale is the Dagor Bragollach, culminating in Fingolfin's last stand against Morgoth.

Season 3 opens with the utter chaos that is the aftermath of the Bragollach. We also get to meet Hurin and Huor and see their visit to Gondolin, which contrasts so sharply with the state of things literally everywhere else.

The first episode also introduces us to this random human guy named Beren, out there in the wilderness. And it ends with him stumbling on something in Doriath...

Second episode is just ~*Beren and Luthien*~. It has a very cultivated fairytale feel, right down to the lighting and the music. The world we just saw last episode is so very harsh, but not here, not now. There is never any doubt that there will be a happy ending. And there is! The episode ends with their wedding.

(...and distant wolf howling but don't pay attention to that)

Third episode has the wolf hunt. Beren dies. Luthien goes after him. They both come back. They don't really explain themselves to anyone, and I'm leaving the details mysterious. Luthien singing to Mandos should probably be treated like the Ainulindale in that we don't attempt to make humans portray it. What we do see are the beginnings of fallout: as Luthien and Beren come back to life, Maedhros is wrangling with his brothers. As Tol Galen is settled, as Dior is born, Fingon and Maedhros start to plan the Union, and it's hovering in the background that they need to do this because with the Oath, the only other option is going after the Doriath silmaril, and they're not doing that.

Episode four is the Nirnaeth, and it. is. devastating. If you read the book (and maybe even if you didn't), you know this isn't going to work. But the characters really believe it will! And the music and cinematography are fully conspiring to make you believe it too! There might even be some leitmotifs from the Thangorodrim rescue during the battle to suggest maybe it will turn out this time... And then it doesn't. It was never going to. It was always going to end with trampled blue and silver banners and broken bodies and the sons of Feanor scattered in the wilderness and Hurin chained in a chair to watch his family suffer.

Episode five should be 50% Children of Hurin, and 50% Tuor's story, cutting back and forth for maximum contrast. We go directly from Turin and Nienor's deaths to Tuor and Idril's wedding.

Episode six is all Fall of Doriath, starting off with Hurin showing up with the Silmaril, escalating through Thingol's paranoia and death, and ending with the Second Kinslaying. Bonus points if there is a very subtle Girdle of Melian leitmotif that has been in the background for all Doriath scenes so far, and abruptly cuts off when Thingol dies and Melian leaves. And we end with baby!Elwing being taken through the woods with the survivors, clutching the Silmaril.

Next episode is the fall of Gondolin. I would really like for there to be a specific leitmotif throughout the show for people (Maedhros, Fingolfin, Hurin, etc.) defying Morgoth, and for it to initially emerge for Maeglin...only to break down. And throughout the episode, Eol's theme keeps getting stronger and stronger, until it fully emerges when Maeglin falls.

We end with tiny!Earendil arriving in Sirion and seeing Elwing, and the Silmaril, for the first time.

This season is going to have to be nine episodes long, because what's left might take up one Silm chapter, but I have too many things I want to do with it. Specifically:

Episode eight opens in the middle of the Third Kinslaying. I don't want it to be dramatic like the other two. I want it to be frightening in its banality. I want it to be very, very disturbing how habituated the Feanorians are to this now.

When Elrond and Elros first appear...something shifts. It's not really like the world-apart, fairytale vibes of the Beren and Luthien episode, but there is something Different about these kids. They're who this whole violent, convoluted story was meant to produce. They're going to build a better world someday.

We spend most of the episode going back and forth between Maglor and Maedhros doing their best to raise these children in a world that is falling apart at the seams, and Earendil and Elwing in a Valinor that is almost unsettlingly pristine after the past couple of seasons that we've spent in an increasingly entropic Beleriand. I want M&M and the twins to camp out in ruins of a place that was built "only" a century ago, and Elwing to wander through a building that she assumes is brand new and expensive, but is actually very average and older than the Silmarils.

At the end, the Valar authorize an army, and we see Gil-Estel rise, and the War of Wrath begins.

Most of the final episode is epic War of Wrath stuff, definitely including the slaying of Ancalagon, definitely also undercut by comedy relief bits of people trying to guess who Gil-galad's parents could be. (It's never revealed.)

In the last third or so, Maedhros and Maglor steal the Silmarils.

When Maedhros takes his out and looks at it, he sees himself as he was back in Valinor, perfect and whole and unbearably innocent. We have this whole golden-lit mini-flashback sequence of him and Maglor just messing around at home, teasing each other. Their brothers are in the background. They are almost unrecognizable.

Maglor glances in a mirror and it shifts back to him in present-day, face twisted in pain and screaming at the Silmaril's burn. Maedhros startles, notices that he's burning, too. He doesn't scream, although he's clearly in pain. He just reaches over, gently brushes the Silmaril out of Maglor's hand and onto the ground, kisses his brother's forehead, and then stands and with a great deal of outward calm, walks over the edge of the nearby lava chasm.

Maglor weeps and can't stop, but he has to when footsteps start approaching. He flees to the shore, and flings the Silmaril in, and stares for a very long moment at the water like he might dive in, too. But then he just turns away with an unreadable expression and vanishes into the fog.

The last moments of the show are spent with Gil-galad and Celebrimbor and Elrond and Elros and Galadriel, talking out what they're going to do now. The world didn't end, but their world sort of did. What do you do with that? What can they possibly build from the ruins around them?

They have to try, is the one thing they all agree on. If they give up, what was even the point of everything in the last 600-odd years? And in any case, they can't possibly do any worse than the mess they and their predecessors just lived through.

Right?

#silmarillion #silm adaptation: the impossible dream #this got...longer than intended #i have opinions on this i guess

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