#vestige of thorns

[vestige-nan]

The Thorn in my Side, the Pebble in my Shoe: Ch 12

Summary: The main quest line in Mannimarco’s perspective, except that he falls chaotically in love with the vestige just as much as he chaotically hates them.

Fun stuff:  As always, vestige is gender neutral and physical features are not described.

The vestige waved at a bosmer working the vineyard, who gave a small confused wave back. "Are you sure you don't want to stop just for a quick wine tasting? I've heard good things about the vinery."

I pulled my lips up in a sneer. "If we stopped at every passing fancy you had, the war would finish before we reached Alinor."

The vestige's smile grew just a bit at my quip. "There's so much to do and see, can you blame me?"

"Yes."

The vestige laughed and it startled me. I supposed it was a good thing they seemed to like my thorny nature, because I couldn't pull myself to sweeten it even in deceit. "No time to enjoy things, only time for work then?"

My eye twitched, "I enjoy my work."

They hummed as they held their arms behind their back in a way that was both irritating and endearing (as were all things with the vestige), "How lucky for you."

I nearly laughed. Yes, it was quite "lucky" for me, thought quite "unlucky" for the denizens of Nirn.

"Tell me about your work." The vestige said.

"Wouldn't you like to guess?" I said, a smirk on my lips. "You seem the type to like such games."

The vestige's eyes sparkled and my non-beating heart froze, "Maybe so." The vestige tilted their head as they thought, holding their chin and humming. "You're obviously a mage."

"Obviously." I mocked their tone.

"But you're not in the mages guild," The vestige continued. "And you look way to fancy to be a contract mercenary, but not fancy enough to be a sapiarch."

"Ah, yes," I rolled my eyes. "The quantifiable scale of "fanciness". How astute."

The vestige wasn't hurt by my barb, to my disappointment. "Hmm... My guess is your undercover."

I faltered for only a fraction of a moment. How did I keep underestimating the vestige? I didn't let my expression shift, saying cooly, "And what's your reasoning for that?"

"The vagueness in your "business in Alinor". My guess is you might be some secret psijic or agent for the queen, or maybe you're apart of the dark brotherhood." They said with confidence, before their expression paled just slightly. "Uh, if you're apart of the dark brotherhood, you can pretend I never said anything."

I couldn't help the smirk on my face, "If I was undercover, don't you think it would be unwise to accuse me of it? What if I was meant to kill anyone who found me out?"

"I'm realizing that now. But!" They grinned, "I was just taking a guess. So if you are undercover, your cover technically isn't blown. And I'm great at keeping secrets."

I rolled my eyes again. This was the obstacle of Molag Bal, the hindrance of domination, and they're brashness was grating. "You are living in a fantasy."

They chuckled at my annoyance, which only made me more annoyed. They leaned closer to me and my mind was wiped blank. I didn't need to breathe, but it still felt like I was holding my breath. "Is there a place to stay on the way to Alinor?" They asked, innocently.

I couldn't move away from them even though I knew it would've been better to do so. "Rellenthil. We should reach it by nightfall."

"That soon?" They furrowed their brow just slightly, unaware of their presence, their heat so close—so close—to me. "Isn't that where the House of Reveries is?"

I tore my eyes from their neck. I hadn't realized I was staring at their neck, but fortunately they didn't either. I narrowed my eyes at them, certain where they were leading with this.

"We should see a show."

"Did you just ignore me when I spoke about your passing fancies?" I snapped.

They laughed. "We're already going to be in Rellenthil, it's not like we'd be wasting time."

"Nobles wait weeks to attend a show, and you believe they'll just let you attend without any notice?"

The vestige grinned and leaned in even closer to me, their warmth emanating from their skin. "I bet I could sneak in. I'm pretty sneaky." They teased.

Their expression was that of a conspirator. As if I was in on something secret. As if we shared a secret together. The thought threw my mind and heart into a frenzy, that they would give me something so hidden from the rest of the world. They didn't, they only shared a bit of fun, but the very fantasy of their secrets being mine pumped the venom that was my blood through my veins. I wanted every last one of them. I wanted no soul or being on Nirn, Oblivion, and Aetherius to know the vestige like how I did. I wanted to use a scalpel on their soul and extract the secrets the vestige refused to share with me. I wanted the vestige vulnerable with transparency in front of me.

This time, the vestige didn't miss my expression. Their eyes widened, but they didn't pull away. I was glad they didn't. If they had, I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from grabbing them. Then, after my madness, my mind began to race. Were they repulsed by my hunger? Confused by it? Impressed by it? Did they gain further insight into me or were they enraptured with me? Did they recognize me? With all of my years in imperial politics, the vestige's true thoughts were hidden from me, and the fact that they were hidden from me filled be with an undeniable rage. Rage that I swallowed.

"I have no interest in attending such frivolity." Somehow, in an act with the strength of a deity, I was the one to pull away. My voice didn't sound like my own.

"I..." The vestige reluctantly pulled away as well, eyes still trained on me. Their attention soothed my anger just slightly. "..."

They were at a loss for words. Because of calculation? Fear? Longing? Confusion? I wanted to strangle the truth out of them. Instead, I just snapped at them, "You what?"

"I don't mind seeing the show alone, but you'll be missed." They smiled, and it was as if I hadn't stared at them as if I wanted to eat them alive. For some reason, I found myself growing annoyed that they moved on so quickly. It was better for me, but it left me uneasy. Were they going to try to escape from me the first chance they could? Or had they thought they just imagined it? Or perhaps they hadn't thought anything of it at all? I felt I was going mad. "But do you want to get dinner together?"

What? "What?" What?

"I don't know the cuisine here very well, so you'll have to decide what we get." They said, and I didn't trust them for a moment. "I imagine the seafood here must be divine."

"I didn't say yes." Were they going to attempt to poison my food? It wouldn't work, I was dead, but I would still be offended by the action.

"You don't have to if you don't want to." They said simply, and I was frustrated they didn't push harder. Weren't they at least going to ask again?

"Well, I didn't say no either." I sneered through gritted teeth.

They're grin widened, and I hated them so much.

[anetherealpoetess]

thinking of haladriel like! their bond is not a crack allowing light to trickle through, but a jagged wound. a splinter lodged deep, festering with an ache that neither can soothe. to elrond, it is a thorn to be plucked; yet galadriel, for all her goodness, cannot bring herself to sever her connection with sauron, for in the pain she finds the last vestige of something true since her brother’s passing. meanwhile, halbrand feels she has shattered and reshaped him in ways no other soul could. he would cleanse his hands in hallowed waters if only to be deemed worthy of her touch, yet she has spurned him. now both are burdened by the humiliation of how swiftly their rawest vulnerabilities were laid bare before the other’s unyielding gaze. how effortlessly they were seen and undone. the world does not understand the gravity of what lies between them—this silent, aching war. and people don't like this show!! crazy!!!

[autonomy1]

bruising you alone

remember etched shadows

with you amongst each lived reality

circular, meaningful, unavoidable

deep within their vestige stark strength

I too pierced by blood shaped moments

images by seconds once more journeying

skin thorns darked against my flesh

describing echoes foolishly

[kastalani123]

(if you prefer Ao3)

They learn about it in the slowly bubbling, uncertain high of victory.

She died a hero, Clarisse says, repeats, convinces, closing Drew’s hands around a bracelet far too innocent to make everyone’s hearts sink with just a glance. Its silver colour is barely visible beneath the blood. Drew’s hands were already long slick with crimson. She doesn’t say anything.

(The daughter of Ares tells them the story as they pick up their other fallen siblings. Nobody responds)

Fuchsia with an apple for Anders, seventeen and the loveliest relationship advisor. Lacy only manages a few words through her sobs and tears, her hair still in the intricate but effective braid he had put it in before battle.

Coral with a conch shell for Khalid, twelve with a love for anything one could find at the bottom of the ocean. Valentina grips his stuffed anglerfish so tightly that she almost tears it while making her speech about him.

Salmon with a thorned rose for Ina, fifteen and the best fighter in the cabin. Mitchell can barely stand while talking, choked by having been unable to retrieve more of her than a gnarled arm, recognizable only through the heart-shaped birthmark spanning the back of her hand.

Magenta with a dove for Sawyer, fourteen with the kindest eyes in the world. Drew lays the sword they had never wanted in the fire and watches it melt into perfumed smoke without a word.

Cerise with flowering myrtle for Jasmin, sixteen and the craftiest painter around. Aminah bites her knuckles to the blood in a failed attempt not to cry when the burning paints colour the fire in impossible hues.

… Hot pink with an electric spear for Silena. Clarisse sets the fire with a blank face, dried tear tracks gouging grooves down her cheeks.

(A grief-stained title of cabin counsellor for Drew, fourteen with the weight of her world suddenly on her shoulders. Cabin Ten cannot keep her from turning her head high, eyeliner sharper than it’s been in years.)

----------

It’s not Drew who orders all signs of Silena Beauregard to be scrubbed from the insides of Cabin Ten. 

Instead, Mitchell passes through the cabin while the others haunt around Camp like the ghosts they had avoided becoming. Carefully, carefully, he folds up Silena’s fashionista posters, picks pictures of her off the clothing clips on the strings strung up throughout the cabin, strips her bed of the flower pillows they’d all collaborated to get for her last (final) birthday, collects clothes from her section of shelves and drawers, and packs everything with even a trace of her into the suitcase under his bed. Grief echoes off the bare spaces, sandalwood perfume soaking into the walls, a vestige of one of the many lives struck short these past several days.

His siblings don’t say anything when they finally come and find him curled up on Ina’s bed, clutching her morning star plush like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to his body, the entire cabin missing key elements. Drew starts to get ready for bed, Aminah throws herself onto Jasmin’s bed and shatters, Lacy tears her hair free of Anders’s braid with a wail, and Valentina screams into Khalid’s pillows until her voice is hoarse. Mitchell swears he hears similar sounds from the other cabins.

(Rory comes the next day, backpack full of clothing designs he hadn’t bothered to unpack in his rush upon hearing about the strange happenings in New York. He takes one look at his siblings’ hollowed faces, at the bare beds, at the empty spaces, and breaks, begging for forgiveness for not being there to fight along their sides, for not protecting them like an older brother should, for working on his college projects while they fought and died for the world. Drew scoffs, lips perfectly painted, and says there’s a reason they didn’t tell him war was brewing over their last Iris Message. The others pile onto him, cursing and crying and trying to keep themselves from falling into pieces.)

----------

Officially, Silena Beauregard is a hero. She had been burned with laurel wreaths, and offerings were tossed into the fire to aid her journey to Elysium. Her photo has been put up in the Big House alongside many others, and even Mr D managed not to butcher “Silena Beauregard” for once, prompted by a centaur kick. Her name is whispered under the topic of the ultimate sacrifice, of the power of love, of the bravery of unexpected leaders.

Unofficially, the only one who speaks her name with pure reverence is Clarisse La Rue, and no one says it with such vitriol as Drew Tanaka. Her spy bracelet, still drenched in blood, has been hurled against a wall and remains hidden and gathering dust under her bed. Her cabin has been scrubbed clean of any mentions of her, her name unspoken in fear of Drew’s newfound cruelty.

(Drew builds back up the walls her siblings had dismantled with so much care, taller and thicker than ever before.)

(Mitchell retreats back into himself, the skittishness he had worked so hard to shed shrouding him in full force once again.)

(Lacy melts into the crowd like never before, burying her voice beneath a blanket of sorrow.)

(Valentina ditches her soft colours and loose wardrobe, forcing attention onto her new tastefully torn jeans and bold shades and away from her wail-wrecked throat.)

(Aminah tugs her grief tight around herself and leaves with the summer, her goodbye lacking a definitive “see you later”.)

----------

Two boys, adorned in pearls and guided by geese, arrive in a cabin full but hollow, plagued by dead siblings and a traitorous hero. Twins, they are, nine years old and unknowing of the carnage of war, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Drew scoffs and scolds but leaves them to her remaining siblings, for her sharp tongue has never been suited for introductions, and even in the wake of her death-stained rule, she will not dare shut children down so soon after arrival.

Names of all the ghosts haunting the cabin become unspoken, none willing to explain them and blemish the twins’ innocence.

It does not work.

Not when Lev walks in on Lacy sorting and resorting dozens of vials of perfumes with shaking hands and trembling breaths. Not when Ren asks Valentina about the night sky painted on the wall over an empty bed and she shuts down entirely for the rest of the day. Not when Lev holds up a mirror to help Mitchel neaten up the impulsive haircut he had given himself after a game of Capture the Flag. Not when Ren catches Drew in a screaming match with another camper over a girl he had never heard about.

Not when something weighs heavily over the empty spaces in the cabin, over the necks of their newfound siblings.

So they ask someone else.

Clarisse La Rue. Will Solace. Connor Stoll. Nyssa Barrera. Malcolm Pace.

Slowly, slowly, they collect pieces, find ways to fit them together, compare conflicting accounts. They get the story of clashing metal, raging fire, slithering scales. A frightful fairytale, starring their fellow campers as the main characters. The missing limbs, the overabundance of scars, the paranoid glances — it all clicks together, and the uncomfortable hollowness of Camp Half-Blood is suddenly apparent.

(Eventually, they ask about their own Cabin’s side of the story.)

(They receive no answer beyond solemn looks and half-hearted shrugs.)

----------

Piper McLean falls from the sky, crashing straight through the fragile roof of the system Cabin Ten has established for itself the moment she bursts with pink light.

She is… argumentative. Unwilling to cram herself into the tattered tapestry of their Cabin the war had left behind. Determined to be different, to stand out, to raise her hackles at those around her. Filled with an anger towards the paints and ruffles her siblings wrap themselves in, and unconcerned with not letting it spill over and burn them.

She challenges Drew, and they cheer.

(Will the sister-that-never-left finally come back to them?)

Drew scoffs and huffs, sharpens her nails on the sound of Piper’s voice, but does not fight.

(They have fought for so long, and she is tired, and maybe an older kid with none of the wounds that mar the rest of them is needed in Cabin Ten.)

(Within a month, Drew wrenches permission for them to leave Camp for a shopping trip out of Chiron, and they know she is coming back.)

[kagecreep]

Til Death (VxMC)

(Killer Chat)

Description: (Spoilers for KC) Accosted constantly by the police, V has little choice but to go into hiding. You want to go with him. A wedding seems the appropriate way to go.

Notes: plotted by some friends on rosesrot's server (:< a lot of fluff and humour of the slaughterhouse losers gathered together IRL WC: 3k

━─━────༺༻────━─━

Despite being a spur-of-the-moment decision, you had never been more sure about anything else in your life. You made the plans quickly; somehow, everyone in the server was able to attend. Misaki happened to have a hit in your town and would be there for a decent duration of time; both Vince and Angel were free for the weekend, and Ronin––well, Ronin was hardly ever busy anyway. Getting Felicie and Luca to come was a little more difficult, but you managed it through some convincing, and an offer for them to stay free of charge at your house for their trip.

The two of you had chosen a prime spot, secluded away from society deep within the woods. It was close enough to his home that it wouldn't take long to return, but far enough away that, those who didn't already know where he lived, wouldn't be able to find it. An abandoned cabin perhaps wasn't the most romantic spot to hold a wedding; Ronin found it absurdly amusing. You didn't care. The forest surrounding you was in its' early bloom, the cool vestiges of winter clinging to the buds of spring.

Recently given to the woods, the structure had yet to grow dilapidated, with the insides still well-preserved from the elements. Vines and thorned leaves had just barely begun to crawl up the edges of the outer walls. With a little sweeping and dusting, preceded by a little breaking-and-entering, it was a suitable place for you and V to dress in your respective outfits.

Valentin, as much as he proclaimed to be happy, had the most miserable look on his face.

"Y'know, traditionally, the bride n' groom aren't supposed to see each other before the ceremony," Ronin drawled from the next room.

"No one said anything about this being a 'traditional' wedding, Ronin," said Angel, her voice quieter and more muffled from the wall between you. 

"Indeed. This is quite an untraditional ceremony, in fact," said Vince.

"Pff. You guys are no fun. Personally, I'd love to get them apart. Dig into their little brains on this 'special day'," Ronin said, and you could imagine his pouting lips at the end.

Then came his voice––clear and deep, like low pipe organs echoing in an empty church.

"Why do you bother yourself with listening to them?" Valentin asked.

You turned around from the wall, facing V, who was looking at himself in a large, floor-length mirror. His suit, like everything else about him, was well-manicured and fit precisely for him. The black of his coat was a rich shade and accentuated his waist and shoulders, while his trousers fit perfectly around his hips, and cut off just above his ankles. Just over his shoulder you could spy his face in the mirror, and the way he fixed his bowtie with long, nimble fingers.

"I'm curious," you said. "Ronin seems to be rather critical of the whole ordeal."

"He would be," V growled. 

He pulled one end of the bow too tight, and set the whole thing off balance. He groaned, arms falling to his sides in a show of exasperation.

"Let me help," you said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He turned round and his expression softened, a quiet smile appearing as he warmed himself on your glowing face. You smiled in return and set to work correcting his tie.

"It's very nice of you to let everyone attend," you said.

"I didn't let them. They all invited themselves."

"Well, you allowed it to happen anyway," you chuckled.

"I cannot believe that... abomination walking in human skin is going to be the best man for my wedding," V seethed. "Not to say he will be in the same area as you. I loathe the mere idea. If my wish were truth the two of you would never meet."

"If that were so, I wouldn't meet you either," you pointed out. "And besides, Ronin is the closest thing you have to a friend."

"Ronin is a criminal and a pollution upon the earth. To consider him a friend is to consider my life a failure."

You couldn't help but laugh.

"I wouldn't worry about it. I said he's the closest thing you have to a friend, not that he is your friend," you said.

"Regardless, it isn't an accurate statement. You should know better. You are my friend. My... 'best friend', as they say," he said softly.

You smiled up at him, finished with fixing his bowtie.

"You're my best friend, too," you said.

Even now on the verge of a marital ceremony, he blushed at your words, his face blooming into a warm colour.

"I am pleased we can agree on that," he said with a smile.

The final touches of Valentin's outfit were ones you insisted on. He had, at first, assented to them, but upon realizing that Ronin would be attending, quickly rescinded his agreement. It had taken a lot of convincing to get him to accept once more.

He sat, facing you, as you placed flowers along his braids, tucking the stems in so only the petals showed. Atop his head you styled a garden, filled with rosebuds and blooming white daisies. Rows of white, gold, and crimson.

When you finished, he looked properly fantastical––as though he had stepped out of a dream, glowing in the rays of sunlight stretching through the dusty windows. He spun in front of the mirror, checking each piece of his suit, flattening his lapels before puffing out his chest. As traditional as his outfit was compared to yours, you couldn't help but stare enamoured at him.

He turned to you with a smile, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

"Are you ready, my love?" He asked, tilting his head toward you.

"Ready as ever," you breathed out, grinning.

"Very well. Luca will come for you when we are ready. I shall go now, and... see to things. Try not to listen into our conversations, alright?"

You chuckled and nodded.

"I'll do my best," you said. 

The door hinges creaked and the wood groaned as he opened and shut the door behind him. The silence he left you in was near deafening. 

When you were young, you had imagined your wedding and who your partner would be. Out of all the different variations your mind had supplied you with, you had never pictured getting married to a vigilante serial killer in an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods. You supposed life was funny like that. Still, you wouldn't want it any other way; your marriage would be as strange as you were, so you considered it a fitting end.

A few minutes later, Luca knocked at the door, and with your permission locked arms with you.

"Ready for your big day?" He asked, wiggling his brows.

"I'm dressed, aren't I?" You chuckled.

"Yeah. You look great, by the way. Can't believe you're getting married before me and Felicie," he said.

"You did say you wanted to take things slowly," you pointed out.

"Yeah, but not so slow that you and V, who got together after us, may I point out, would get married before us," he joked.

"Such is life, my friend," you laughed. "Now are you going to walk me down the aisle or not?"

"Of course. Jus' had to get a few of my thoughts in first."

"Of course."

You smiled and the door opened, revealing the green meadow just beyond the cabin, where all your friends stood in waiting. At the end, beneath an archway entwined with vines and flowers, stood Valentin in his suit, his hands folded in front of him and a soft smile beaming in his eyes. Standing at his side was Ronin, smug as ever in fitting attire. Angel, Felicie, and Misaki, the maids of honor (and wrath, as Misaki requested they be referred as) stood on the other side of the arch. In the center was Vince––still hiding his identity behind a mask.

Angel pulled out her phone, tapped it a few times, and music began to play. Some quiet piano piece. Something V had likely picked out. Luca took you down the faux aisle of flowers, and upon delivering you to the altar, took his place standing beside Ronin.

You stared up at Valentin, heart pounding, and took his hands. For a moment the world seemed to fade into the early sunset, veins of gold and red speckled through the forest leaves like freckles on his face.

"Dearly beloved friends," Vince began, his voice uncharacteristically deep and rough for the speech, "we are gathered here, for the first time, to celebrate the union of two of our... slaughterhouse losers. It is a joyous occasion and I am honoured to be officiating. While this may, in some way, be a marriage of convenience, we have all watched the love grow between V and (Y/N) over the last few months. I am sure they will have many happy, bloody days ahead of them."

Valentin pursed his lips in irritation, but said nothing. You giggled.

"Now we will listen to their vows, which I know will be as titillating as they are romantic. You may proceed."

V sighed roughly, straightening his jacket subtly.

"I do not wish to speak my vows aloud in front of the present company. However... in the interest of ceremony..." he groaned, pursing his lips again, "... I will say... something."

You gave a small nod, gently urging him on.

"... I... love you, (Y/N)," he said as though it was painful. 

Behind him, Ronin was positively beaming.

"This, to me, is no marriage of convenience. I fully intend on pledging my life and soul to you." He paused. "That is all."

Quiet giggles sounded from behind you.

"Ever the romantic," you said, earning only more laughter from your friends. "Indeed, we are surrounded by people whose names we do not fully know. Who do not know our names, either. And, indeed, this ceremony was hurried. For that we have the police and their idiotic search to thank. But... it is brought forth by your kindness, V. You spared the server––people you claimed to hate––and sacrificed yourself to this. I hope that my presence with you as you go into hiding is solace––some consolation in return for your act of selflessness. Each day in your presence is a gift. I look forward to our many years together as I do each second that I am able to stand with you, in peace, content to know the sensation of true love. That is to say... I pledge my life and soul to you, too."

In the presence of the server members, V kept his composure quite well––but the shine in his eyes, apparent only to you, gave away the loving turmoil within. He slipped a pale golden ring over your finger––you settled a diamond-embedded ring over his. You barely processed Vince's final words before the two of you came together, soft touch upon softer lips, spirit intermingling with body as you kissed. He pulled you in, passion brimming at his fingertips but never released. You kissed and pulled away, and stared into one another. Therein was your home.

A crackling gunshot bolted through the air and you jumped, hand whizzing up to grip V's upper arm.

"What the fuck?!" Misaki yelped.

"Ronin!" Angel yelled, fists at her side.

"What?" He said, still holding a smoking gun pointed towards the sky. "'S a shotgun wedding, ain't it?"

"Technically speaking, a shotgun wedding occurs when the bride is pregnant before marriage, and the bride's father threatens the groom with a gun to marry the pregnant daughter," Vince said.

Ronin shrugged.

"Close enough," he said.

"Not close enough," Angel said, storming over and yanking the gun out of his hand. "Don't pull any more bullshit or I'll shoot you in the foot."

"Pff. I don't have anything else planned. Besides, I think it made the day more... special," he said, smiling at you.

V held you tighter.

"The sun has almost set. Now is the time to throw your bouquet," Vince said.

"Oh, right," you mumbled.

You turned, taking the bouquet of flowers from Angel. It was a smattering of wildflowers and exotic flowers V grew in his bunker, creating a palette of dark green leaves and pale purple, white, and blue petals.

Misaki, Angel, and Felicie excitedly gathered behind you. 

"Ready?" You asked, grinning all the while.

"We are ready!" Felicie said.

With that you threw the bundle of flowers behind you, squeezing your eyes shut in hopes of a more blind throw. A few gasps sounded around you. When you opened your eyes, you found the bouquet stuck in the branches above you. Your eyes widened. Then, with a gentle breeze, the branches stirred and dropped the bouquet. It fell through the air and landed directly on Luca's face, falling into his arms as he spluttered from the pine needles and leaves.

Silence settled over the entire gathering for several seconds before everyone devolved into laughter, Ronin's cackling sounding about it all.

"Oh my God," Luca said, spitting out the last pine needle. 

"Ha!" You laughed, "looks like you'll be getting married after all, Luca."

"No," he said, "looks like Felicie will be getting married."

With a dramatic swoop of his arms, he knelt down in front of Felicie, and with faux tears in his eyes offered the bouquet to her.

"For you, my dearest beloved," he said, clutching his heart.

"I hate you," Felicie said in a pained voice.

"You love me."

"You wish."

You watched them bicker with much delight, returning to lean against Valentin's sturdy frame. His arm wrapped around and settled his hand on your waist–-a comforting warmth in the cool of the coming evening.

The rest of the evening was spent around a fire eating less than lavish food, the former courtesy of Ronin and V's teamwork, and the latter supplied by Misaki and Angel. You considered going to a restaurant for the last time before going into hiding, but all of you together was a mite suspicious, especially considering Vince's reluctance in taking off his mask. V mostly kept quiet and stayed dutifully at your side, socializing little and eating even less. At times a snide remark would slip out of his lips and delight the surrounding company. Such moments were especially entertaining for Ronin, who took a special joy in teasing V. Otherwise, you enjoyed your last day of socialization, imprinting each moment into your memory for safekeeping. It was likely the last time all of you would gather together.

In the end, they all parted in separate directions. Only when the last of them had gone did V deem it safe to return home, carrying you bridal style to his car. The drive was short enough, and he decided to carry you further into your now-shared home, only setting you down when he reached the couch. He quietly locked the door before returning to you.

Some of the flowers had fallen out of his hair, but the majority of them remained, partly wilted but still bright in colour. For a little while the two of you sat in silence staring at each other.

Then he broke the spell, gaze falling to his lap as he spoke.

"I, um... I did prepare my true vows. I just... did not wish to speak them in the company of serial killers," he said quietly.

"I understand," you chuckled. "You want to say them now?"

"If you are not too tired, I would like to, yes," he said.

You nodded. He gave a curt nod in return, and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket. His eyes flickered from the paper to you, and he cleared his throat, nerves ringing in the silence.

He began.

"My dearest love... there are a great many evils in this world. Each person one meets carries this within them––the mark of failed morality, and we are, each of us, in some way tainted by our decisions. Long ago I lost hope for humanity. We are an animal species, untamed by our supposed society. Feral despite our religion, our understanding; and our connection to both divinity and impiety, our free will to choose, has proven without fail that given the opportunity, humans will choose to fall. Why this is I cannot say. It is only what I know to be true." 

He paused, glancing up to make sure you were still paying attention. 

You were. He continued. 

"Just as all creatures do, you, too, have faced such decisions; the choice between goodness and cruelty, oppression and kindness. Just as all creatures have, you have experienced cruelty against you––injustice and wickedness from the blackened hearts of humanity. It is all too easy to mirror such actions when they are done unto you. Yet despite that you have chosen kindness, even when it is more facile to turn to brutality. Trust when it is more comfortable to doubt. And... love, when it is easier to abandon."

He reached out, fingers barely touching your hand. You reached the rest of the way and held his hand in yours. He swallowed thickly.

"It is an odd phrase to thank you for loving me. Still, it feels appropriate. I am not an easy man to love. I scantly admit it but I am, indeed, a killer––even with my just reasonings and my logic, I have committed myself to a lifestyle that has marked me both an outcast and a criminal to common society. I long ago gave up the ideal of having a beloved. Such is the cost of justice." He set the paper down and looked you in the eyes, taking your other hand in his. "You are my revelation. My salvation. You are some divine gift, some salve to my poisoned way whose justice comes at the price of my life. But no longer. You are my life, now. Above all it is my duty to protect you. As the ribcage protects the heart, I will shelter you from harm. As compassion safeguards life, so shall I keep you. A beacon of hope. Hope that... perhaps... humanity is salvageable. That my bitter contempt was wrong. It is my wish thusly to be with you, as long as you will have me, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death do us part––till we meet again in our next life, to love one another once more."

You could barely breathe. As you expected, his vows were long, the words meandering. He often spoke like that when it met his fancy. But the sincerity behind it, coupled with the shining, stray tears brimming his eyes––it broke you down into your purest parts, shattered about the floor till only the glowing soul remained seated in his hands.

You wrapped him in your arms and did not let go.

[therightrighthand]

Fae Hive - Court of the Laughing King

Following from my previous Fae-Hive piece I thought I'd give it another swing and really lean into it.

~Court of the Laughing King~ In the lowest depths of the under-dark, in a chasm known as Light's Grave, a fowl spawn from the Shadowfell dwells in the darkness, The Laughing King. A giant who cackles and laughs at kingdoms above as he amasses his vast Hive army to one day consume the world for little more than the novelty of war. Guided by his two generals, Vestige, the first blade (kight on the right), and Thorn, the second blade (Knight on the left), to lead his armies, and Maar (Witch in the middle) to spawn his monsters, the Laughing kings steal away whatever poor adventuring party who feel brave enough to wander deep enough where alight goes to die. 

-- Find my discord and other sites: linktr.ee/The_red_right_hand Do not use, repost or claim (rp) my art/character  Art © The-Red-Right-Hand

[sofoulandfairaday]

i can't decide which i like more:

the idea - very much canonical and in the author's original concept and view of magic - of the dark arts taking a toll on one's exterior and looks. tom riddle sacrificing his beauty willingly in the name of eternal life, black magic as something that innately corrupts. bellatrix escaping from azkaban with the barest vestiges of her ancient beauty. going from one of the most beautiful women in england to a shell of her former self and no amount of dark magic being able to fix it. and she just. doesn't care. goes from pretty, proud and vain in her youth, to the feverish, fanatical glow harry sees in the department if mysteries. finally she sheds the petal of the rose - look like the innocent flower, her master had once said - and only the thorns remain. the parallel with voldemort himself. the idea that they like each other better now, the only ones to like their respective new appearances better. bellatrix because she can taste the power radiating off him, because she knows how resentful he was of his old face. (oh, he's never said anything explicitly, he would rather be flayed alive than speak of his filthy muggle father to her, but she knew he didn't like himself, took no pride in his aesthetics, it was most unusual, really.) the dark lord because he's reminded of her sacrifice - she was the only one who didn't denounce him, who tried to find him - every time he looks at her. she gave up everything for him: her reputation, her family, her freedom, her health, her beauty, her youth.

or.

the horcruxes are an isolated case. not all prices to pay for power are physical. some dark magic sucks at your humanity, your emotional regulation, your empathy and gives back superficial little gifts. its roots are far from the deep anger, desperation to cling to life of an horcrux. these are ancient witches' remedies to be the most envied in the village. the idea that rotten cores hide behind the prettiest faces. and bellatrix was always vain, always took immense pride in her beauty, her black, pure features. when she escapes from azkaban she tries everything in her power to be herself once again. she still drips with obsession but gradually regains all of her beauty too. cruel people can still be beautiful. gorgeous people can still be inhuman. and yet there is something so human about a woman making her way through the ranks of a very militarised group and still caring so much about what she looks like, still having insecurities, being preoccupied with mundane things like age and decay - and hating it because he would hate it, he hates weakness, and still not being able to help herself. the dark lord was always a collector of shiny things, was he not?

[itsmaferart]

My possible END of Spy x family. Part 1

In the past I've already talked a bit about what I think the possible enemies of Spy x Family could look like, however, I haven't talked about the possible resolution of the characters, and that's where I see several scenarios.

For starters, let's start with the WISE conflict and the war. I've always believed that agencies can have parallels to their respective agents peace and war. And, like many, I think the best case scenario is that Yor and Loid can retire from their jobs or perhaps take positions where they are less at risk. I sincerely believe that Endo will not give us a rosy ending in which peace is achieved indefinitely and all vestiges of war are eliminated. In fact, a constant message in SxF is that peace can only be achieved through hard work and effort to try to understand each other, just like Loid who constantly struggles to understand his daughter, in the end he knows that although Anya and he are totally different, he always knows that with a little effort both can understand each other.

Both WISE and Garden pretend to be fighting against war and protecting their respective countries. But the truth is that both organizations are trapped in this endless circle of violence, and without realizing it, they continue to promote it. Twilight himself knows that the peace they have is illusory and ephemeral, just as the lies between the Forgers maintains the bond.

Which, is a parallel to the Forger Family:

What keeps the peace in Forger family together is the lies, the marriage agreement, is what keeps the peace in the home because it was 'convenient' for both sides, a woman from Ostania and a Man from Westalis. While both hide under the table all the violence in their lives.

Yes, Thorn Princess and Twilight fight to keep the peace, and avoid war to maintain a fragile peace. Sacrificing their entire lives and yet they have not been able to avoid it. Anya is a reflection of how vulnerable peace built on lies is. Anya is vulnerable as a child, and has been the byproduct of an experiment, and the lies are what allow her fake family to stay together and not be abandoned. While generations like Yuri a government agent, university terrorists whose heads are filled with garbage and hate speech; or Anya who was an experiment, or the children of Eden who are exposed to kidnappings and terrorism. As long as the lies continue the violence will continue.

That is why, even if Westalis and Ostania sign a peace treaty, but underneath it, hatred, lies and personal ambitions continue. Things will remain the same and there will always be the possibility of a war again. Just as the Forger family is fragile to disintegration as long as they are hiding their identities.

With this in mind, I see it possible that in a scenario where eventually one of the outcomes is that both WISE and Garden will have to disappear and, perhaps, transform into other types of organizations. I am not suggesting that they necessarily go public, but that the way they operate is different from what has been established. In that way, both countries must work in a different way than they have been doing if they really want to achieve something resembling peace..

Destroy all the lies and start from scratch, just as the Forger family will eventually have to do.

This opens up several scenarios:

If WISE is to disappear or become another type of pro-peace organization, this may begin a process of reintegration of the agents, in which case, Twilight will have to decide whether to remain an agent or decide to retire. Which leads to two options, Twilight decides to join, but under a less risky job.

In this case, Twilight decides to retire from WISE and start a new life with his family. And while I think it is unlikely that this will happen easily given the state of WISE and its agents. What I assume, is that agencies like WISE may end up changing or restructuring, and this allows Twilight to leave.

Another possible idea for Twilight to leave is that he suffers a significant loss. A slightly old theory is that Twilight may come to suffer from the loss of his left eye, due to Edo's constant referrals, as he twice came close to losing it. This could cause WISE to decide that he is no longer a fit agent for the field.

Another possible route would be for Twilight to decide to remain with WISE but in a different role:

In this scenario I would like to think about Sylvia's possible fates. One in which Sylvia is the one who wants to retire and be able to spend the rest of her life resting because she got tired of taking care of the faces of so many dumb rookies and wants to spend the rest of her time with her good friend Aaron.

Another idea is that Sylvia occupies one of the higher positions and is promoted, and Twilight is her successor, being the one who has the role of the Handler.

In both cases, Twilight would leave the field, and since he already has experience training disciples like Nightfall. Twilight takes less physical risk and can use all that experience to train better agents who work in peace.

And now that I mention Nightfall I think an interesting ending would be that whether or not Twilight decides to continue being a peace agent, it would be Nightfall who succeeds his position as the best agent.I feel that would be a good developmental ending. I know that at the current point, Nightfall is someone who acts unable to let go of her love for Twilight, however, she is also the person who most understands that Twilight is very much in love with his family.

Considering that Endo has made reference to Nightfall admiring Twilight's dream of fighting for peace and wishing to obtain it for himself. It would be interesting, if at the end her master can talk to her and tell her how proud he is of her and her effort, and that he hopes she will take better care of herself.

I think it would be a bittersweet ending of Nightfall accepting that her mentor loves his family, while she follows that promise of love by fighting for peace.

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 15: Replacement

emet-selch thinks too much. emet-selch POV, background azem/lahabrea & wol/thancred mentions. set during shadowbringers, mild spoilers for endwalker + pandaemonium. written for ffxivwrite2024. free day - prompt chosen by random word generator. rated: general 973 words ao3 link

The woman with the dark hair strides at the head of her little group of oddities, moving quickly with purpose and determination.

Perhaps that is finally something they have in common, Iphigeneia and her, some distant spark igniting at last. She has been pushed to her limits on the Source before, but nothing quite like this. Nothing quite so raw. She is doing well for harbouring all that Light within her, barely a trace of it exposed on the outside. Inside, however…

Her aether is blinding. Like an expanding sun in the final stages of life, burning through the last vestiges of its energy. No matter how powerful they are, suns fail. Stars die. They will be gone, but their light can be seen for countless epochs afterwards.

Emet-Selch scowls and sits on a trifling rock, watching the scene play out below. Where are they headed now? And is it of their own volition, or did that clumsy, crystalizing meddler in his troublesome tower send them off to the Greatwood? Two Lightwardens slain makes Rak’tika the obvious next choice. Close at hand, and a friend and ally has inserted herself with the locals.

It is painful, watching the way she cooperates with these fools. Blind, fumbling, out of their depths. The twins, heirs of that blasted self-sacrificing Elezen whose misplaced faith foiled the grand Garlean scheme and set their progress back by another cycle. One has little patience and a biting tongue, the other allows his kindness to be easily manipulated. Regardless, they both wear their hearts on their sleeves. Is their youth to blame for their lack of subtlety? Or because they are Sundered?

The astrologian who speaks in a tongue that cropped up several centuries past, that disappeared as quickly and quietly as it came. No one could tolerate it then, and most cannot tolerate it now. So why speak it at all? To make a statement? Perhaps his only companions in his youth were books written by ancient scholars smarter than he.

The girl with the golden hair, this world’s Oracle of Light, her stagnant, blank, all-consuming eyes a horrifically familiar shade of blue. A connection present, even though Hydaelyn has long since gone silent. How torturous for the girl, to be left unanchored, confused about her place in the world, unfamiliar with her abilities, and drowning in a legacy she never asked to inherit. How very like Venat to leave those she favours to blunder about, asking questions that will never be answered until they pass some ludicrous test and prove their worth.  

The rogue-turned-gunbreaker, an irritating thorn of a man, who spends far too much of his time squabbling with those he calls friends. Quarreling with her, in that pointed, exhausted way of someone at the end of their rope. Always dancing on the edge of something, as if one move in the wrong direction will push him off the edge. Yet he cares for her, that much is clear—love is written on his face in that sickeningly obvious way, even if he chooses not to act on it. How the others can stand their bickering, he doesn’t know. Difficult to believe that this was the man Lahabrea chose to possess all those years ago in his grand scheme to supplant their middling little organization.

Perhaps he chose well. Lahabrea was always the most foolish and reckless of them all. And perhaps—though there wasn’t much left of him by then—he exploited a connection that would bring him closer to his lover from eons past.

His lip curls. Twelve thousand years is not long enough to rid the foul taste from his mouth at the news of that particular perplexing union, but as Hythlodaeus was always fond of reminding him, his sister was a firebrand. She cared as much for the opinion of others as she did for the rules. She walked a delicate line, respecting tradition while flaunting convention, and somehow always being the exception. As painful as it was to observe, he had nothing but admiration for her. Some called her mischievous, but he always found that implied a lack of intellect—and Iphigeneia was the cleverest of them all.

The last Azem. And she was not like any of the others who came before her.

The anger stirs, numb and cold and stretched thin. Grief, he has come to learn, is hell. Twelve thousand years of it even moreso. He would have willingly traded places with her, had he the chance. She should have lived, not him. Just as Hythlodaeus should have lived. Perhaps they would not be in this miserable state had his family not been torn asunder.

Where did she go in those last days? How did she spend her time, in the waning hours before Zodiark was struck and their world split by Hydaelyn’s blow? He has often wondered. She had already spurned the Convocation and her erstwhile mentor both, striking out on her own. There were several places she could have gone and he searched them all. But she simply… vanished, Erichthonios and Pyrrha alongside her.

Perhaps she knew what was coming, and intended to protect her children.

Perhaps she did not, and sought another path.

But he will never know. Whatever plan she had failed—the proof of it is before his eyes. Geneia is long gone, and this shade of her exists in her place. This poor, broken woman, a mage with the fraction of her power, her flame a cold, dead star compared to Geneia’s sun. She could never be a replacement for his sister. She does not have the capacity.

Below, the group moves on, chattering aimlessly as they pass beneath Lakeland’s vibrant trees. With a grimace, Emet-Selch rises to his feet and lets them go. He has had too much introspection for one day.  

[thewisecheerio]

Elden Ring and Colorism

I'm obsessed with the way Elden Ring handles hierarchy in the context of discrimination. It could have been a completely un-nuanced story of "purity/humanoid" vs "mixed/crucible" racism, where the former race holds their power over the latter. But no, they were careful to remind us that prejudice comes in many flavors. Even among the crucible-aligned Hornsent, colorism exists.

This is going to be an essay on why Romina, Saint of the Bud, might be the most radical reformist in all of the DLC.

For a similar post on why Miriel, Pastor of Vows serves this same purpose in the base game, see here:

The Crucible Feather Talisman tells us that Crucible races are one of the older races we meet in the game, and that their animal-like features used to be a symbol of the divine before oppression by the Golden Order:

...A vestige of the crucible of primordial life. Born partially of devolution, it was considered a signifier of the divine in ancient times, but is now increasingly disdained as an impurity as civilization has advanced.

We know from the varied appearances of crucible features—wings, tails, horns, blooms, breath, thorns—that the mixed race appearance of Crucible-aligned peoples comes in many forms.

We also know that the Hornsent revered the idea of mixed beings so much that they went to the trouble to try to force these properties onto people. We learn in Bonny Village from the Tooth Whip description that Shaman were particularly desirable because their flesh could facilitate melding when mixed with others inside of a jar:

...The flesh of shamans was said to meld harmoniously with others.

Additionally, we know that this process was considered "saintly", as various spirit NPCs (e.g. the ones in Belurat Gaol and Bonny Village) tell us that this is the purpose of the ritual. So does the Innard Meat description:

...This is what becomes of the condemned, who get sliced up and stuffed into jars to become saints instead.

At first glance, you might think this would lead to a society fundamentally different from the hierarchical Golden Order and its need to oppress those they deem racially "impure". Wouldn't you expect a society predicated on varied racial forms, built around a religious belief that the melding of flesh is saintly, and later discriminated against for being "impure" to have rejected the notion of racial impurity altogether?

However, we get at least two examples where the Hornsent seem to contradict this. First, the fly people don't seem to be high on the list of desirables, even though fly body parts are just as much animal characteristics as wings or horns. Zullie the Witch has a good video on this:

Second, we know that the Hornsent considered the horned Lamenters to be an undesirable expression of the Crucible, as the Lamenter's Mask reads as follows:

A stone mask twisted into an expression of rapturous grief. Use while disrobed to transform into a lamenter....This transformation tallies with the state of a denizen of paradise, but the people of the tower denied and hid it from the world. In their foolishness, they viewed true bliss with deep fear.

So what gives? Why is this society obsessed with mixing still somehow perpetuating the idea of a racial hierarchy?

This isn't as contradictory as it seems. This is something that happens in real life, and it's called colorism. While racism deals with the social hierarchy exclusively between races, colorism also includes discrimination even within a single racial category. It is focused on the differing effects that people can experience based on the nuances of their exact appearance.

So for example, there are often differences in how darker-skinned Black folks are treated in the US versus lighter-skinned Black folks. This harkens all the way back to the slave era, in which lighter-skinned Black slaves could work in the plantation house, while darker-skinned slaves were relegated to field work. This has, in some cases, perpetuated the biases of the white ruling class onto intra-community relations, as in the early post-slave era, many darker-skinned Black folks saw their lighter-skinned contemporaries as privileged or sometimes even "tainted" by white influence due to differences in how they had been treated. But the root of both white slave owner's racism and intra-community tension was the same: whiteness held above all else as the ideal.

This color discrimination persists even to this day, in which darker-skinned folk in media are often portrayed as more violent and more undesirable than lighter-skinned folk even of the same race. It's also why mixed-race folk can have such a hard time, being perceived as "too white" to have the "true" Black experience while being perceived as "too Black" to receive the privileges of being white.

As a result, color discrimination in the US cannot be modeled with racism alone, as the exact appearance of someone's skin can lead to varying experiences with discrimination. Assumed race is not the same as skin color, just as how being racially Hornsent is not enough for the fly people or Lamenters to be considered divine like other Crucible peoples. Their exact presentation matters to how they are perceived even within their own society.

And it points to the same solution for Elden Ring's ills as in our world. Ultimately, solving the problem involves rejecting the notion of a bioessential hierarchy altogether. It's the essential valuation of whiteness in our world that causes *both* racism *and* colorism; it's the rejection of whiteness as the ideal that can solve both. And we see the same kind of pattern repeated in Elden Ring's colorism, in which it is the essential idea that there are "pure" and "impure" forms of the body that is at fault for both the Golden Order's racism and the Hornsent's colorism; it is the rejection of "impure life" entirely that solves both.

And that's why Romina, Saint of the Bud is the true radical reformist of Elden Ring's DLC, embracing even the rotting, rejected forms of life. The Rotten Butterflies incantation reads:

The scarlet butterflies are as the Goddess of Rot's wings. Bereft of a master, they were soothed by Romina, who reached out to them.

Of all of the characters we meet in the DLC, she is one of the few modeling radical acceptance even of the "impure", rejecting the notion of bioessential impurity entirely.

Romina, Saint of the Bud by X37TC https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Ny1ABq

[wxnheart]

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐎𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐨𝐝 (???!!!) 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫

You may be asking yourself how Morgott got here, and the answer is, uh... there is no answer.

Morgott is convinced that Fate will never let him have a break and experience normalcy. If he isn't beset by the greed of his wayward family, it's the greed of those damned Tarnished and their ineffective weapons. And if it isn't those damn Tarnished, it's his... consort.

His consort who has made his lap their resting place. His consort who... well... he can't describe it. He can't describe anything really, because Fate wouldn't even let him have a normal courtship. By the Erdtree, HE was the one being courted. Not the other way around. Their initial relationship went a little something like this:

When Morgott first met his spouse, he was convinced they were a fallen God, something that managed to elude Radahn's mastery over the stars. Or perhaps a vestige of his mother's warring years.

And of course, his consort wouldn't say. They were too busy staring at Morgott with wide, luminous eyes. Or something like that.

Morgott was too busy being his judgemental self as usual because why do their eyes look like a Full Moon?

He later found out that his otherworldly lover's eyes reflected the phases of the moon, which was actually fueled by their emotions. For example, when they were excited, their eyes were luminous like the Full Moon. When they were angry or saddened, their eyes were similar to the New Moon. Interesting.

The stranger was instantly taken by him, if only because he was unlike anything they'd ever seen. Morgott was not amused. Actually, he was really taken aback.

And soon, they, like the Tarnished and Godrick's maniacal laughter, became a thorn in his side. One that wouldn't really go away. Not that he really wants them to.

Morgott was inundated with questions about his origins and the Lands Between.

His horns and tail were of special interest and yes, he had to keep it lifted up more often than not because they would. not. stop. rubbing it. It felt good, yes, but he would rather be cast aside yet again that admit that.

They practically turned his silent, lonesome days upside down. They even asked questions while he was doing work. As in looking at actual paperwork. Of course, this is when he realized that their hair was like the cosmos, deep and dark and... are those stars?!

Of course, Morgott became used to their presence over time and became very intrigued by his now-consort's physical appearance. ("Thou'rt certain thy origins aren't... cosmic?" "...No more certain than you are. ❤️" "...That is not an answer.")

And then they dropped the bombshell of all bombshells: "I want to court you." ("What?" "I want to court you, Morgott." "Cease such nonsense." "It's a date then! 🌟" "....")

It wasn't even a true courtship. It was really just his... now-lover (?!!?!?!?) presenting him with a wedding band in the shape of... were those stars?!

So yes, Morgott is now married. Yes, he said yes. No, he doesn't care to elaborate. Yes, his consort is... different. But so was he. And they showed him the beauty of that every day.

And so if he had to choose between dealing with a foul Tarnished and their puny weapon, his wayward family, or his insanely curious spouse, he'd choose them every time...

[vestige-nan]

The Thorn in my Side, the Pebble in my Shoe: Ch 9

Summary: The main quest line in Mannimarco’s perspective, except that he falls chaotically in love with the vestige just as much as he chaotically hates them.

Fun stuff: Small violent imagery warning, it gets a little gory in Manni’s head.  As always, vestige is gender neutral and physical features are not described.

One of the many benefits of lichdom included sleep, at least not in access, was not a necessity for me. Though even when I was alive, I had cast a spell here and there to bend my physical limitations and wave off timewasting slumber. That fool, Trechtus, worried that the prolonged sleep deprivation—even by magical means—might have a negative effect on my psyche. But there was always so much work to be done, experiments to perform, ancient lore to study, unsuspecting victims to murder and then raise.

However, this didn't mean I couldn't sleep. Just that I didn't need to often and for much less time than a lowly mortal. But while sleep was more of a recreational pastime, dreams very rarely came to me. This, I assumed, had less to do with my status as a lich and more to do with Vaermina not wishing to catch the attention of Molag Bal.

As such, my confusion was appropriate when I woke up with a start from my dream. Details didn't slip from my mind, nor did I scramble to rack my brain for specificities. I remembered it wholly, vividly, and its' palpability sent chills dancing down my spine as I sat in my bed.

I sat on the throne in an empty hall of cold harbor. Only one other living being (if you could call them living) was in the hall with me. The vestige, flush with exhaustion and trepidation, gripped their weapon with spent desperation, their breath heavy and their legs trembling. Bones, rotten flesh, and all manner of decay littered the floor around them. I didn't carry the same exhaustion as they had. If anything, I was more bored than spent as I crossed my legs.

"Do you surrender?" I asked, inspecting my nails with passing disinterest.

The vestige swallowed and attempted to slow their breathing. I could see how their eyes wavered with uncertainty. They had resisted so fiercely before, but now, surrounded by fallen enemies and not having landed a single scratch on me, I could tell they were no longer so sure.

However, no answer was not good enough for me. I wanted an admission of defeat.

"Very well," I yawned with a flick of my wrist, and in a black swirl of flesh and bone from the vestige's fallen enemies, a great flesh atronach crawled from the remains and the mort. It let out a horrifying roar, its' whole face unhinging to bellow, and—as if they could take no more—the vestige collapsed to their knees, their weapon dropping beside them and the hands falling to the rot beneath them.

"I surrender!" Their voice was hoarse with exhaustion and stretched with desperation. They kept their head lowered, as if they couldn't bear to look me in the eyes as they succumbed to my power. "I surrender..."

A thrill of pleasure traveled my veins like lightning. What lovely words that would sound even better in a tortured chorus of agony.

I waved my hand and—to my delight—the vestige flinched when the atronach collapsed into blood, bones, and death. The vestige's breath left their quivering lips in relief, but the tension remained in their shoulders as I uncrossed my legs and stood. Step by step, I descended my throne, treading unconcerned through the carnage. When I reached the vestige, their form trembling in anxious anticipation, I circled their kneeling form as I inspected them. Their eyes unable to meet mine, the sweat of exertion trailing down their neck, their chest rising and falling in steady acceleration under my scrutiny.

To have the object of my ire in front of me so was sweeter than moonsugar and more intoxicating than skooma.

As I rounded about them, I straightened my back in a poise to feign indifference, "Again."

The vestige stuttered only for a moment, "I surrender."

"Again."

"I surrender!" Their desperation seeped into their voice.

I inspected my nails, "To whom?"

"To you! I surrender—" The vestige inhaled sharply, finally gaining the courage to meet my eyes, and I was filled with a familiar hunger to bask in that gaze. "Please, King of Worms, have mercy—!"

I couldn't help but laugh, "You level my armies, steal my chancellor, attempt to foil my plans, and you have the audacity to beg my mercy?"

The vestige opened their mouth, as if scouring their mind for an answer to respond, but ultimately could not speak.

"Are you too weak from my risen forces to respond?" I mocked as I knelt to their level. "Pathetic."

The rotten blood and flesh oozed between the vestige's tightened grasp against the floor as they looked away in shame, their brow knotted and their eyes cast down. I couldn't stop myself from grabbing their jaw and pulling their gaze back on me.

"Do not." My voice echoed in the hall, louder than I willed. "Look away from me."

The vestige's eyes flitted through a medley of emotions, each more tantalizing than the last. Visceral fear. Broken will. Reluctant obedience. And somehow, despite the thrill of seeing the vestige defeated and submitted, it was their look of captivation that filled my head with delirium. Eyes so trained on me, mesmerized by my presence—my power, that they couldn't pull away if they wanted. Attention entranced with deep, fervid interest restrained by tentative fear, the vestige was mine.

They were mine, and they did not have the will to oppose that.

What an exciting thought! The vestige, the unabashed nuisance in my machinations; the single obstacle between me and godhood, was mine! Mine to own, mine to maim, mine to torture, mine to kill, mine to resurrect, mine to mold, mine to command, mine to use— They were mine.

I suddenly became very aware of my hand holding their jaw. The warmth of their skin was radiant against my cold, lifeless fingertips. How strange it was that a soulless being could be filled with so much warmth, and that they could smell so sweet in a room full of corpses, and that they could look so tempting after being so irritating.

I loosened my grip to just a few fingers tilting their chin up, and they did not dare turn away from me. I forced my voice to soften, a voice I used often in my calculative manipulations, "I must admit, no being in Tamriel has bested as many of my forces as you have."

Their throat bobbed as they swallowed.

"Nor have any slayed foes as powerful as you have. Are you proud of this?" My eyes twinkled in a patronizing glimmer, "Be honest."

The vestige bit their lower lip, "Yes."

My eyes were drawn to their lips, "You should be. You will make a valuable tool..." My fingers lightly traveled along their neck, gliding to across their collarbone. "After I take you apart and reassemble you."

The vestige was shaking under my touch and I could feel their pulse quicken. I would enjoy draining the blood from their body, slowly, and making them watch as I replaced it with venom... But I enjoyed the warmth I could feel from their blush much more. "I— Please, King of Worms, there... there must be something I can do for your mercy? Anything!"

I laughed again. "I haven't even began your torture and you're already trying to bargain with me? How charmingly naïve..." I grasped their chin once more and they gasped at my abrupt movement. "Don't worry. You will have plenty to do once I am done with you."

With a snap of my fingers with my other hand, chains of magicka snapped around the vestige's wrist. A new and exhilarating panic swept over the vestige as they tried to pull from the chains in vain. The dread in their eyes as they looked at me made me dizzy and I was overwhelmed with the desire hold their heart in my hands; to feel the pulse of their heart quicken between my fingers and to see the horror in the vestige's eyes as I bring it to my lips to take a bite. I wanted to simultaneously hold the vestige so full of life, feeling their warm hand against my cheek and to bathe in their boiling blood, singing as I let their marrow sink into my skin. I wanted to swallow their cries in a kiss and lick the blood from their wounds and I wanted the vestige to love and hate every moment of it.

There would be plenty of time to indulge my madness later.

"Please! King of Worms, you don't have to hurt me! I'll do what you want!" The vestige cried, their voice taut with terror and their hands pulling at the chains.

"Oh, I believe you." I held the vestige's face in my hands and relished the captivation that never left the vestige's gaze. Even in their terror they couldn't resist me. "I want to hurt you."

With the vestige mine and their expression consumed with dread and panic, I pulled their face to me, pressing my cold lips against their warm ones, reveling in the taste of victory and the vestige's tongue. I could feel the vestige heat up beneath my hands, their warm blood a charming tell. I pulled away just as quickly, my smile as bewitching as the chains.

"Do try to last long." I cooed, "I don't want to fix your broken mind more times than I need to."

I downed three stamina potions in succession just to give me the energy to deal with whatever deranged dream Vaermina and Sheogorath must've crafted together as a sick daedric joke (surprisingly less violent than most daedric jokes go).

I leaned against my desk with one hand and rubbed my temple with the other, groaning low and exasperated. It was almost the perfect dream, and I would have even thanked the lesser daedric prince for what I would've assumed would be a glimpse into the future, save for the end.

How insulting! Degrading! To think I would lower myself so—so—low! As to kiss, or even to think about—!

I heard the vestige stir in their sleep through their visage and my head snapped to it. I watched them, holding the breath I don't take, with furious disgust. Then, the end of my dream began replaying in my mind and I could feel my face turning orange at the thought.

"Disgusting!" I said, not to anyone in particularly, but mostly to the vestige. I went to close the visage with a wave of my hand, but stopped when the vestige began to stir again.

Were they having a nightmare? Were they having the same nightmare?

My face burned brighter.

My eyes were melded to the visage as the vestige's brow furrowed and their breath quickened. Something cracked underneath the pressure of my grip but I didn't care enough to notice what it was. The vestige looked troubled by their nightmare, maybe even pained. Would they hate it? Would they be disgusted by it like I was? Would they wake up with fear? Glancing at every shadow with nervousness? What if they woke up flushed and unsure? What if they liked it? What if they sought out the mundus stones—sought out me? They did say I was pretty.

The vestige's lips parted and the ending of my dream replayed and replayed and replayed; the taste of their lips, the trepidation in their eyes, their breath on my skin, their warm blood beneath my cold cold hands.

"Hey, you alright?" Some young breton shook them awake, pulling me from my own personal oblivion. The vestige inhaled softly as they woke, turning to the man, slightly disoriented. "Looked like you were having a nightmare."

I ground my teeth. Did he wake them up before they reached the end of the dream? I couldn't tell if I was relieved or furious.

The vestige groaned, rubbing their neck. "Yeah, I was... It was really weird..."

I furrowed my brow. "Weird"? What did they mean by "weird"? "Weird" as in "I was disturbed by the intimate nature of the dream and I don't want to be tortured" or as in "I was intrigued by the intimate nature of the dream but I don't want to tell this breton that out of bashfulness"?

"I know this is going to sound insane but..." The vestige sat up, stretching, and I was too transfixed with how their bones popped. "There were dragons all over Elsweyr!"

I blanked.

"Dragons?" The breton man laughed, "Come on!"

"No, really!" They asserted, "And one of them was good!"

I waved the visage off, evaporating it from existence. I downed another stamina potion while wishing I had picked up a bottle of sylph-mead somewhere. I didn't care if the vestige was bedding Molag Bal himself, a few days not having to listen to the ramblings of that halfwit vestige would do me well.

In the meantime, sending a legion of undead after Vaermina's cult seemed appropriate.

[jasminewalkerauthor]

Deep dives into folklore: the snow queen

The archetype of the Snow Queen, a majestic and often enigmatic figure associated with winter's icy grip, has traversed the realms of mythology and literature, captivating imaginations and embodying both the beauty and danger of the frozen landscape. This deep dive essay delves into the evolution of Snow Queens, exploring how these mythical beings have evolved from ancient folklore to enduring literary masterpieces.

I. Frozen Vestiges in Mythology:

The roots of the Snow Queen archetype can be traced back to ancient mythology, where winter deities often held both benevolent and fearsome aspects. In Norse mythology, Skadi, the goddess of winter and skiing, exemplifies this duality. With her association with snow-covered mountains and her prowess in hunting, Skadi embodies the harsh beauty of winter landscapes. Similarly, the Russian folklore character of the Frost Maiden or Snegurochka, a daughter of winter, possesses a mix of innocence and peril, symbolizing the transient nature of winter's beauty.

II. Hans Christian Andersen's Frozen Muse:

The transformation of the Snow Queen archetype reached new heights with the 19th-century Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. In his iconic fairy tale "The Snow Queen," Andersen crafted a narrative that blended folklore elements with his own imaginative twists. The Snow Queen in Andersen's tale is an alluring yet distant figure, embodying the frigid isolation of winter. Andersen's Snow Queen represents both the enchanting allure of the frozen landscape and the potential for emotional coldness and distance.

III. Frozen Hearts in Literature:

The Snow Queen archetype continued to evolve in literature, where authors explored the psychological dimensions of the frozen queen. In C.S. Lewis's "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe," the character of the White Witch draws inspiration from the Snow Queen archetype, using her icy powers to create an eternal winter. Lewis imbues the White Witch with a sense of malevolence, emphasizing the corrupting influence of an unrelenting winter on the human spirit.

IV. Disney's Frosty Royalty:

The Snow Queen archetype achieved unprecedented popularity in the 21st century with Disney's animated feature "Frozen." Inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's tale, "Frozen" reimagines the Snow Queen as Elsa, a young woman with the power to control ice and snow. The film explores themes of self-acceptance, love, and the consequences of concealing one's true nature. Elsa becomes a multifaceted character, challenging traditional notions of the Snow Queen as a purely antagonistic figure.

V. Modern Retellings and Empowerment:

Contemporary literature and media have continued to reinterpret the Snow Queen archetype, often subverting traditional narratives. Authors and creators explore the empowering aspects of winter and the complexity of female characters associated with ice and snow. Works such as Sarah J. Maas's "A Court of Thorns and Roses" series and the television series "Once Upon a Time" showcase Snow Queens as resilient and multidimensional figures, breaking free from the one-dimensional portrayals of earlier folklore.

The evolution of Snow Queens in mythology and literature reflects the ever-changing cultural landscape, encompassing themes of beauty, danger, empowerment, and self-discovery. From the ancient myths of winter deities to Hans Christian Andersen's enchanting tales and modern interpretations in literature and film, the Snow Queen archetype has proven its enduring allure. As each iteration brings new dimensions to this frozen enigma, the Snow Queen continues to cast her spell, captivating audiences with the timeless fascination of winter's icy embrace.

[kiliinstinct]

The Forbidden Woods

A Genshin Impact Au Pairing: Aether/Xiao Urban Fantasy and Supernatural Romance Find on A03: [Here] Special Thanks to @genavere: My beta. Unsure how I forgot to update this by two chapters, but expect chapter 5 to also drop soon because I posted 4 over a week ago on a03. Whoops. Chapter 3: / Chapter 5:

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Chapter 4: He Who Lingers

Aether's first conscious thoughts were of a memory. Or something resembling  a memory, old and faded with time.

He had fought with Lumine over some small thing he  didn't recall. Nothing life or death except to a seven year old. They shouted and smacked, tackled each other into the dirt and wrestled through a pile of multi-colored leaves until Lumine called him something that came out as white noise.

It had hurt, whatever the name had been. Nasty and crude, but he couldn’t remember it.

Rather than attack his sister further, he sprang up from their tussle and ran. Fat tears pricking his eyes. He thought he recalled her shouting for him, but chose not to hear it. He rushed to the altar stone, ignored the makeshift chairs they had painstakingly put together and went further still.

He ran and ran, towards the forest line separated by a wooden fence he clambered over with tears obscuring his vision. When he landed on the other side, the world felt as if it had taken a plaintive shift that made Aether dizzy. 

Lumine’s shouting echoed mutely in the distance, and the skies above felt darker, casting everything to purple tones. He rubbed the tears from his eyes and hiccupped, still engulfed in emotion as he processed the world around him.

The woods were quiet; the sounds of his steps echoed as branches snapped beneath his feet. His thoughts of anger and hurt slowly bled away to nervous wonder as his fingers brushed along the leaves of a large fern. He inspected the moss covering the nearby flora, making careful note of the nearby tree covered in large thorns. 

One glance behind him showed the fence still there, paces away, and he nodded. While his heart threatened to beat out of his chest, determination filled him as he took another step, then one more. He shouldn't be here. He knew this, but where else could he go to be alone? Maybe Lumine would feel so bad she'd be in tears once he returned, begging his forgiveness. 

One more step passed those sharp trunks and he sucked in a watery breath, eyes still blurry from his earlier outburst. 

“You shouldn't be here,” A voice, not unlike his own, whispered in his ear and he jumped, a surprised yelp echoed through the quiet wilderness. 

When he tried to run, a hand smaller than his grabbed his wrist, holding it tight. He whirled around to face this stranger with an enraged, terrified shout-

“It's not safe,” the voice urged. 

-Only to meet the gaze of a boy his age, bearing down on him with the brightest, piercing gold eyes he’d ever seen. 

Aether's eyes shot open, the echoes of the dream-like memory fading as fast as they had hit. Bits and pieces of it faded away until all he could remember was the small fight with Lumine, running away and- he let out a pained sigh, feeling a headache behind his eyes. How long had it been since he'd thought about those old fights? Strange how he’d forgotten about them. Groaning, he rolled to the side in his small nest of blankets, gripping his head. 

He felt hungover. And though he hadn’t drank a single alcoholic beverage the night before, it was on the fast track to being the worst he’d ever suffered before. With mouth feeling dry and full of cotton, Aether whined as he shook the last vestiges of the dream off his shoulders, refusing to think on it further. 

Mechanically stretching his body until the sheets exposed his heated skin to the cool air, Aether shuddered and considered balling himself up to sleep a little longer. But another shiver ran down his spine at the thought, fearing more nameless memories coming to haunt him. Instead he reached for his phone to check what little notifications he could see, flinched at the brightness and quickly fought with the phone to lower its settings. After a few failed attempts, he cursed the demon bird for the umpteenth time and attempted to move on to Lumine’s messages. 

Instead, the image gallery from the night before swam into focus, blaring that photo back at him in full brightness. Surprised, the phone slipped from tired fingers and smacked against his face.

“Ow! Son of a-”

Egregious curses filled the house, signaling the official start of his day. 

After what felt like hours, he finally found him with a cup of coffee in hand, bags under his eyes, and a fierce stare at the phone which wounded him.  More specifically, the image that had haunted him since the day before. As much as he wanted to call Lumine, the urge remained paralyzed in the back of his mind, quietly festering as his headache persisted.

Yellow eyes glared at him: narrowed, angry, judging. He sipped his coffee and glared back, as if that alone would solve the mysteries popping up in every corner of his life recently. When nothing obviously happened, he sighed and covered the offended eyes with his finger.

It still didn't make him feel any better hiding them, but it allowed him to try and piece together the rest of the image without being distracted by the intense gaze behind the broken glass.

Squinting, he tried to differentiate between dead pixels and the image. A second later, his cheeks turned red as he realized the man was very naked, legs bent in the perfect position to censor the bits that would have sent Aether into an embarrassed coughing fit. It was odd how long it took him to realize it, as if it took every ounce of focus to translate what his retinas were viewing. 

He could have sworn there were clothes yesterday, but the sight of firm muscles and toned abs said otherwise, leaving Aether to quietly drool from the pixelated visual. The rest of the details were too grainy and glitched, making the man’s skin look off-colored in many places. And was that a tattoo on his shoulder? Not only there but along the hip bones and - He cleared his throat and forced his eyes back up the screen.

Lifting the phone to his face, nose practically pressed against the screen, he tried to visualize what he was missing. The hair was wild, unkempt and uneven, but the teal streaks practically glowed in the sunlight and the eyes-

Crap, when did he stop covering the face? The gaze was back and suddenly he felt exposed, dropping the phone back to the table in discomfort. What was wrong with him?

“It's just a photo,” he muttered in a vain attempt to console himself. “Nothing bad ever happened just looking at a photo. Even if there's a guy looking hotter than-” 

He paused, nose scrunching at his train of thought before quickly squashing it. “Anyway, what I should be focusing on is the fact that there was a guy here and I completely missed it because of a damn bird!”

Yes, that's how he decided to explain it. Obviously, someone was trespassing and he just miraculously hadn't noticed because of a cute bird that he couldn't even see in the image. It made no sense, but the alternative made even less. 

Because, if he didn't tell himself there was a strange hobo living in his backyard, that meant the bird wasn't a bird, and that was insane.

The throbbing in his temple reigned him back in as he slowly sipped his coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. Somehow, he'd forgotten to bring cream and sugar and was suffering the consequences. That, or Paimon had decided to play a prank on him.

Rubbing his eyes, Aether muttered quiet curses beneath his breath, wondering just what he'd done to feel this horrendous. He wasn't getting sick, was he? Vowing to dig through his bags for excedrin later, he turned his attention back to the phone, gnawing on his lip.

He was on the verge of a realization, that he knew. Even from a distance, the eyes were still intense, but the face shape, the wild, silky-looking hair and downturned lips, all of it was familiar. Like an old friend he hadn't seen in years, or an old dream he'd long forgotten. The feeling he knew this person kept his attention drawn to the rectangular surface far longer than he wanted to admit.

“...Who...are you?” The question fell into the air. 

He thought he heard a voice from his dreams calling back to him in answer. It echoed into his mind like a faded, distant memory.

‘It’s not safe. You have to leave.’

Where had he heard that before? 

A feeling of nausea flooded through him like a wave and he covered his mouth. Bile and stomach acid rose into the back of his mouth as he knocked the chair over in his haste to rush to the bathroom, practically choking on his own spit.  

He didn’t notice the gold eyes peering through the hall window, or the rustling of feathers as he ran past. 

Retching and coughing up what little contents he had in his stomach, Aether quivered over the toilet bowl. Thankful he made it in time, shifting to his knees, he rested his head against the outer porcelain. A conscious part of him was disgusted by the action, but his quaking, overheated muscles refused to move an inch. Another wave shot through his body and his eyes watered from the strain. 

He'd have to get more than headache medicine, he realized. When his stomach finally settled, enough time had passed for the sun to shine directly into the nearest window, heating his back as he shivered. 

Slowly, Aether found the strength to open his eyes again and was stunned to realize the migraine had ebbed away. Even the dizziness that had assaulted his senses since he woke was gone. 

Mumbling weakly, he quietly wished he'd let Lumine and Paimon come with him. Being alone in a large, empty house full of dead memories was eating away at him, and the lack of familiar support left him ungrounded. He missed their laughter, his twin's affectionate teasing and stubborn nature as she stayed by his side. Even Paimon's black hole of a stomach as she begged for a third breakfast.

He missed all of it, and the intensity of those feelings, coupled with his present confusion and sickness, broke through his calm exterior, leaving him sobbing on the floor. “...Why did I even come here?” 

Why didn't he let Lumine sign those papers the day they were asked to sell? Why was he adamant in seeing this forsaken place one last time? What could have been so important? Lumine and Paimon were his family, his little sister had never set foot in this place, being born long after they had left. 

Laying there, listless and exhausted, Aether considered returning early, the broken phone and mysterious image be damned. He could ask Draff to collect his new phone and ship it to him. He could arrange a flight and be back with his siblings in a matter of days. 

With those thoughts forming a quick plan in his mind, Aether finally managed to stand, legs wobbly as he balanced by the sink and quickly began to wash his face and teeth. He flushed the toilet–even gave it a quick scrub for good measure, and sighed, staring into the bathroom mirror with an empty gaze.

The nausea was gone, but the dull tremors of his migraine threatened to return. The person looking back at him barely recognizable and pathetic looking. 

Why was he so sick? No one he had met yesterday seemed ill, and nothing he ate seemed bad. “...I'll just ask Draff to drop me off some flu medicine.”

Now that he was thinking clearer, getting a plane ticket while sick was probably not the greatest plan. In fact, he could imagine the lecture Lumine would give him just for attempting it. 

No, as much as he missed his family, it was better to wait it out and leave when he wasn't a possible contagion to those around him. Deciding to fill his stomach with toast in hopes it would stay down, he left the bathroom and steeled himself to suffer through the rest of the day.

Entering the kitchen with weak stumbles, he stopped when he noticed something on the counter that hadn’t been there before.  Standing proud and alone was a blue pill bottle labeled for flu and day time colds.

When did-? 

He looked around for signs of anyone having gone through the house. The bolt was still on the door and the windows were sealed. Once he was satisfied no one else was in the house, Aether approached the counter and examined the bottle.

“...did I just forget I had this?” No, surely that wasn't right, but what other explanation was there? 

Instinct screamed to trust himself. Aether wasn’t crazy. Not for this. And who in their right mind would take suspicious medications they didn’t remember purchasing themselves? Under normal circumstances, he would have thrown the bottle out, but his mind circled back to the photo on his phone and realized he couldn’t call any of this normal. The bird. Draff’s ability to be oblivious to the strange things around them. The supposedly old Zhongli and Venti–the latter whom he’d yet to meet, and the weird sensations he’d had since approaching their home. 

While he would have chalked all this up to a tv show he’d binge watch back with Lumine and Paimon. The reality, however, was much harder to process and Aether struggled to accept the facts: this wasn’t his imagination. No matter the kind of media he’d once consumed, this was real. He wasn’t imagining any of it. That realization would have probably concerned most people, but Aether realized he hadn’t felt unsafe once. Whatever was out in the woods, he was safe, welcome even. A feeling he quietly admitted he hadn’t felt in a long time. Which is the exact thought that led to him popping two of the pills into his mouth and swallowing without another thought.

As he cleared his throat and returned to his coffee, he thought he heard a familiar warble of a bird, but when he turned to the sound, nothing was there. He wiped his mouth and peered out the window a little longer, eyes narrowed in thought. 

Maybe he really was crazy. 

Or…

Setting the thought aside, he returned to his sleep space with coffee in one hand and the phone in the other. The screen was dark, but he knew what would be looking straight at him the moment it lit up once more. That could also wait until later. Instead, he nestled himself in his blankets and waited for the pills to kick in…or worse. 

It would turn out, Aether was lucky. The worst case scenario failed to happen. In fact, the pill’s he’d taken worked better than he thought. When he next woke after a short rest, the nausea was nonexistent and the headache that once pounded behind his eyes was a distant memory. He stretched under his blankets and smiled, surprised his muscles weren’t sore from his earlier vomiting. 

It was prudent to not expect to be a hundred percent so soon, but Aether felt closer to normal than he had in days.

The busted phone in his hand shined with a blue light around the edges, signifying a notification and he was more than happy to examine it. He smiled as a video message from Paimon and Lumine popped up on the cracked screen. “Let’s see how well you see us with a busted phone, Aether!” Paimon shouted, voice so shrill it pierced his ears even through the machine, “You really are hopeless without us, huh?”

“You haven’t answered your phone or called us back,” Lumine followed behind Paimon, her golden hair a stark difference from their younger sister's platinum, but both of their eyes reflected the same amber as his own, despite the worry. 

“If it’s not too jacked up,” she said tersely, “can you call us back?”

“Yeah! We’re worried about you!”

How the sound of their voices put a song in his heart and lifted his spirits in an instant. It was almost enough to completely forget about the image still opened in the gallery. While the image played out across the screen, slightly chopped and glitched in parts, he smiled and studied their faces. He missed them dearly, but this seemed just enough to chase the looming loneliness from his mood. 

Just when he was about to return the missed call, he heard the same warble of a bird from earlier. It called his attention, pulling him to glance out his window towards the branches of the large oak in the front yard. He almost expected nothing to be there like before, but was surprised to find the demon bird itself peering back at him from the thinnest limb. It was as if the fowl was trying to press itself directly against the window as its head tilted to the side. Another chirp and Aether lifted up his phone in response and waved it with a raised brow. “I got it back, you lil’ gremlin,” he boasted, but was surprised when the bird merely hopped to the outer ledge and pecked the glass in a gentle rat-a-tat-tat, and cocked its head yet again. Aether got the strange impression it was waiting on something. Trying to discern the gaze of a bird, Aether looked around and spied the pill bottle he’d brought with him. It couldn’t be…could it? Logic would suggest that an animal wouldn’t understand the point in a bottle of medication, but after the last few days he’d had, he was starting to run with whatever wild conclusion popped into his mind. He set the phone down, replacing it with the bottle and held it up, stunned to see the bird’s head moving about as it followed the movement, eyes zeroed in on the object. He shook it to the left, then the right, marveling as his little terror kept it in its sights at all times. When he tossed it into the air, attempting to see if the bird would also jump, it squawked indignantly and puffed out its feathers, eliciting a sharp laugh from Aether. 

Too cute, he thought, feeling far less angry at the bird than he was the day before. How could he stay mad at something so adorable? “All right, I’ll stop making you dance. Are you checking in on me?”

How silly, he thought, of course it wasn’t. It’s a bird, Aether, he told himself, yet again, ignoring the quiet reminder towards the image suggesting otherwise. But if his instincts were correct, no matter how insane they might be, then he couldn’t resist testing the theory. “I’m feeling much better now…Thanks? I don’t know how it could have been you, but if it was, I appreciate the help.”

It was just an experiment. That’s all it was. That’s what Aether told himself. One to prove his logic correct once and for all. There was nothing truly weird happening. He didn’t receive medication from a bird and it certainly hadn’t defied physics to deliver it to him. 

The man in his phone was a hacker of some sorts and not the actual bird, and whatever happened at Zhongli’s was just social jitters. This bird didn’t know what he was saying, it probably didn’t even know he was talking to it to begin with. Now that he’d said his piece, the bird would continue not reacting, just as a real bird would and he’d chalk it up to delusions caused by stress. Yes. That was it. Mission a complete suc-

The bird bobbed its head and flapped its wings, brandishing the beautiful golden flight feathers that gleamed in the light. It twirled in its spot, like an actual dance and nodded its head before it took flight, leaving behind a shaking branch as the only sign it had been there in the first place. 

-failure. Mission failure. Aether stared, nonplussed at the window, jaw wide open as his mouth went dry. It looked as if the bird had celebrated the news. That’s exactly what that was, right? He wasn’t crazy? No. He was crazy. Had to be. “...what was in those pills?”

Fresh air, Aether decided, after staring at the window for a ridiculous amount of time, to pay attention to a bird that was no longer there. When he gathered his wits, he realized he must have been in the dusty old place for too long. It was messing with his brain. That had to explain it.

Making a mental note to google what connections there could be to dust and hallucinations later, he sprang from his makeshift bed and rushed himself out the back door. 

His intention was clear. A fresh clear breeze would be just what he needed to battle the old dust of the house and give him a better outlook on the situation. When he stepped out, a gentle wind rustled through his hair, brushing along his face in a gentle caress and the immediate change in temperature eased the tension in his shoulders. The old wood of the porch groaned at every step, but he ignored it. He had more pressing matters to attend to. 

Like the fact he had a perfect view of the stone altar along the border of his land, standing proud and clean and was not helping his train of thought.

Once upon a time, Aether believed in the concept of the unknown: Ghosts, Fairies, Magic and Demons. These weren't just stories to him or Lumine. In this backyard, all stories felt as if they could come alive at any moment. It made their home a wondrous place. And while that feeling of wonder had faded as they grew older, the two of them worked hard to keep that magical feeling alive in their little sister.

These memories, thoughts, and feelings, they warred with each other in his mind. Frivolous, childhood fantasies that were nothing more than a young boy's imagination–he thought he believed that, but now Aether wasn't so sure. 

He wondered if his sense of nostalgia was causing him to see the world differently, but the more he dismissed his experiences as a flight of fancy, the more it churned in his stomach like a sickness. Maybe there was still a part of him that wanted the magic of childhood to be more than silly memories.

There was no sight of the bird. A fact that filled Aether with quiet disappointment. He had hoped its nest was nearby, giving him more opportunities to observe it. Inhaling deeply, he sat on the steps of the decaying wooden porch and frowned. 

The fogginess that plagued his mind that morning was long gone, but he was no closer to escaping his muddied thoughts than he was before. Rather than continue to circle through each moment and consideration, he chose instead to lean against the rails, gazing between the runs as he enjoyed the evening air.

The sun was just starting its downward descent, a testament to the passage of time while Aether was lost in the clouds of his own mind. He shut his eyes, opened them again, and clenched them shut once more, as if expecting something to change with each blink. 

Nothing did. 

The backyard remained the same with the grass almost on the verge of being too high, the debris he cleared off still littered by the large oak, and the stone altar–a staunch difference from the modern world. 

He remembered asking why it was there once, but his Father had merely shrugged and stated it had been there long before they were and would still be there after they left. Now older, it was clearly a fancy way to say, 'I don't know,' but Aether had enjoyed the reasoning regardless.

It sounded...mystical back then. And even now, with the stories and myths echoing in his skull, it still felt beyond the world he knew beyond Springvale. 

Keeping his eyes closed for longer, he immersed himself in his senses. The wind was still gentle, a cool brush along the back of his neck in the late spring air while the scent of the nearby woods and wildflowers eased his nerves. Taking a deep breath, Aether basked and allowed himself to imagine the world as he did when younger.

While he knew the world would remain as it was, once he opened his eyes again, he enjoyed pretending it wouldn't. That there was truth in the old tales and that the stone altar was more than just an ancient relic of a culture long lost. It could be a place where birds, plants, and even the elements could appear more than they were. Where they could walk next to Aether just as any other person could.

It was a nice thought that was soon interrupted by the familiar, distant sound of flapping. 

Another bird? Aether wouldn't be surprised if a whole flock made their nests somewhere nearby, but the lone flapping was gone as fast as he heard it, followed by the crunching of undergrowth and twigs in the distance.

His eyes shot open, startled by the sound as if it occurred beside him, but his gaze trailed further off towards the treeline. The world remained the same, but his earlier consideration towards an intruder slammed back into him like a bag of bricks. Someone was out there. In the woods. They were close. He heard it loud and clear, Aether was certain. 

Not a bird. Not an animal. Human footsteps. 

Aether jumped to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness it caused as he held fast to the railing and leaned forward, eyes narrowed in earnest. 

“Who's out there?” he called fiercely, already planning his escape back into the house. And if that didn’t work? What other places would he hide? The options weighed heavily in his mind.

He had no weapons. If a hunter was poaching nearby, Aether was defenseless. He didn’t see the familiar orange vest of a hunter exploring through the thickets, nor did he see the silhouette of a gun or compound bow. In the past, these were the staple of all legal hunters in the area and the locals were good at following the hunting laws to the letter. Was it the same still? Aether squinted his eyes, attempting to see further into the wood.

Another step, quieter, and Aether realized everything was just as quiet. No birds sounded and the wind had stopped just as suddenly. As if the world had paused in an instant all around him and left him spying the tree line for anything.

Someone was there.

And finally, he saw them; Their yellow eyes pierced him through the distance. Just like the photo on his phone, the man that should have been a bird, stepped behind a collection of trees with only the hint of teal and black hair dispersing into the shadows. Aether felt his heart tighten as the air left his lungs.

He'd seen that before. Not in a photo or in the identical coloring of a bird dancing in the tree limbs, but from a dream that felt like a memory. He exhaled sharply, recalling the small boy that had once urged him to never enter the woods, and who often joined him and Lumine in their childhood games.

An imaginary friend, his Mom had called it, having never seen the boy for herself. Eventually, Aether had convinced himself the same, but the taller, older proof had slipped into the shadows of the darkwood as if he'd belonged there. 

Aether's mouth ran dry, his fingers shook. A bit of fear bled into excitement as he launched himself off the railing and dashed off towards the fence. His bare feet smarted when he tripped over a root and stepped on a twig, but he hastily moved onward, wincing briefly as his earlier dizziness sprang upon him like a tsunami. 

“Wait, wait-!” he called, desperately , eyes blurring once he'd slammed himself against the fencepost nearest the treeline. He glanced through every gap in the trees, desperately wanting to see what he was so sure he knew now. 

It couldn't be real, and yet it was. That was the man in the photo–who was also a bird, who swam in his memories as a quiet, gentle reminder from an old friend, to never step into the forest.

Recklessly, he climbed over the fence and grunted when another twig snapped beneath his feet. Logic no longer bound Aether in place as he looked for the safest path into the trees. He didn't know just how far he planned to go, only that the intense need to see the truth up close spurred him onward.

Three steps forward, however, and the world flipped on its head. Aether toppled to the earth with grass and leaves filling his mouth and tickling his nostrils. Coughing, he pushed himself up, body shaking as a wave of illness struck him just as hard that morning, as if it had never left.

“...s-shit!” He cursed, weakly looking onward as the world grew hazy. A strange fog swam into his vision, tinting the world around him as he struggled to sit up. 

Stupid. How could he have been so stupid!

'You can't come here,' the voice, Aether now recognized as an old, forgotten friend, whispered in his ears. 'Never again. Stay safe, alive and happy, far away from here- please.'

He thought he saw someone approach as his head hit the dirt, darkness covering his vision yet again. 

In this new dream, he felt strong arms lift him securely and carry him out of the woods, voice muttering words he could not understand quietly in his ear.

When Aether woke up, he was back in his room, body sore from head to toe, and stomach feeling inside out. A cool rag sat atop his head and a fresh glass of water sat on the nightstand beside him.

Right beside it, the mysterious medicine, sitting atop a long, golden feather.

[mordremrose]

I’m just gonna write a little thing! A little thought for Bloom, nothing too intense, just so I don’t forget it!

1000 words later? Whoops

Writing below the cut, major spoilers for the end of Heart of Thorns and implied End of Dragons spoilers but nothing explicit from EoD :]

Bloom

“Kill me, Commander.” Trahearne could hear his own voice tremble, as horror overtook his dear friend’s face. Around them all, their friends— Rytlock, Caithe, Canach, Marjory, Braham— were exhausted. Worn thin by the fight against the jungle dragon, both physical and within the Dream.

“What? No! Mordremoth is dead. We destroyed its mind from the inside.” The commander protested, their fingers curled around the hilt of Caladbolg.

“But I still hear its voice.” Trahearne looked down at his hands, twisted and blighted as they were. His body was not his— he was corrupted. It was only cruel fate that he had kept his mind this long. Or perhaps something more sinister.

“Mordremoth is alive. One last hateful vestige… a terrible seed, planted deep in my mind.”

Trahearne’s hands curled into fist, as he took a deep steadying breath.

“You must kill me, Commander, before that seed grows. Before… before Mordremoth reclaims what it has lost.”

He reached out now, hands on his friend’s shoulders. The tears streaming down their face broke his heart. He did not want this. He didn’t want to hurt them, to see them suffer so.

Trahearne wished there was another way.

“What is left of me can’t survive on its own, my friend.” He croaked, and felt the Commander tremble beneath his hands. Were they always so small?

“Strike now or—“

Against his will, a rage rose up. A sick bile that boiled in his stomach and burned through his chest as his mind lurched.

Through his mouth, Mordremoth spoke.

“I am the future! I am this world! You cannot destroy me!” The dragon roared, hands tightening around the commander.

“Run while you can!” It took everything he had left to force his fingers to uncurl, to release the commander even as the dragon wanted to tear them to shreds to be remade anew.

Caladbolg flashed in the corner of his eye.

“No!” The commander yelled. Strike true my friend! Trahearne wanted to yell. But he couldn’t, and his mind went dark.

There was no great explosion. There was no dying scream.

If you asked those present what happened, none of them gave any concrete answer.

Canach hesitated to answer, but would confirm that Mordremoth was no longer hounding his mind, or any of the sylvari.

All Rytlock would say was that the confrontation wasn’t pretty.

Caithe mourned Trahearne, in her quiet and melancholic manner, and asked not to push the matter further.

Braham would scowl, shake his head, and shove his way past, unwilling or perhaps unable to describe that final blow.

Marjory Delaqua, normally so elegant and clever with her words, who could see the twists of a plot before anyone else— when she was asked, she could only shake her head and reply ‘I don’t know’.

The Commander didn’t answer at all, because no one was able to find them to ask.

Eventually, researchers at the newly established lab of Rata Novus confirmed what the entire world held its breath to hear.

Mordremoth was dead. He had to be, to explain the slow steady trickle of magic escaping the jungle, supposedly as the dragon… decayed wasn’t the right word, but it conveyed the idea well enough. It was a slow death, they said, not quite the explosive reaction from Zhaitan, who had gorged itself on magic before its death, but a gradual decay. It changed things, about magic, about how the people of Tyria and the soon to be established Dragon’s Watch understood the flow of magic around and through the Elder Dragons. But it was dead.

It had to be.

He woke up. His body ached, as it always did, as he woke. A consequence of being too bigsmall. He stirred slowly, limbs stretching out and tail dragging behind. He had buried himself beneath massive vines this time, the weight of them both familiar and restricting. These conflicting sensations, the constant disagreement with himself… it was the only thing he could rely on. Even his name escaped his memory, although he could hear whispers of it on the edges of his mind.

Traherdremaneth.

It didn’t matter, really.

He moved slowly, not truly wanting to rise, but knowing he must.

He was something in between, and there was no stillness for him. No place of his own.

His one companion, if you could call it that, would be upon him soon. A dogged purserer, both a thorn in his side and a trusted ally, trailed behind him. For a time he thought they left him— and the feelings that had wrought left him stationary in a deep cave for nearly a week before they had reappeared.

He didn’t want them close, he knew that much, but they were one of the few things he had, a consistency. He couldn’t see them well, not with the distance between them, but he could always make out the broken blade at their hip. The one that made the scar across his chest ache.

He wondered what would happen if he let them get closer. Would they strike? Would they know him?

They were his enemyfriend. What would they make of him? Caution kept him at a distance from them.

The longer he was awake, the more memories he could half-remember.

The Orrian landscape stretches out before him and it reeks of his sibling, twisting beneath the dirt. The undead don’t notice him, not yet, and he can take a moment to look closer at the coral. It was neither alive nor dead. Not unlike himself and yet so different to him or anything he had ever encountered before.

He missed his siblings, their quiet talks among the then empty roots, among safe coils with their constant presence around him. They were too distant to feel or simply gone now and it unnerved him. This was wrong. Perhaps they could help him make it right.

There was one other thing, other than his sort-of companion and his unsteady roiling mind, that remained constant. And this was the true constant. A steady beacon, that he could not see or hear, but simply felt in a way that he could not describe. A magnetic sort of pull that had him orbiting closer and closer.

It drew him in, out of the depths and dark underbelly of the jungle and the cave systems, towards the strange golden stones, the elegant walls meant to keep out creatures that wished to destroy the beacon. He was not welcome there, not yet, even though he meant no harm. He just needed to be closer.

He didn’t know how he knew that. He just knew it.

[tarnishedinquirer]

Stormveil Gate Courtyard

I went through the back walkways of the castle for a bit before I came out overlooking the entrance. There was a fog door here, but no imp statue in sight. So, there was only one way to go.

Now that I was above and behind them, it was easy to take out the ballistas. There were a good dozen soldiers in the yard, at least, but through careful use of chokepoints I was able to take them out one by one.

I'll be honest, standing on a mountain of dead soldiers like this was a little bit scary to me. I was never a master swordsman nor mage. Just a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Now, all of the sudden, I was cleaving through trained soldiers like it was nothing. I could justify that maybe they were weakened by whatever was covering their armor in thorns, but no... this was me. This is the strength of runes.

In the gatehouse, I found a commoner's garb, and the voice filled me in on something I'd already guessed.

Modest garb made of cloth. Standard wear for commoners of the Lands Between. The board hung from the neck depicts a sprawling tree, its roots and branches forming two holes. This is a self-imposed shackle, a voluntary display of allegiance to the Erdtree that increases faith.

All you have to do is look at the commoners to understand what this does. Over immortal decades, even centuries, it depresses the collarbone and makes it look like their neck is unnaturally extended. Even some of the skeletons I've fought have that long-neck look.

It says this is voluntary but the alternative must be death, exile, or worse to keep people wearing this shackle. And you don't put shackles on slaves. Are there any actual commoners in this land? No wonder you have brain-dead nobles digging in the dirt with their fingers.

Gostoc was directly below me, but I had no reason to talk to him right now.

There was just one thing left to clear in this courtyard, and that was a massive, sleeping beast in one corner. It seemed to be guarding the promenade leading to that giant bridge.

I didn't have to get very close for it to spring into action. An immense grey-skinned lion, it had an equally immense blade chained to its paw. At first I thought it was like the mutilations Godrick had inflicted on the hawks, but it didn't seem to be mutilated at all, just chained. There was also something almost human about the lion. It's proportions were just a bit off...and were those stubby horns poking out of its mane?

It was hard for me to get a good look at the thing as it was constantly moving. The thing had incredible speed and energy for a creature its size. It was all I could do to keep up. Fortunately, I had Aurelia to draw its attacks away. Once its attention was divided, its attacks became more manageable, and I was able to bring it down.

Just when I start getting concerned about the potential power-madness of runes, something like this appears to keep me humble.

The voice told me to pick up a strangely deformed fang that had been knocked loose from its mouth. It said

These multiple, overlapping fangs grow from a single root. Perhaps they're a vestige of the primordial crucible.

Interesting. So the crucible can also cause mutations like this, beyond just its incantations? Maybe the horns, grey skin, and odd body shape were also part of the Crucible?

At any rate, while the bridge looked interesting, I should save it for later. I have a job to do in this castle.

Was the lion a crucible creature?

Why did it have chains and blades attached?

Why was it guarding the bridge?