#waidwen

[maryfranlmes]

The Burning Bridge

[adozentothedawn]

Okay I've been cracking up over this too much, I have to post it. Thank you @ampleappleamble, it's impossible for me to ever forget about this now

[joshbii]

8. As did the Saints in other times 👀

Prompts

As Did the Saints in Other Times

Did they expect a Dozen to stand against the Dawn their sins had wrought? Or merely to cast a shadow, starting strong and shrinking as the Sun rises, that the rest of them may slink about in the dying darkness and await Judgement elsewhere?

The Saint marched before his men, a marshal and martyr both. He did not march alone, nor did he ever, for in his heart, his mind, his soul, he felt the warmth of the blazing Sun. And yet, that warmth stopped shy of granting him peace, as if the Shining God held some deeper truth at arm’s length.

The Dozen before him, he would not let slip his moment of doubt. The Dawnstar’s light descended upon those who would oppose him, and in that instant one was cast ablaze, engulfed by purifying flame. But the Saint took no delight, nor even satisfaction, as another soul returned to the Wheel, for he knew now that something was amiss.

The ground trembled. Stone cracked underfoot, a tremor rippling through the ancient structure of Evon Dewr. It was not fear that the Saint felt in that moment; it was the burning. Not his god’s warmth – no, this was a white-hot, searing thing that crawled through him and held him there, his body no longer his own. It screamed within his mind, pulling taut like a thread about to snap. As the terrible, twisted light began to shine through the cracks in the stonework, he knew well that he was to die.

Eothas had known this would happen. He must have. And yet, the Saint found no anger as he drew his final breaths. It had not been Eothas who had brought him here; his god had been to him a father and a priest both; offering direction and counsel, but knowing all too well that one must be left to make their own choice, in the end.

A father and a priest both. A fitting description of a god, perhaps. Or a saint. But a father is willing to lay down his life for his children, and a priest for his beliefs. Perhaps the other gods would lay nothing down, but Eothas would. And so would he; he would be a martyr, as had the saints in other times.

It mattered not that his war was unfinished, nor that his name might be lost to time; all that mattered now was that they saw the light that followed, and took from it a lesson he was yet too blind to see.

If there was an answer here, it was not for him to know. Perhaps that was the final lesson, he pondered as the blast reached him; that we must walk willingly into the light, blindly at times, trusting that it will not consume us.

[yanara126-writing]

Hypothetically

Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.

It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern.

Waidwen meets a stranger in a tavern and learns that either way he doesn't have long to live.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (4960 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

---

Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.

It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern. He was a young man, old enough to be married but not to have taken over his family's farm. And the exact age to join a holy crusade in honor of their god. His brown hair, longer than was seemly really, was tied back out of his sun marked face, his clothes were clearly too large hand-me-downs with a lovingly embroidered emblem on the hem. An uninteresting footsoldier that barely anyone gave a second glance. And if his hazel eyes shone just a little too bright in the dim fire light of the tavern, well, stranger things were happening these days.

The tavern was already near bursting, filled with soldiers relishing in a night not spent in a hastily erected camp and villagers still dazzled by the awe-inspiring sight earlier that day that was Saint Waidwen's glorious arrival and were now hoping for stories from those who got more than just a single glimpse of their Saint and ruler. No one paid attention to the young soldier making his way through the crowd, his steps too awkward and posture too hunched to be anyone of import, and therefore interest. The sergeant who'd come into the small tavern an hour earlier in his polished, shiny platemail was much more interesting, and more than ready to keep telling stories of their glorious prophet and how often he'd already fought side by side with Saint Waidwen for as long as the rapt listeners kept buying him drinks. The newcomer briefly stopped at the edge of the crowd surrounding the man and listened to a few words. He didn't seem impressed with the heroic stories and simply frowned before moving on to the bar counter.

The man behind the counter threw him a harried look while hurrying from one end to the other, handing out mugs, jugs and tankards and collecting coin with nary even a moment to breathe. The young man waved his hand dismissively, he was in no hurry. The barkeep nodded lightly and moved on, ignoring the newcomer for now, much like the rest of the tavern.

He'd come here hoping for a moment of calm, a time free from the expectations and constant supervision his life had become, and yet, despite the anonymity the stolen tunic granted him, there was no peace to be found for Waidwen. Not from the constant roiling of heat in his soul and not from the stubborn fuzziness in his head that he couldn't seem to get rid of.

He leant against the bar, eyes shifting rapidly over the crowd as his fingers started tapping out a nervous rhythm.

"I am allowed to drink a cup of Wyrthoneg." He kept his voice low, only mumbling under his breath. The tavern was loud enough that likely no one would have heard him regardless, but there was no reason to draw people's attention with inane comments to himself. Then again, there was no reason to talk out loud at all, but it was a habit he'd developed over the last few months. An extra voice in your head suddenly makes the voice from your mouth the private one.

*There is no reason why you wouldn't be.* The voice was, as ever, calm and soft. There had been few moments in their partnership that Eothas had ever become agitated, and all of them had included grievous bodily harm. Which this would not. This was a fun, short outing, to take his mind off of the horrifying exhausting trek before all of them.

"Broder worries too much, it's not like anyone cares when we're not glowing." The stolen tunic had done its task, as had the hair tie he'd reluctantly used and no one in the tavern had given him even a second glance. No one cared about a simple soldier coming to drown his fears or revel in the attention, they only cared about Saint Waidwen, mouthpiece of Eothas. It rankled him, despite the relief of escaping the constant scrutiny for a little while.

*I'm sure.* Eothas said gently, because it was what Waidwen wanted to hear.

He continued tapping on the counter, bit his lip and tried to ignore the dizzying pressure in the back of his head.

He'd almost convinced himself that he was simply sleep deprived when someone slid through the mass of people clogging up the tavern and settled beside him at the counter. He winced as the pressure spiked for a moment. His fingers tapped faster. He was not in the mood for entertaining (gawkers).

The same didn't seem to apply to the stranger.

    "I'm told it's rude here to let a brave soldier sit on their own." Waidwen didn't flinch when the stranger spoke and it felt like a needle was rammed into his neck. One deep breath later the pain subsided again, leaving only the constant buzzing that never left him these days. When he finally turned, the stranger was looking at him expectantly. Or at least he thought they were, with a death godlike you could never be quite sure. He'd seen very few of them and all of them in the last year.

There was something vaguely unsettling in the stranger's growth covered eyes and sharp toothed grin. The pitch black growths seemed almost crownlike, spanning over their forehead and nose in ridged layers and peaking in two high spikes, as well as arching down their cheeks, framing their cheekbones and mouth as the only visible features. A white, Waelite eye tattoo was carved into their forehead.

Waidwen frowned as the shape wavered a little. He turned and went back to tapping.

"They forgot to tell me then." It wasn't quite a growl. He didn't want to piss anyone off, bar brawls tended to draw attention, but he also really didn't want to deal with people.

The stranger laughed, their warm, smoky voice floating just above the noise in the room. "I think I like you. Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink and you forgive my social blunder?" He sighed and the wood was granted a moment of mercy from the relentless tapping. For a moment he debated simply leaving again. But then what was the harm in indulging this stranger for a moment? They'd notice soon enough that there were better targets for gossiping. He steadfastly shook off the vague, ever-constant concern warming his neck and ignored the needle stabbing through his right eye as he glanced over to the stranger again.

"Won't stop you from spending your own coin, but don't expect any stories out of me." He threw a surreptitious look over his shoulder to the sergeant who was still surrounded by adoring villagers. Occasionally booming laughter or a wave of cheers sounded from the group as the man animatedly waved his hands around during his tales of heroics of saving saint, god, and country.

Waidwen turned back to the stranger and swallowed a wave of nausea. He wished he hadn't waved off the bartender.

The godlike threw an amused glance to the colourful group before turning back and smirking with raised hands as if in surrender. "Promise, no elaborate dickwagging required." Waidwen let out an unenthusiastic huff, but didn't disagree. As the stranger turned to call out to the still buzzing about barkeep for the promised drink he blinked in mild suprise. Behind their head growths peaked out two buns of hair, fire red and coiled. Probably a rare remnant of their aumaua heritage if their teeth were any indication. Not that it was any of his business. Or interest.

Waidwen went back to tapping the countertop. The grain of the wood was soft under his hands, both well sanded by its maker and smoothed down by many passing hands. His fingertips burnt.

A tankard was banged on the table in front of him with enough force to splash the Wyrthoneg both over his fingers and over the wood, filling the soft grooves of the grain with the sticky substance. Without thought he lifted his hand and licked the drink off his fingers as he mindlessly watched the liquid slowly creep across the table, soaking into the wood like he saw the dawn's rays soaking into every living being, regardless of the sun's position in the sky. The coolness of his tongue helped little against the burning. Where the wood absorbed the golden liquid, it turned a dark brown colour, soft and almost soothing. Above it sat more sparkling drops, shimmering in the firelight brightening room, almost glittering like early stars during sundown. Staring at them he could almost see his own face reflected, sprinkled over the wooden surface, first in the beads of Wyrthoneg sitting on the already soaked full spots, then in ever smaller droplets, specks sitting in the grain, so small that the grooves looked like canyons and he himself scattered between all of them, in ravines, mountains, fields without focus or reason, the only constant being an overpowering *warmth* making up every shattered piece of him.

A voice ripped through his mind like the roar of a cannon firing.

"I do apologize for the mess, but I think there's more in the tankard than on your fingers," the stranger chuckled with entirely room-appropriate volume. They were leaning casually against the countertop with one arm while lifting their own tankard with the other, not-perturbed in the slightest. Waidwen suppressed another flinch and quickly lowered his hand. After a moment to reassemble himself he grabbed the tankard and took a large gulp, decisively not looking at the golden liquid in it.

Judging by the quiet sloshing sounds, the stranger was content to simply drink in company for now.

The alcohol, however little it was, helped to dull the sharp sting of too clear sound and too detailed vision for a while. Probably better that it wasn't more potent, he felt like he might really crumble out of the confines of his body if he loosened his control too much. A few more gulps dulled that feeling as well. Eventually he felt stable enough to be annoyed again. And patience had never been his strong suit.

"So, what's the deal with you?" he asked with all the elegance and subtlty of a hailstorm, because while Eothas had taught him how to speak with flourishes, he rarely ever bothered with them. Eothas never corrected him.

The stranger laughed again, the way the merchants always did when they thought he wasn't counting the coins. The muscles in his shoulders tightened in irritation, even as the stranger answered with nothing but friendly mischief in their voice, nodding towards the bartender: "My deal is that I give this nice man some coins and he gives me drinks." Waidwen couldn't see the wink, couldn't see anything of their eyes through the pitch black growths, but the implication of it soaked through his aching bones like a well intentioned balm. It did nothing to lighten his mood.

"Oh haha, hilarious. How about a joke of my own then: a death godlike walks into an eothasian bar," Waidwen muttered. He wanted to scowl, to be hostile and inhospitable, so the stranger would leave him to his misery, but truthfully he was too exhausted for it. He didn't acknowledge the gentle, hesitant brush at the back of his mind, a flickering candle, a muted ray of light through heavy clouds, a wavering hand nonetheless held out offering. The moment passed, the soft touch lifted and Waidwen didn't give in to the yearning, the instinct to grab for it and the relief it promised. Eothas did not comment on it.

Yet again, the stranger seemed unbothered by his blunt suspicion and laughed. "Does the bar I say 'I forgive you' as the godlike rubs their head?" That did finally crack him a little and he snorted, more in exasperation but also a little bit of amusement. It was hard not to give in just a bit when someone was at last willing to banter with him and gave as good as they got. People these days were hardly ever honest with him in any way that mattered. He took another drink.

The stranger waited for a moment as they watched him down more of the wyrthoneg, their amused smile never wavering for a moment. Eventually he had his fill of the watered down alcohol and set the tankard back down with just a bit too much force to be entirely casual. The stranger leant back on their school, crossed their arms and smirked.

"Alright alright, don't want to get purged for murdering a holy soldier with my impressive wit." Once again, a wink was implied in the short pause. Dimly Waidwen wondered if his easy perception of the godlike's facial expressions was normal or if it was a skill born from frequently having to interpret feelings that weren't his own. Eothas said nothing to the thought. Waidwen didn't linger on it. If the stranger noticed his brief inattention they didn't acknowledge it. "Truth is, I'm here on business, Waelite business." They tapped lightly on their forehead with a strangely hollow sound and the eye tattoo almost seemed to flicker. "And you seemed like an interesting enough start." To Waidwen the explanation tasted like slightly moldy sonnread. Still sweet but with an undeniable rotten aftertaste. He took another swig and let the stranger wait for the answer they were clearly fishing for. When the taste didn't wash away with the drink he couldn't bring himself to be surprised.

"I thought you said 'no dickwagging required'?" he eventually muttered into the almost empty tankard, tasting only disappointment. Perhaps he should have been concerned. About spies, about yet another priesthood on his tail. But fear had been long burnt out of him, leaving only the dry ashes of resignation. No, he was not afraid of Wael. For all he was concerned, the whole world might as well be Waelites now, when all anyone ever wanted from him these days were answers that he didn't have or couldn't give. Perhaps he should be grateful that at least this one was bothering a random a soldier and not Saint Waidwen the Divine King. The thought felt like being violently shoved into a frigid lake.

The stranger's laugh sounded like jingling keys being dangled over his head, just out of reach.

"It's not," they assured, and Waidwen didn't believe it for even a second. "I don't even really know you're the one who has the secret that led me here. All I know is that I have to sit here for a bit and have a drink with you." The stranger, who really made a lot more sense as a Waelite priest, smiled, toasted their own tankard to him and drank. When they set it back down, it sloshed as if still full.

"Seems like a very vague holy mission," Waidwen huffed, elbows on the table and staring at the wall behind the counter, because he'd never been good at being polite or knowing when to stay silent. Hypocrisy sounded like a discordant temple bell struck at the wrong angle, familiar.

The priest shrugged, making the small, clear crystals attached to their scarf jingle ominously. "Comes with the trade. Though I wouldn't call it a 'mission' really. That would imply that Wael told me to do it. This is more of a... Personal interest." They did not wink this time, just smiled amiably with a sense of serenity that seemed almost out of character. Waidwen didn't like it any better than the sly grinning.

He took the bait anyway.

"So how do you know you have to sit here with me for your... Personal interest?" he asked, his loaded pause the exact same length as the stranger's. Over the last year his sense of time had become somehow both extremely precise and completely unreliable, a second stretching out into an unknowable infinity while whole days blended together until he couldn't be sure when he'd slept last. He'd also become very good at drowning any cold, creeping dread in the heat of annoyance.

"Ah, just because Wael didn't tell me to do it doesn't mean they had nothing to do with it," the priest replied. For the first time in their short conversation he really focused on the priest next to him. Their clothes were made for travelling, sturdy and altogether unassuming at first glance, except they were clearly of dyrwooden make. Their scarf suddenly stood out in sharp contrast, dyed a muted blue and decorated with crystals that seemed to almost glow slightly. The eye tattoo on their forehead was now purple. None of it had in any way occurred to him before. He was not afraid of Wael, no, but it was very different to not be afraid of someone out of reach, who may or may not be paying attention to you, and not being afraid of someone potentially right in front of you.

He narrowed his eyes and held the warmth in his head closer. The incessant buzzing flamed up again. "What does that mean?"

The priest chuckled, as unbothered as they had been throughout the entire conversation. "Nothing as grand as what you're imagining right now I'm sure. I don't start glowing for one. We just... Have an understanding. One that occasionally lets me siphon some knowledge from the vastness that is Wael if I go look for it." A slight tap on one of the crystals with their nails produced a quiet ping that reverberated through Waidwen's ears like a temple gong. But the sound was hollow, empty, like a hall left unfilled, the worshippers long gone. His shoulders marginally relaxed, but he stayed cautious. Few rooms stayed empty for long if someone was still living there.

"That sounds suspiciously like something you shouldn't be telling me." Perhaps it was a form of animancy instead? Waidwen frowned, eyeing the priest in front of him. He was not at all sure on his own stance on the practice, there had been so many other problems to deal with and realistically the only place animancy had in Readceras was as a political accusation or in a moral play, so he hadn't bothered looking into it. But if his choice was between a questionable mortal practice or another god getting personally involved, he'd certainly prefer the animancer.

"Maybe," the godlike agreed with a shrug. "But something tells me that I must anyway."

They told him stories of their own then. Of nobles having their pockets lightened, of government secrets stolen, of drafted spells mysteriously vanishing from their inventors' desks and of the small nibbling in the back of their own mind, never words, never orders, never a presence, but something far more delicate and interpretable. In the privacy of a crowd that didn't care about either of them, and with a steady, hot pounding behind his eyes, ready to burst forth at at any moment, Waidwen learned a bit more of the world, of gods, of cultures, and of people seeking to meddle with all of it. In a way it was almost comforting, the knowledge that out there, authority was not allowed to simply stand, that there was resistance to power, even in this strange way. It made him feel oddly reassured, connected in a way that had nothing to do with the silent voice in his head.

With each amused story some of the heat drained out of him, like a cool evening wind blowing away the noon's warmth, and he relaxed. At one point a new tankard was placed in front of him and he absent-mindedly sipped the wyrthoneg. Eventually he caught himself laughing at a mayor finding the love letters to his 3 misstresses pinned to the village board one morning. For a moment suspicion sparked in the back of his mind, but it went as fast as it had appeared. He was tired of being suspicious and for the first time in months he found it difficult to even try. Sweetness on his tongue, drink in his stomach and only the gruff voices of the people around him in his ears he decided that maybe he could stand to let it go. Just for one night. Even the pain behind eyes subsided just a bit.

Eventually his companion's stories trickled off, leaving a comfortable silence between them. The lights of the tavern were warm, the wood soft, and Waidwen was content for just a little while. But this piece of relief brought with it something else: curiousity. Something was itching in the back of his mind, for once it had nothing to do with Eothas, at least not directly.

Waidwen took a sip from his cup, enjoyed the taste for a moment, and then broke the silence.

"So that personal relationship of yours, it sounds a bit... Vague. Removed. Hypothetically, wouldn't it be easier for both of you to just be more direct about it? Something like, I don't know, share a body? If that works. To let you talk more easily, make use of that power yourself." He shrugged and drank again. The heat swirling up in his throat had nothing to do with the drink.

The godlike tilted their head curiously. "Is that what you think your saint is doing?"

"I wouldn't dare guess what his holiness is doing, I'm just curious." Waidwen lifted his tankard and took another sip to not have to look at them. The taste barely covered the ashy feeling in his mouth.

The priest hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I for one hope he isn't, for his own sake." They paused for a moment, mouth still open and fingers tapping on the table twice. Then they apparently came to a decision. "You see, mingling with the divine is a little bit like working with a raging river. What I did is dig a little pond," they cupped their hands, elbows on the table and fully turned to him, "And then I connected that pond to the river through a thin canal that has a movable gate. And when I need water I use a cup to get some from the pond. I have multiple layers of distance and safe guards. What you're describing would be more like throwing the cup into the river, shattering it and polluting the river in the process. Both would be ruined."

Somewhere behind them a tankard crashed to the floor, followed by a roar of laughter. Waidwen blinked. The death godlike stared back. Probably.

"Well. That sounds... Painful." His mouth felt dry. He took another drink.

"Oh I'm sure it would be excruciating. And fatal." The godlike agreed cheerily, then drank as well, a content smile on their face.

For a moment Waidwen considered thinking further on the comment, but quickly thought better of it. The cup in his hand was a much better thing to contemplate. He lifted the tankard and nodded to his drinking friend. The flesh under his nails itched, like they didn't fit quite right on his fingers. His hand never wavered.

"To not doing excruciating and fatal things then." The godlike chuckled and clanked their tankard against his with friendly enthusiasm.

"To not doing excruciating and fatal things!" As Waidwen emptied the tankard with one large gulp, the liquid felt alien running down his throat, slimy and rough at the same time, invading his body even as he let it. He slammed the tankard down on the wood with a satisfying crack, smacked his lips and sighed in a contentment he didn't feel.

The soles of his feet started burning in his boots, and he decided it was a night for bad decisions. He turned to the godlike, leant back in his chair and theatrically let his eyes wander over them. He didn't know quite what to make of them, more than usually, with their covered eyes and strange growths on their face, but he supposed they were probably attractive. Tall and built broadly, in a way that spoke of hard work and good food. The hair was a bit odd. Then again, what wasn't odd about him.

"Hypothetically, what would you say if I asked you to leave here with me? For the night?" For some reason he expected something then, some emotion or reaction not his own. He didn't know why he was disappointed when nothing happened but his own tension rising. He closed the hand not gripping the tankard into a fist and hoped the stranger didn't see the way his knuckles turned white.

The godlike chuckled. "Hypothetically, I'd thank you for the compliment. But since your heart isn't in it, I'd leave it at that." Their smile seemed softer than the others, understanding in a way that grated against him more than anything else. He hated himself a little bit for the relief that was all his own spreading through his limbs.

He hmphed and turned towards the bar, trying to dredge up the appropriate anger for being turned down. As always he failed.

"Don't take it personally." The godlike shrugged, still smiling softly. "There's plenty of people who don't find sex all that attractive. It's hardly a character fault." His neck burnt, this time in embarrassment, but he ignored it, just as he ignored all else. He hated that a stranger had seen through him so easily. Still he didn't quite manage to be truly angry about it either. At least the rest of this conversation assured him that he wouldn't have to endure the constant judgement for much longer. That dark thought did elicit a spark of a reaction in a part of Waidwen not quite his. Another part of Waidwen took some savage pleasure in it. The majority of him ignored it.

"What, is my sexual behaviour your secret?" he grumbled into the tankard, glaring into its empty depths.

The godlike laughed. "Maybe. Who knows really." The entirety to the country. But who was counting. (The entirety of the country and they didn't like that they'd never gotten past zero.)

Waidwen sighed and dragged a hand over his face. It left a strange fizzing sensation in its wake. Everything felt heavy, dragging and bloated with a certainty that never stopped yanking him forward. The tension in his limbs had evaporated, leaving him with nothing but the ashes of himself. For once he could afford to run away from them. He pushed the tankard away and got up, trying to concentrate on the feeling of the ground under his feet rather than the swirling in his head.

"Well, either way I think it's time for me to turn in. Got a way to march tomorrow." The godlike didn't seem to mind his somewhat abrupt goodbye and simply nodded to him amicably.

"Good night and good luck then." Waidwen nodded back and turned, no doubt to never see them again, one way or another. Despite everything he still felt a twinge of regret, like there was something he was leaving behind in that tavern full of noise bullshit and lies.

Eventually he'd managed to fight his way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cool air of night, the noise behind him finally muffled through the door. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes focused on the surrounding houses and not the stars that hung like threats in the sky. He started walking towards the camp beyond the village border. He'd of course been offered to stay in the mayor's house, but first he'd have to change back into his own clothes, which he'd hid outside the village.

His hands starting stinging, like the fingers were about to peel off from both hand and bones. He flexed them for a moment and sniffed, a mixture of spite and tired acceptance filling him.

"Well. Nothing we didn't know before, is it." His voice was quiet, even in the silence of the night as they'd left the bustling tavern behind. Nothing like the booming voice of Saint Waidwen. Nothing like the grudging rasp of the soldier. Just him and a rapidly shrinking eternity.

Eothas didn't answer, but a soft warmth returned to his neck. Not burning, not pushing, only present as they moved onwards to something neither of them could stop.

It occurred to neither of them that they had never felt the need to ask the stranger's name.

And so lone soldier slowly strode through the streets, in the direction of the camp just outside the village, noted by no one.

Inside the tavern, a godlike clacked their tongue and sat, thinking.

Anyone bothering to ask the locals the next day about a death godlike drinking in the tavern would have their silly delusions quickly corrected. The village of Palemorn had not seen any godlikes in more than a decade.

[perenians]

props to deadfire for making me care about waidwen. i did not see that one coming

[bragganhyl]

✨ The illustrated edition of A Very Good Farmer is coming to a bookstore near you ✨

[adraveins]

I’ve seen you playing with fire

[herearedragons]

According to both Pillars Of Eternity and Epic - when the gods get involved.

(lyrics from Epic: The Musical - “Just A Man” )

commission info

[ampleappleamble]

axa and friends get their final fantasy costumes on for the spooky season 🎃

[solas-backpack-mug]

numbers 7, 9, 10 and 11 from silly doodles!!!!

@apeirotilio @herearedragons @adozentothedawn

[dragonologist-phd]

i've been working on my piece for @bg3womenswrongs zine, and the time has come to release a sneak peek! please enjoy <3

-

A curse from Selûne, Shar had called it. Not an outright lie, perhaps, but still a cruel joke, and one which simmers in Shadowheart’s mind long after the moon has waned.

She stares at herself in the mirror, searching her features for some kind of clue. Are her teeth sharper than they should be? Is there a glint of feral yellow in her eyes? Do any traces of a monster warp her features, or is it only her?

Is there a difference?

If only her parents were here. Surely they could answer her questions…but they are gone, sacrificed by her own hand. Stupid, selfish girl, Shadowheart thinks, staring at her own sullen reflection. Are you happy now, with all you’ve done?

She flexes her hand and runs a thumb over her palm, where the ghost of a faded wound can still be felt.

They wanted you to be free, she reminds herself, but that comfort is a hollow one. It was she alone who sealed their fate. Now they only live in her memory, for whatever good that is. Her mind is a sieve, tarnished by lies and fear. It is no safe place for treasured memories. How many times has she already lost them? How long until it happens again? She doesn’t want to forget-

The thought comes to her as she meets her own eyes in the mirror, and suddenly she can feel the Mother Superior’s cold hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place.

In a sudden flash of panic, Shadowheart’s fist smashes through the glass.

The cut of glass across her palm barely registers, nor does the trickle of blood down her arm. Between the shattered mirror and her own tears, Shadowheart can no longer see her reflection. But the thought repeats itself, over and over, pulsing in time with her racing heartbeat.

I don’t want to forget.

[adozentothedawn]

Since I am once again completely obsessed I need you all to see my favourite twitter thread.

Waidwen objectively hot confirmed.

[joshbii]

Writing for another prompt and I'd forgotten how much fun Waidwen is as a character. Just this little blorbo who got 'norted by a god. Love this man.

[yanara126-writing]

a kiss on the back of the hand, Remastered

Mani Thilion fan Fürst, advisor to Divine King Waidwen, feels and fears.

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I have finally reworked this four year old piece that has been annoying me for an eternity! I just did not know what a register was at the time and as a result the voice was horribly off. But! He I have not forgotten my boy Mani, he is not abandoned, I do love him. And I will continue to torture him for my enjoyment. Eventually.

I have also uploaded the new version to the collection on Ao3, if you prefer. I'm always happy about reactions on there as well (and if you like this, there is more like it in that collection. Have fun!

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In the beginning it had been convenience. Certainly, it had been strange that a peasant farmer had succeeded in rattling the population as much as he had, and deeply disconcerting that he had accomplished a Woedica damned coup against the local government. Of course, he had been somewhat shocked in the first moments. But Mani was nothing if not cunning, and so he had decided to use the situation to his advantage and had pledged his loyalty.

Later it had been respect. The uncultured farmer had caused him quite a lot of frustration, but at some point they had found themselves on equal ground. What better way to unite than a shared hatred of establishments of power? What better way to unite than a shared disappointment in family? And for the first time Mani was put into a position of power by someone who expected and trusted him to fill it well.

And even later it was fondness. Mani did not know when exactly it happened, but at some point they went from king and councillor to friends. Perhaps it had been the first time someone had targeted Mani in an assassination attempt and Waidwen had stepped in front of him without hesitation, perhaps it had been when he had first seen those horrible scars on Waidwen’s back. Regardless of what it had been, it had made the situation personal. The man might be an uncultured oaf, but he was his uncultured oaf.

Now… now it had stopped being a game. Now it was no longer about playing his cards in the game of politics, about paying back every disgrace he’d had to suffer at the hands of the nobles back- no, not home, back in Aedyr. It was not even about helping his friend. No, now it was war, and now his friend, the uncultured peasant oaf, had grown into a god king. Now it was awe… Now it was love.

They were standing before the crowd of cheering peasants, the whole plaza full of people declaring their support, but Mani’s eyes were on his king. Gone was the unrefined fool who couldn’t brush his hair. Gone was the stubborn country bumpkin refusing to wear something that wasn’t old and tattered. Gone was the half feral young man who would flinch if someone dared step up behind him.

Instead there stood the god-king he’d tried so hard to portray before and had never quite been. Immaculate clothing, no matter how simple, clean, back straight, self-assured and confident, and completely in control of the situation. Calm. A leader.

One Mani would follow to the end of time and back if asked.

And one Mani wouldn’t follow, because he had been asked to stay.

He knew why, in fact in Mani’s opinion it was the most logical choice they could make. Someone needed to govern Readceras while Waidwen was gone, and he was capable and prepared for the task. Mani wasn’t a soldier, he could not do much good on the front lines, but back here he could keep the country together.

Mani hated it. He hated that he had to let go, and he hated that he would have to trust others to keep him safe. And he hated that it was the right choice nonetheless.

Mani watched peasants cheer out their approval, saw Broder standing not far to the side with a proud gaze on Waidwen, and felt inadequate. Now was the time to voice feelings, to show his admiration and pride, to demand he be careful. And still all those words he had always been so proud of failed him. How could he possibly explain this storm of conflicting emotions churning within his chest to someone else, when he could not understand them himself?

And so he didn’t. He buried all this confusion, deep within himself where no one would ever find it, banished all thoughts of logic or pride, and what remained was the only way of expressing love he’d ever known. And for the first time he found he really wanted to.

Mani stepped forward. The crowd quieted a little. Waidwen’s head turned as he watched Mani step before him, somewhat expectant, but without any unease.

His steps felt heavy and sounded too loud. All eyes were on him, and once again there was this confusion. It was strange, he felt like he should hate what he was about to do, and hate even more that people were watching, but he didn’t. It felt right. And yet his hands were sweating.

Mani knelt. His back to the people he looked up to Waidwen and held out one hand, his mouth feeling oddly dry for reasons he had no interest in examining. A few seconds passed, and suddenly Mani became aware that perhaps Waidwen didn’t know what Mani was trying to do. But before Mani could truly start panicking at his failure in properly teaching the appropriate etiquette, Waidwen slowly lifted his own hand and put it in his. For a second Mani was distracted at how unlike his own it was. Mani’s hands were soft, meticulously cared for and entirely unmarred. Waidwen’s were covered in calluses, small scars and rough spots, from years and years of being abused with manual labour again and again. This was a hand no noble would ever willingly touch with even their fingertips.

With all the care one would treat a new-born child with he lifted Waidwen’s hand, turned his head downwards and gently pressed his lips against the weathered skin. Without conscious decisions his eyes closed and all that was left was the sensation of warm, rough skin against his much softer lips. No sound passed through to him if there was any at all left, and the world had not suddenly seized to exist. As far as he was concerned, it might as well have.

He stayed like that as long as he could, dragging out what was supposed to be a short proclamation of respect into an intimate moment. Even as he slowly drew back from the kiss, he did not want to let go. He did not want to let this moment end and see what would happen afterwards. He did not want to give up this last shred of control he still had.

So Mani stayed on his knees, Waidwen’s hand still in his own, and pressed the back of it to his forehead, eyes still closed, denying their surroundings. He could not explain why this was so important to him, why he could not give up this last shred of connection, why he needed this physical tether so dearly, why he even did this in the first place. He’d kissed plenty of hands in his life, and he had hated every one of them. Hat hated having to grovel before others who thought themselves his superior, to bow to someone else. He didn’t hate this.

The hand against his forehead moved, and for one short moment Mani was tempted to hold on tighter and refuse to let go, but the hand didn’t pull back, instead moving to the side of his face, softly caressing his cheek. Against better judgement Mani opened his eyes, looked up, and met Waidwen’s gaze. The man (king, god, friend) was looking at him with a strange mixture of warmth, curiosity and understanding.

For just a second longer this moment was theirs, shared in intimate companionship, but all moments must end, and so this one did all too soon as well. The atmosphere was broken when Waidwen glanced to the side, and upon looking back to Mani pulled his hand from his face, instead holding it out in a clear offer.

Finally starting to notice the noise and people behind him Mani hesitantly grabbed the offered hand and let himself be pulled up to his feet. He already missed the warm contact.

Reluctant as he was to leave behind this strange comfort, Mani did as he had always done and seamlessly fitted himself back into the role of arrogant noble. Chin up and face smoothed out into indifference he returned to his place behind Waidwen. Warmth filled his cheek, a shadow of the feeling from before, that comforting touch, and he couldn’t help but desperately try to carve it into his memory.

A pit of dread formed in his stomach then as he watched Waidwen from behind. There was no reason for it, everything was going well, and still there was a nagging in the back of his head, this insistence that there had been something else, that this warmth that he was still feeling hadn’t been all. Mani knew this nagging well, he had carefully cultivated it over years, had honed his senses to all the subtleties of court, and it had never failed him. In that moment Mani prayed for the first time, to Eothas, to Hylea, to Woedica, to whoever would hear him, that just this one time it would. That this wouldn’t be the last kiss he was allowed to give his king, his god, his friend.

[perenians]

poe fans please reblog.

text of 'a very good farmer's description under the cut.

A Very Good Farmer

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Every page of this tome is filled with closely-packed writing and illustrations. One passage reads:

Saint Waidwen pursed his lips and stared down the glowing, glowering visage which peered at him between stalks of vorlas. He gripped the wooden shaft of his scythe, slick with sweat from his palms - the hands of a working man, which he was.

"Then you're Eothas, then,' he said.

'THAT I AM,' said the god.

"Then you already know what I want,' said the farmer, who was Waidwen.

'THAT I DO.'

Waidwen unknotted the taut cord which restrained his ponytail and let the flowing, flowering locks cascade around his shoulders and rest over the shelf of his bosom. He winked and cleared his throat before winking again.

'I've got a candle hasn't been lit properly.'

Eothas moved closer and—

The passage cuts off abruptly with a series of jagged notes pressed deeply into the parchment:

"Eora is not ready for this."