#weak-and-sunken-lies

[sscarletvenus]

yes suguru's plans to exterminate a vast majority of humanity is undeniably evil, but to say that he is murderous from the very start, cruel for the sake of being so, or lacks compassion or any emotional nuance is a gross disservice to his character's writing.

suguru is a case study of a romantic idealist and self-sacrificial saviour whose absurdly rigid, quixotic ideals are shattered brutally by reality intervening. the intense hatred he has for humanity is born out of, is an inverse of, the intense love he once possessesed for it. this is also why even though satoru is portrayed as brash and selfish and arrogant in the hidden inventory arc, it is suguru that turns "villainous."

suguru places his faith in the goodness of humanity, believes the duty of shamans is to protect the weak, their existence solely hinged upon saving the lives of non-sorcerers, and for that he is disappointed so tremendously, betrayed to an extent that makes it impossible for him to recover his ideals and past self.

ultimately there are also more than one reasons why satoru doesn't become "evil" : 1) "protecting humanity" was never his cause to begin with. he hardly cared about preserving human life, as is evident in his intentions to kill the cultists who cheered on riko's death, and 2) he had someone shielding his inner self : suguru. for it is suguru that tells him the duty of shamans is to protect non-shamans and the weak, suguru who asks him to sympathise with riko, suguru who persuades him to not kill meaninglessly.

satoru is indeed attached to riko, as well. he is the one who decides not to hand riko over to tengen if she wishes to return home, and tries to enliven her last days as a lucid person. it would thus not surpass one’s expectations if satoru turned to villainy post riko's demise, since he never even liked non-shamans to begin with. and yet, he doesn't. suguru protects his heart, which is a part of why he is able to steadily process his grief and anguish over riko's death.

suguru doesn't have anyone to do that for him, he is strong in his own right but not the "strongest", nobody notices how deep of an abyss his soul has sunken in, and he succumbs to the lethal loneliness, falters in this marathon of sorcery.

suguru is brimming with love and compassion: it is what drives his heroism in youth and villainy as a cult leader. he is able to protect gojo's heart but not his own. he fluctuates between two polar extremes : utter distaste of humanity Vs. a duty to protect it despite its horrors. three things serve as final nails to the metaphorical coffin : yuki's words, haibara's death, miminana's abuse. he describes imbibing curses for curse manipulation is "like eating a rag used to clean vomit". how macabre, how grotesque, how enlightening - who is he doing all this for? the humans who killed riko? it was these humans haibara died serving, these same humans violently mistreated miminana.

toji and sonoda encapsulate evil very blatantly, and aren't enough to shake suguru's belief in humanity. but the turning point is the non-shaman cultists rejoicing : suguru is thus forced to confront the banality of evil.

and suguru responds by rejecting what he once loved, embraces the darkness plaguing him. believes the only way to eradicate curses is to uproot their source : humanity. humans, for as long as they will live, will give rise to curses born out of their negative emotions. there is no one to tell him any better, or protect his self-identity. he loses himself to his own sense of empathy, his own ideals.

he isn't indifferent at all, cannot pick and choose whom he loves and doesn't. his love and hatred is collective, in both he gives his all. even amidst his hatred, he doesn't lose his love.

who does he choose to target first, once amassing enough money, power, and reputation? sonoda, the man who ordered riko's assassination. someone who lies in wait to enact vengeance does it out of love. if he was nothing more than a corrupt tyrant, he wouldn't remember the circumstances of riko's demise or care enough about them. suguru's rise as a hero and his subsequent fall as a villain has always been about love. and it seems, to me, up until his death, he prioritizes satoru over himself. doesn't see satoru as a weapon at all, or he would have directly asked satoru to join his cause. instead he poses to satoru a question, presents him with a choice - which in turn makes satoru shaken enough to question his identity, his place in the system, becoming a teacher and dedicating his all to a fitting reformist centrism from an isolated and dare i say, individualistic person such as himself, who stands on the pinnacle of power. but he wouldn't have come to such a conclusion without suguru's experiences shaping his worldview (he himself apologizes to riko during his fight with toji because rather than feeling depressed over her death, he feels the pure pleasure of the world in that moment. killing toji endows him with a sense of duty towards megumi, and riko's death but obviously impacts him, but the change from full apathy, to neutral indifference except in the case of his students, was losing suguru.)

as evil as suguru becomes, he is not a hypocrite. that he kills his own parents is to show the seriousness and conviction he has in his ideals. his code of operation is consistent, even when it turns from pro-human to pro-shaman.

reminds you of what mahito tells yuuji: does yuuji ever consider how many curses he kills? so why should mahito account for how many humans he kills? suguru geto presents us with a possible answer : someone has to care about how many shamans are killed.

you can condemn him for his use of collective punishment, but suguru is a villain!

you can criticize his killing of innocents, but jjk conveys the carefully crafted narrative of a villain who once held staunch traditional and moral ideals.

suguru is evil for proposing collective punishment, but it is incredibly consistent with how emotional he is. he is empathetic because he cares about a girl like riko, doomed by the actions of the rest of the world, forgotten in her misery. he cares and it drives him to the deepest pits of despair, where life loses all color and meaning, despite only knowing her for so long and haibara as well, he enshrines haibara in his memory, when no one other than nanami does. hardly anyone remembers riko's existence, haibara's laughing face, but he does! and for that he spends each moment sinking in the quagmire of his grief and torment. his empathy is a sword of damocles hanging over his neck! to say that he is cruel and unfeeling is to contradict the very agony that drives his (wrongful?) actions. and he is indeed wrong for externalizing this indelible pain, wanting to inflict it upon innocents. but suguru is a villain! has been set up as such!

mahito raises this question to junpei,"is the opposite of love really indifference?" to satoru, it is. but to suguru, it is hatred which is the opposite of love.

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Four

Summary - The consequences of your defection to the Autumn Court become clear as you realise how deeply rooted the betrayal of your family lies within you.

Warnings - angst, self-doubt, trauma, depression, fluff

Part One Part Two Part Three

Nesta's toes curled uncomfortably.

Rhys was pacing before her and Lucien who was sunken into the seat beside her, Azriel and Cassian stood as still as stone to the side of Rhys' desk as he walked the length of the room behind it. Anger burned in his eyes, the violet orbs that Feyre loved so much now blazing with infantile fury at what he had lost.

The power pulsating around the High Lord was nothing compared to yours, but it was still uncomfortable to swim in; it was migraine-inducing, it made her eyes feel heavy and limbs weak, and she knew the power within him was teetering on the edge of unleashing.

Rhys, as calm as he was portraying, lay his palms flat against the table surface, staring Nesta and Lucien down, but neither of them relented, neither of them would dare falter in front of him, "Tell me where my sister is," his lips curled into a smile, a sadistic thing of psychotic beauty, his eyes were demanding, and Nesta stole a glance to Lucien whose fingers were ripping at the leather arms of the chair.

You had disappeared from Helion's birthday gathering, your scent floating away in the breeze, and you hadn't told a soul of where you were going. Rhys had assumed you were ashamed of yourself and had returned to Velaris, that he would be able to deal with you later. But when Eris' note had landed in Lucien's lap that evening, he had never felt such simmering relief.

There was history between Rhys and Lucien, they weren't exactly the best of friends, but they weren't enemies, Lucien dealt with him for Elain and Rhys delt with him for Feyre, but if he had it his way Lucien would cease to exist.

"Y/N," Lucien bit, to remind them that you were y/n, your own person, and not just known to be his sister and executioner, "Has denounced her place in the Night Court, she is residing elsewhere."

Azriel scoffed, his finger trailing along the sharp edge of Truthteller, "She can't denounce her place so easily."

"Well she has," Nesta smirked, her stare barrelling into Azriel whose pupils flared in response, "I suppose this is what happens when you raise a female to be nothing more than your dirty little secret."

Rhys bristled, "I would watch how you speak if I were you, Nesta."

Rolling her neck, Nesta drawled, "I think you forget how little I care for your opinions, Rhysand," Lucien hummed low in agreement, legs lax and open against the confinements of his seat, "It seems as though y/n finally realised what you've done all these years."

"And what's that?" Rhys challenged.

Nesta could have smacked that smirk from his lips, but she restrained herself from doing so. Unfortunate.

"Lie," Rhys' eyes darkened, "All you've done is lie to her. You had never hidden her to protect her from what happened to your mother and sister, you used it as an excuse so that no one would find out just how powerful she is. You hid her so that she would never realise her full potential, you never trained her abilities and yet her power still drowns you, and instead of caring for her and helping her, you locked her away in this city and silently forbade her to ever leave."

Lady Death rose to her feet and approached the desk, paying little mind to the daggers shooting from Cassian's eyes. Fuck the male who would let their master manhandle their precious mate. Nesta mirrored the High Lord, palms flat across the table and leaning in so that she could feel his breath on her cheeks, "You have raised y/n to be your executioner, you have spread this vile word of her ferocity and violence so that no one would ever wish to be around her. You created the image of a bloodthirsty monster that lays dormant in the Night Court until her master calls upon her, and y/n has realised just how much you have betrayed her. All she knows is what you reared her to be, not what she actually is or can be."

Lucien shuffled in his seat, opening his mouth and voicing, "You stole away her chance to choose her own path by manipulating her into believing that her place in the world was to be nothing but the Feared Princess of Velaris," he leaned forward in his seat, smirking at the way Cassian took a step forward, "The mere mention of her name strikes fear into the souls of every traveller, they sing songs around fires of her, she is the monster in the nightmares and the one dying men wish they never meet on the other side, and she has been allowed to be depicted like that because you wished it."

It was masterful really, how Rhys had manipulated everyone to believe that you were an awful abomination of a thing when in reality all you wanted to do was see the world and curl up with a good book. You hadn't experienced anything good or soul-awakening, Amarantha had stripped your essence from you the moment she carved your wings from your body, and that had been the moment that Rhys had wrapped his talons around your mind and bent you to his will.

"Tell me where she is."

Nesta cocked her head to the side as she scrutinised his face with horror laced in her orbs, after all they had said all he cared about was knowing where you were, he had no interest in acknowledging or accepting anything he had done. She looked to Cassian, "Do you not understand how disgusting this is? She grew up with you, you said she was like a sister to you that you loved her as much as him," Nesta pointed at Rhys who pulled back from the desk, "How could you stand by and allow this?"

"Y/N's power poses a threat to us all, I did what was necessary to ensure our safety."

"If that's truly what you think then you are no mate of mine," she spat and his eyes rounded as his forehead creased, his façade was cracking. Nesta turned her attention to Azriel, "You. You're supposed to be her best friend, she loves you more than anything, there's nothing she wouldn't do for you, Az."

Azriel shrugged, "My duty is to the Night Court."

"You're a pig," she took in the sight of Rhys who had taken a step or so backward and had found a place to lean against the fireplace, her anger bubbled and there was little she could do to stop the truth from stabbing him in his soul, "Y/N is in the Autumn Court. The one place you physically can't go, where none of you can and I'm so glad she got out of this shitshow of a city because she would have died if she had been locked away for another moment longer being treated like nothing and no one."

"Watch it."

Nesta chuckled lowly, "Or what, Rhys? You'll kick me out of the Night Court? It's a good thing that I'm already leaving."

What have I done?

The thought was on repeat in your mind, an overlapping record jolting with the same phrase.

A pit had opened inside of you, a gnarly black hole full of anger and hatred that had dampened the moment Eris had wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a flurry of light, and you could distinctly see the world as you knew it warp before your eyes.

The dress you had worn was draped over a standing mirror, the skirt of it brushing against the glass in the breeze swelling through the room Eris had led you to that night. Flowing water from a babbling brook sounded from beyond the window, harmonising with sweet birdsong and the rustling of autumn leaves. Sunlight speckled through the room and streaked across the thick brown carpet that made you feel like you were walking on clouds.

For a moment, you stopped thinking of how your life had momentously changed in the space of one decision. It was a peace you welcomed before the reality of it came crashing down on you.

Rhys would be furious once he found out that you had denounced your home court and title, so furious that he may not allow you back which wasn't exactly a bad thing. But nothing would made that vein in his forehead pop more than when he realised where you had gone. To Autumn. With Eris.

Your heart raced at the thought of it, your hands went clammy and damp, and you couldn't stop thinking about what exactly would happen to Nesta and Lucien because of your reckless decision.

You are the author of your own story.

A soft knock rattled on the door, pulling your mind back into the present. Lifting yourself from the larger-than-life bed, you padded over to the door, knowing that Eris would never just let himself into the safe space he had gifted to you.

Eris stood on the other side, the sunlight brushing over his face and turning his eyes into molten shimmer bronze, he looked handsome, dressed in tight taupe pants that were tucked into his riding boots, a cream shirt loosely poked into the waistband.

His gaze travelled down your figure that was half-hidden behind the door, specifically at the shirt he had leant you that barely fell to your mid-thigh which left the rest of your leg exposed to him. Your hair was messy from the night full of tossing and turning, but he thought you looked radiant, that it made you look rather adorable actually.

"Good morning," he told you softly once he was done examining you, there was a box in his arms along with a few folded pieces of fabric, "I went out this morning and got these for you," he offered, "You don't have any clothes here so I thought these would do for now until I could take you into town."

Taking the box and tower of clothes from his arms, you smiled, "Thank you," you suddenly felt naked in front of him, the breeze drifting inward and up your legs reminding you of that fact.

If he knew of your realisation he didn't let on, "Our fashion isn't like that of your former court, but I'm sure you'll look incredible in it regardless," his eyes sparkled and your racing heart began to relent, "I'll be in the gardens when you're ready, Fawn."

Eris left you after that, he left you with the lingering speckles of his scent, the same scent that you had drifted to sleep bathed in thanks to the large shirt he had given you. The arms of the shirt drooped on you and you knew that it was due to his large arms perfectly fitting in the fabric.

The clothes were lovely, a mixture of dresses in a variety of styles and hues that you knew would mould against your skin perfectly, tailored shirts and tight leather pants, feminine waistcoats of forest green and red wine with golden embellishments, and undergarments that you knew Eris wouldn’t dare pick himself. Even the thought made heat rise to your cheeks.

Deciding to embrace your defection, one that Eris had been careful not to voice directly, you dressed yourself in a pair of high waisted black pants and a fitted artic blue blouse. It was so unlike anything you had ever worn, but it was beautiful in its own way. Turning to the box, you lifted the lid and gasped at the oyster coloured riding boots that must have cost a small fortune considering the intricate stitching. They weren’t just regular riding boots, no, when you slid them up your calves and found yourself adjusting them to your thighs, you knew they were a statement piece if you’d ever seen one.

Pulling your hair back into a low and messy bun, you found your reflection and grinned.

Eris was right, you did look incredible, like Velaris had been dispelled from you long ago and was nothing but a horrible dream.

Fir Manor was a special place, you could see why Eris chose to live there over the Forest House. It was light and bright and full of warmth from the whispering sun, ornate furniture was littered everywhere, the library was the personification of comfort and grace, exposed wooden beams loomed overhead and the windows were large and clear enough that you could see to the edge of the estate and the woodland beyond.

Your sun-starved skin cried in relief as you stepped outside, drinking in every vitamin offered to it, a low whistle caught your ear and you found Eris stood before a pair of large but stunning stallions, his hounds chasing one another and running between their legs which didn’t phase them at all.

“You look,” he trailed off as he approached, a jacket now completing his outfit and fingers raking through his red hair.

“Like Autumn threw up on me?”

“Something like that,” you huffed out a laugh and looked to the beasts, “I thought you’d like to explore the woodland today, get you out of the manor for a few hours?”

It was an offer than you wanted to say yes to, but at the same time couldn’t, ashamed of your oncoming admittance, “I would love to. It’s just,” you faltered, your eyes moved from Eris to the towering midnight black stallion that had craned its neck to look to you inquisitively.

Eris caught on, “You don’t know how,” a solemn finish to the sentence you were trying to voice, his heart clenched slightly at the defeat in your eyes, yet another thing that had been taken from you, “Well I can teach you,” he spoke, “Today you can ride with me, learn the basics, and you’ll be on your own stallion in no time.”

The High Lord of Autumn stood beside you, elbow to elbow, and even through the fabric of your clothes, you could feel his fire prickling across your skin and work its way into the woven fibres of your soul. He stood there seemingly unknowing of it, and when he looked down on you, waiting for your answer, all you could do was nod.

The stallion, Axos, shuddered under your touch as your fingers drifted over his side and around the curve of his saddle. Hands curled around your hips and you almost fell backward at the touch, Eris was behind you, his chest moving against your back and you glanced backward at him, "Don't get too excited," he smirked, and you wished you could have seen the muscles in his arms rippling as he lifted you up, instructing you to swing your leg over before he settled in behind you with ease.

The reigns became wrapped between his fingers, his breath was hot against your neck and Axos was moving onward after a curt click from Eris' mouth, his hounds trotting happily alongside you, "You have to roll your hips with each step he takes," his voice was gruff in your ear, low enough to send shivers flowing down your spine, "Like this," he unwound one of his hands from the reigns and placed it on your hip, gently moving it back and forth to the steps of Axos beneath as the stallion carried you both into the woodland, through the arched hanging branches and grasslands.

Awareness washed over you at how close Eris truly was, you were nestled at the centre of his open legs, his thighs encased your own, his entire chest shrouded you, and a shadow fell over you from the sheer size of him. He was pressed up to your back to the point you could feel his heart beating through his shirt, a thing you had become extremely aware of but didn't dare shudder away from in fear of him pulling away from you.

The landscape was picturesque, mounds of fresh earth, dainty flowers and fallen branches, leaves of orange, brown, and red, and water flowing through the small brooks, trying to find their way to the river. Even the sun felt surreal, it streaked through any respite of bark that it could, its golden glow spreading and infecting the land. Soft scampering of tiny paws ran through the trees, squirrels jumped from branch to branch, following you and paying no attention to the swarm of hounds keeping an eye on them.

It astounded you how a place so beautiful even existed.

It scared you how place so beautiful could turn into the most vicious of battlegrounds.

"Are you afraid, of Rhys coming here?"

Eris tensed behind you, his hand still lingering on your side, "We don't have to talk about this, y/n."

"I know," you told him, smiling softly as you watched a small bunny poke its head above its burrow, "I just know him, and I don't want to put you or your court in danger."

"I'm not afraid of him, and he will never step foot in my court. I won't allow it," he was stoic, and you knew he was telling the truth, Eris had faced worse than Rhys, he had endured worse.

"I can go, I don't have to be here, Eris."

Axos stopped moving, your brows itched together in a frown and you turned to capture Eris' gaze which was riddled with confusion, "I would never dream to keep you from doing whatever it is you wish to you, even if you wish to leave, I would not stop you. But I would like you to stay, and I think you would like to stay too."

Eris' amber pools softened and he smiled sadly at you, knowing that you didn't wish to leave but wanted to protect him and his home from whatever it was that Rhys could inflict upon it, "You will always have a place here, y/n. No one can take that from you, whatever you wish for is yours."

"Who knew that the fox could be so sweet?"

Eris tilted his head back and laughed, a pure thing of serenity, he moved his hand to your thigh and squeezed it gently before grabbing at the reigns once more, "Keep going, Fawn. You're getting warmer."

The hours ticked by, idly chatter filled the air, he told you the names of his hounds, you had unmounted Axos and delved further into the woodland, touching every tree that you could as if you wouldn't see them again all whilst Eris trailed you with a distant grin on his lips. Sunlight began to wane into its mid-afternoon position, the warmth replaced with bristle breezes and the birdsong drowned out by the emerging chirps of crickets.

Golden hour.

A moment you had heard of, when the sun reached its most comfortable resting place before it beckoned the moon to start its ascent, where the world was coated in the golden autumn glow that consumed the land. You had heard the stories of its beauty, but nothing could prepare you for it as you watched the light shift to a different angle and a shimmer cling to everything that moved. The waters glistening, sparkling and reflecting against the bodies of the trees, and that sparkle bounced all over the clearing where you stood.

"It's beautiful," your voice was a whisper but your eyes floated about the clearing, your body turned where you stood and you drank it in.

"It is," Eris confirmed from where he stood, dry branches creaked under his feet as he approached, "It's something that I take for granted, when you see it every day you forget how special it is."

"I wish that you could see it again for the first time."

A weight shifted at your feet and you peered down to see one of Eris' hounds, Willow, perched atop your toes, looking up at you with a lopsided grin as she panted. Reaching down, you scratched the spot beneath her shin and between her ears, your heart swelling as her tail swatted at the floor and her eyes screwed closed as she accepted your touch, "She likes you."

Willow was an elegant beast, long brown lashes, deep brown eyes, shining fur of tan and black, and shaggy ears that fell down the sides of her face, "I like her too."

Eris' eyes glowed, with what you couldn't quite tell, "We should head back to the manor, you must be starving."

When you thought of it you were hungry, you didn't remember the last time you ate, perhaps the morning of your departure but you couldn't be sure of it. The ride back to the manor felt too short, you were relishing in his company far too much, so much so that you wished that the day wouldn't end.

Fir Manor approached in the forefront of your vision and you sighed, ready to be in more relaxing clothes, but also ready to eat something. You could only imagine how incredible the food would be if even the landscape alone brought you happiness. Eris dismounted first and held his hands up to you, not even straining as they gripped your waist and placed you back on the ground delicately.

Eris' finger reached to tuck a strand of your hair behind your pointed ear, one that must have fell loose from the effortless bun you had thrown your hair into that morning. That same finger lingered, ghosting over the curve of your jaw and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. His eyes were on you, waving themselves over your face.

You could have stayed there for much longer, in his arms with his fingers dusting over your skin. It seemed that others were too impatient to allow the moment to continue as the door to the manor swung open and you turned your head to see Nesta and Lucien stood on the porch with Elain in the doorway.

"Nes?" Eris' grip on your waist tightened slightly but relented as you moved away, pacing up the pathway and flinging yourself into her open arms which wrapped around you tightly, "What are you doing here?"

"Our place is with you," she muttered and you pulled away, looking between her, Lucien and Elain as Eris fell to your side.

"What about Cassian?"

Nesta shuddered, she took a moment to glance at Eris and the apprehension he wore as he inched closer to you, "I can't be mated to someone who could allow something like this to happen."

"I'm so sorry, Nes," guilt pooled within you and she could see that as clear as daybreak, she took a step closer to you, taking your head in her hands and stroking your cheeks with her thumbs.

"Don't be," she shushed, "I chose you. I will always choose you."

Lucien placed a hand on your shoulder and offered more detail, "Rhys is furious, but he knows that he can't get to you here," he glanced to his brother and his lips tilted downward, "He's asked for you, for a meeting at the boarder."

The High Lord growled under his breath and took a protective step to you, it was clear that Rhys was going to attempt to barter for your return, that he was going to use his manipulation tactics to steal you back, "Fine," your blood ran cold and Nesta's fingers gripped at your wrists as Eris rounded your figure to stand beside her, "You're not going anywhere, alright? It's in our best interests to see what he has to say. I'll never let him take you," Eris turned his head to peer over his shoulder at his younger brother and Elain who had drifted from the doorway to entwine her fingers with his, his eyes faltered in want before he spoke, "You'll accompany me."

Lucien nodded stiffly and once, "For her, I'll do whatever you need me to."

"Thank you," Eris' words were sincere and he found Nesta's gaze, "You can all stay here for however long you'd like," then he found yours and he reached for your hand, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles, "Forever if it suits."

The sun hung low in the sky, the moon was pushing itself through the clouds and your heart raced with anticipation for the moment Eris and Lucien would both leave for the boarder, "Please be careful."

Eris nodded, rubbing your clothes arms in his hands to allow his warmth to run through you, "We will. Go and get changed, I'll see to it that food is on the table for you three by the time you're back."

"Us three?"

"The boarder is hours away," Lucien spoke for his brother who couldn't bare to tell you that they would have to leave imminently in order to meet with Rhys, "If we don't leave soon then we risk missing the window altogether."

"You're safe here, y/n. They can't get in."

In that moment, all you wanted to do was throw your arms around him, just to bask in his scent and warmth for another moment longer, but you couldn't. Instead, you nodded and allowed Nesta and Elain to lead you inside, and you continued to look over your shoulder up until the moment when Lucien closed the door with a tight lipped smile cast in your direction.

It would not be the last time you'd see him. If it was, then you'd decimate the entire of Prythian with your fury.

Author's Note

Here we are!

Hope you love it x

Someone told me that 'Who's Afraid of Little Old Me' by Taylor Swift is so The Fox and The Fawn reader coded and I cannot stop thinking about it

Taglist

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[mustainegf]

Hi! So I was having thoughts and was thinking about Older James with a younger girlfriend. So pretty much, it’s that time of the month for her and she wasn’t used to her boyfriends caring much or taking care of her so she never really mentioned it to James and kept quite about it. James always knew about it and was sweet with her but never pushed to much with it when he saw that she seemed to handle it ok for herself until one month it’s a lot worse than normal and no matter how hard she tries to hide it and just starts taking care of her completely no matter how much she argued it. Running her a bath, rubbing her tummy, holding her, just fluff in general.

Having feels right now and need some fluff with older James🥹

I love this sweet old man so much

𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐒 ²⁰²³

The first time it clicked that James knew about my cycle, it was a second where you catch someone out of the corner of your eye and they're just looking at you with that half grin, like they're in on some big secret. I'd been digging through my purse, trying to find a tampon discreetly while we were out at dinner. James didn't say anything, just continued talking to me about the tour they'd just finished up with in that aged, endearing voice.

I remembered how my breath glued to my throat the instant his hand slid across the table to cover mine. "Baby, it's okay," he'd smiled, almost too casually. I'd blinked at him, my hand stuck mid search. He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze while his thumb brushed against the back of my hand with a nod.

I nodded back, mostly because I didn't know what else to do. My exes never discussed this stuff. They didn't even notice, or if they did, they pretended they didn't. I was used to dealing with this stuff on my own. I'd learned to be discreet about it, to cope with the cramps, mood swings all without making a fuss.

James was different, though.

He never pushed it, never made a big deal out of it, but somehow, he was always there. A heating pad would appear in bed, or he'd send me a text asking if I needed anything from the store, throwing in a stupid little winking emoji that always made me giggle at how much of a sweet old man he was. And it worked for us. I mean, I didn't want him to see me as weak or needy.

My period hit like a punch, a blow that felt unrecoverable. From the instant I woke up, I knew it was going to be a bad day. These cramps were sharper, aching, tugging and eating at my lower back. My head was pounding, and even the thought of food made my stomach churn.

I decided to try and soldier through it like I always did, not wanting to burden James with my misery, but every movement seemed to make it worse. By mid morning, maybe 10AM, I was curled up on the couch, clutching a pillow to my abdomen wondering if maybe the devil would let me sell my soul to get rid of these horrid periods.

I didn't even hear James come in. One minute, I was alone in the living room, the next his shadow draped over me. I opened my eyes enough to see him there, his aged face was sunken with worry for me, his white eyebrows quirked in curiosity.

"You look sick, baby," he cooed softly, kneeling beside the couch. His hand came up to brush the hair out of my face and then warmly kiss my forehead.

"I'm fine," I lied, my voice the weakest it's ever sounded. "Just tired."

"Yeah? And how long have you been lying here?"

I shrugged, not exactly wanting to answer. "Awhile.. It's just…you know, that time."

His face switched from worry to empathy, and he nodded like he understood, which of course he did. I should have known better than to think I could hide this from him of all people. But instead of leaving it at that like he usually did, he pressed his lips together in that way that meant he was deep in thought, "Why don't you let me take care of you today, sweet thing?"

I wanted to debate him, to tell him I didn't need taking care of, to tell him I could handle it myself. But before the words could leave my lips, he was already easing the pillow out of my grasp and sliding his hands under me, and lifting me up into his arms. He didn't even sigh at the weight, it was that simple for him to just lift me.

"James—" I began, but he just shook his head.

"Shh... I got cha," he whispered, tucking me against his chest. James took me down the hall, my face cuddling into the tattoos on his flexing arms. I was too tired, too sore, to fight him on it. and deep down, I wanted this.

As we entered the bathroom, I could already hear him running the bath, steam rising from the tub and beckoning me in. He set me down on the edge of the tub and his hands stuck on my shoulders for a second whilst he crouched down in front of me. "Just relax, okay sweetheart? Let me take care of my girl."

Protests died on my lips as I looked into his soft blue eyes. There wasn't a shred of pity there, no frustration. Only love.

So I nodded, biting my lip to keep from tearing up. It wasn't that I was sad, not really. It was just… overwhelming in the best way, to have someone care this much. In a way nobody else had before.

James helped me undress, his touch so gentle. I felt incredibly embarrassed to take off my underwear and pad, but James was completely unfazed. I think he could see my discomfort as i stepped out of the undergarment, doing my best to keep my les clamped together. "it's okay, I'll deal with it. Don't be embarrassed." he whispered with a kiss to my forehead.

When I was finally in the tub, the hot water sucked out some of my uncomfort. James sat down on the floor beside the tub, one hand whisking lazily through the water. He would gently pull his hand from the water, thick fingertips dripping with warm water, before the back of his fingers found my shoulders, which weren't fully submerged. He trailed warm water over my skin, forcing a sigh from my lips

"Feel better?" he whispered.

I nodded, closing my eyes and leaning back against the cool porcelain. "Yeah... Thank you, Jamie..."

With James, it was different. Maybe because he was older, but he understood how to take care of me better than any man ever had.

After a short while, he stood up and reached onto the rack for a towel, and then slung it over his arm like some kind of butler, which brought me a small smile. "C'mon, let's get you dried off, love."

I let him help me out of the tub, my body heavier than it should have been. He wrapped the towel around me, carefully drying me, even between my legs, telling me not to think about the towel, ad that he'd wash it.

I looked to the counter and saw that he'd gotten my favorite pajama pants, and a shirt of his for me to wear, as well as a fresh pair of underwear with a new pad. Holy shit, he was a sweetheart. Any woman would swoon for this.

James carefully helped me into the clothes and brushed my wet hair before gently leading me to bed. Silently, James pulled back the covers on the bed and nudged me onto the mattress. He tucked the blankets around me and then climbed in alongside me, reeling me close to his chest. I could feel his heartbeat thump beneath my cheek.

I had no idea how much I'd really needed him until now.

"Why are you so good to me?" I mumbled into his chest, taking in a deep breath of his sweet and masculine smell.

He chuckled quietly, caressing his fingers on my cheek. "Because I love you, sweet thing."

I smiled, his words wrapping around my weak body like a super soft warm blanket. "I love you too."

He kissed the top of my head. "Get some rest, beautiful. I'm right here."

[wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart]

Renarin only knows of his mother through other people's perception of his person.

He feels guilty about it, sometimes. He knows from his brother that Evi only spent half of the year with her oldest son - staying behind with the weak and sickly young one whenever Adolin was sent to away to learn about war from his father. Sometimes he thinks he remembers flashes. A warm soft hand wiping away a stray tear. A lock of blonde hair tickling his nose. The smell of incense, which used to make him dizzy but now kind of feels like home.

On bad days he thinks that they are lies. Memories he forced into existence because the alternative is too unbearable. On good days he wages a 50% chance that they are more than just the fruits of his imagination, born out of Adolin's stories.

Everyone tells him he reminds them of his mother - not in looks, but in disposition. The ardents said it with pity, back when he regularly went to the training grounds to see what he couldn't have. His fellow nobles said it with contempt, whispers just loud enough for Renarin to know he was supposed to hear them.

Renarin only believes it when Adolin says it. Not distressed or gleeful, as if it were something to be ashamed of, but melancholic and wondrous, like something to be treasured.

Adolin has an excellent memory. He has to, in order to be able to be such a brilliant tactician. Especially considering how confused he still gets about the sigils. That is fine, of course. He is an excellent general, always knowing how to best use the troops at his disposal and keep morale high. So what if he regularly switches the symbols for sword and grain? "Lucky you aren't one of us", the ardents say good-naturedly - because Adolin Kholin makes even his faults seem charming. Girls of all classes giggle about how manly it is for Adolin to jumble his sigils. "A womanly art", they say, glancing at Renarin's little notebook. Because of course the Blackthorn's heir had the sense to choose the correct faults to possess.

Sometimes Renarin wishes he could hate his brother, even if just a little bit. Maybe it would make things easier. But Adolin is the only one who remembers the Riran legends she used to whisper to them in the night. Adolin is the only one who points out that he inherited his tendency to hide his smiled and laughs behind his hand from her. As if they were something secret or forbidden, he'd said, like a treasure. Adolin is the only one to recount her stories about the endless sunken forests. They had planned to go there together - before the assassin in white killed his uncle and the war started and everything got put on hold.

Dalinar refuses to talk about her. Renarin almost resents him for it, sometimes. Dalinar was already an adult when he got to know her, with a fully developed brain. Dalinar knew her in a way her children would never get to experience, and yet he keeps it all locked in tight. Renarin can't even remember the last time he said her name out loud.

Adolin is the one to always stand by him (even as his own father looks away in shame. He is trying, and Renarin wants to be grateful and understanding of his struggles, but the Blackthorn has never had cause to hide his inner truest feelings before). Adolin is the one to always think of him and his needs (even if it sometimes feels patronizing). Adolin is the one who made him believe that love can be unconditional.

(His working theory is that Adolin can't shackle himself to one person because he has too much love to give. When he told Adolin, the other almost started crying. "You're just like her", he'd said, reverently.)

Renarin used to go to as many war meetings as he could - even if he never managed to contribute much. He truly did try to keep up: even making up shortcuts and sigils of his own. But the almighty just loves throwing it in his face how unsuitable he is for battle - not only due to his body (which he holds no fault for!, as his father always reassures him, looking at him as if he were a particularly fascinating moving corpse), but due to his mind as well.

"You are just like your mother", they say. Sometimes he revels in it. Sometimes he gets annoyed. Sometimes he feels insulted in his mother's behalf. They are so blinded by his weakness, they don't see how he inherited the most alethi trait of all: greed.

Because sometimes Renarin wishes he was the oldest - not for the position or the power or the prestige, but in the hope that he also would've retained memories of her, even if it were in cost of Adolin's. Because sometimes Renarin wishes that Adolin had stayed with Dalinar year-round, so he could have his mother for himself alone just for a bit longer. Or that Adolin just never went, leaving Dalinar alone with his carnage and his armies. Because he does not want for money or food or safety or luxury, but still he wants more. He wants to hold a sword, even as he knows deep down he isn't made for battle. He wants to help defeat their enemies, even as he knows that actively and willingly taking a life would weigh on his soul. He wants to become a general, just so he can choose to go to the Ardentia instead. He doesn't want to go into the Ardentia, even though everyone knows that that would be a better place for him. He has so much and yet he wants more. Sometimes his demands sound reasonable. Sometimes he drowns in guilt.

Renarin doesn't know a lot about his mother. He only knows of her through a lense of absence. She was not a scribe like alethi women. She was too soft for the alethi people. She was not loud and did not command respect even though she was high-ranking nobility. Sometimes Renarin wonders if he will succumb to this same fate, after his death. Defined not by who he is, but by what he lacks.

Kindness is the sole attribute of her that survived. "She was kind", they said, and then they said nothing. At least there is that. Renarin hopes he will be remembered as kind as well, if nothing else. Sometimes he finds it hard looking Adolin or Dalinar in the face.

[nomie-11]

Chapter 14 - Threads Unraveling

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December turns to January in the blink of an eye, but it’s practically spring wherever Genevieve steps. The dark vines and fragrant black flowers only come out in moments of high stress now, she can control it well enough to hold what harms her back. 

Violet has started to channel as well, joining the rest of the squad in Professor Carr’s class, and she’s continued to train with Imogen.

But the day in, day out for Genevieve is still the most tiring. Learning to control her grounding, finding her footing in the inner workings of her mind has posed the biggest challenge. With every passing day, the list of secrets she shared with Violet grew long, and the list of secrets she shared with Xaden got even longer. 

The third week of January is pure torture. Violet is catching onto discrepancies between the reports they get in battle brief and the ones she reads on library duty, and Genevieve has started to dream. 

At first, the dreams meant nothing. Faceless people dying, their threads snapping in front of Genevieve’s eyes, but then she started to recognize those that were dying. 

Every night, she would wake up with a start, cold sweat covering her entire body. At first, she would go to Liam’s room and just sit outside his closed door until he woke up in the morning, but then he started to worry. 

He would sit in her room the entire night, falling asleep in the rickety chair at her desk. He looked like he hadn’t gotten a decent sleep in months, and so did she, the guilt gnawing at her everytime he asked what was wrong, but she couldn’t bring herself to face him with the fact that she’d seen their friends’ death play out in front of her eyes and she could do nothing to stop it. With every dream, she saw more than just a thread—she saw faces, heard voices, and felt the weight of each loss press harder and harder on her chest. 

In the fourth week of January, Xaden stopped her. 

“Gen,” he called out as she slipped out of a particularly grueling training session. Her body felt like it was going to break into a thousand pieces, and it looked like it too. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

She crossed her arms, the black flowers blooming in the corners of her vision. “Neither have you.” 

For a moment, he didn’t respond, just watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. 

“Liam told me you’ve been having nightmares.” 

Her heart stilled in her chest. She hadn’t told anyone about the dreams, Liam didn’t know either, he just knew something was going on. She had barely even admitted them to herself. But she should’ve known better than to think her ever observant sentinel wouldn’t notice. He always noticed. 

“I don’t know,” she lied, the words feeling like lead weighing down her tongue. “It's just nightmares. Nothing real.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Xaden said, his gaze darkening. 

“I’m a terrible liar to you.” She clarified. “At least you know I’m not hiding anything.” 

Xaden stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “That’s the problem, Gen. You are hiding something. Everyone can see it. It’s eating you alive.”

Her mind went back to her reflection in the mirror. Sunken in eyes and hollow cheekbones, loose flight leathers that were once almost skin-tight, gone was the sparkle in her eyes and the burning desire to fight. She shifted her weight, her ankles and knees aching with the foreign feeling of weakness. The tension was palpable, and the flowers bloomed brighter, bigger. 

Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest, and she couldn’t meet his gaze. She wasn’t sure what she was more afraid of—the truth he saw in her, or the truth she didn’t want to face. “What do you want me to say, Xaden? That I’m seeing people die every night in my dreams and I have no idea if it’s just in my head or if it’s some warning I don’t know how to stop? That I can barely function under the weight of it all and on top of it Violet is telling me that the numbers in battle brief aren’t adding up? Because I know you’re not going to tell me what’s happening on the front lines and then next year you’re going to the front lines and leaving me behind and I’m going to miss you so much.” 

Xaden’s expression shifted, softening just a fraction as she spoke. The words spilled out, tangled and raw, and for once, she didn’t hold them back. He closed the space between them, his hand lifting to cup her cheek gently. 

“You’re not going to lose me, Gen,” he said quietly, his voice low but steady, like a promise whispered in the dark. “Not to the front lines, not to this war. And certainly not to whatever is happening in your dreams.”

She flinched at his touch, not because she didn’t want it but because the weight of his reassurance felt like too much. The vulnerability she had buried so deeply with it herself had clawed to the surface since November, desperate for release, yet she wasn’t sure she could bear it. 

“But I’m already losing myself,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Every night, I see them die—people we know, Xaden. What if I’m supposed to be stopping it? What if I can’t?” 

His thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen. The gentleness of the gesture was enough to shatter the last of her resolve, and she sagged against him, the light sobs she was once able to hide now too strong for her weakened body. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Xaden murmured, pulling her into a tight embrace. She felt the solidness of him, the steady rhythm of his heart east against her own erratic one, his own thread fortified against the fraying threads of those she had watched die. “You should tell Liam. And Violet and your friends.” 

“I can’t tell Violet,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “I don’t even know how to explain it. And I don’t want them to worry.” 

Xaden’s arms tightened around her briefly before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. His dark eyes were filled with concern, but beneath that, there was a determination that made her stomach twist.

“We don’t have to tell them,” his voice was firm, his tone measured. “But you need to start getting some sleep.” 

Genevieve’s eyes searched his, trying to find solace in his unyielding gaze. The warmth of his embrace was a stark contrast to the cold dread that had seeped into her bones. She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe that they could face this together, but she couldn’t. 

He was too secretive, too stuck in his own shadows.

He may say that they’ll figure it out together but she knows he’s hiding something from her. Something that Violet’s been slowly figuring out. Something that’s given him the incentive to get Imogen to train her, to teach her how to ground. 

Pushing off and away from him, she shook her head. 

“I’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice clipped as she moved to walk back into the training gym. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Gen-” he started, trying to get her back into his arms, but she was already around the corner and in the gym before he could ever say a word. 

How can I not worry about it when I’m sure I love you?

—————————————————————

“This is insanity,” Genevieve said, shaking her head. “You are not fighting Jack Barlowe in this challenge. Are you insane?” 

“I agree. This is insanity.” Liam said from beside Genevieve, his face was pale with nerves. “Please don’t fight him, Genevieve and I can get Xaden to step in and do something. I’ll fight him.” 

“You can’t protect me everytime something bad is happening, Liam,” Violet shrugged as they entered the gym where the challenges were taking place. “Let’s just do this.” 

Genevieve was dreading this fight. She had beaten up Jack Barlowe her fair share of times before, but that was before signet manifestation. She hadn’t been in a challenge since because people were afraid of her touch, and she had definitely gotten weaker. If Violet got in trouble during the match, she wouldn’t be able to step in. Neither would Liam. 

“Mat seventeen, Jack Barlowe from First Wing versus…” Professor Emetterios’s eyebrows rise, and he takes a deep breath. “Violet Sorrengail.” 

The blood drains further from Liam’s face and he looks like he’s seen a ghost. Sawyer and Rhiannon are off in their own matches, so they can’t see the way that Ridoc looks like he’s about to keel over with nerves and Genevieve looks like she might strangle Jack. 

“No fucking way,” Ridoc mutters, shaking his head. 

“Finally!” Jack throws his hands in the air like he’s already won. 

“Let’s do this,” Violet rolls her shoulders and heads for the mat. Genevieve, Liam, and Ridoc all follow. 

“Come one, Vi, tell me I can break the promise,” Liam practically begs, and the look in his eyes is all Genevieve needs to see that despite him being her guard, he really has been protecting Violet all this time. Oh my gods, her breath catches subtly. He loves Violet. 

“The third-years are off doing third year things,” she says, and then she glances at Genevieve. “Besides, it’s not me he wants to be protecting, it’s her. You can’t get him here in time anyways, but if you really want to, go ahead.” 

He looks from Violet to Genevieve to Ridoc. 

“Watch Genevieve like you’re me. And don’t let anyone touch Violet.” 

“You mean like I’m six inches taller and built like a bull?” Ridoc gives him a thumbs-up. “Sure. I’ll do my best. In the meantime, you’d better run.” 

Liam’s gaze finds Genevieves. “Don’t you dare try and hand Barlowe his ass.” Then his eyes land on Violet’s and his gaze immediately softens. “Stay alive.” 

“Working on it, and not just for my sake.” She gives him a smile. “Thank you for protecting me.” 

“Barlowe and Sorrengail,” Emetterio calls from the sidelines and they both step up. “Weapons?” 

“Whatever that puny girl can get in her grubby little hands,” he taunts, stepping into the center of the mat. 

She scoffs, but she grabs her two daggers, and steps into the mat with Barlowe, who takes one, in a clear attempt at scaring her into backing off. 

The match starts, and immediately he’s going for death blows. His fists slam into her cheeks, and he’s barreling towards her with a series of punches and kicks she’s not ready to face. He stabs a dagger dangerously close to her chest, but she dodges at the last minute. 

They dance on the mat, Barlowe throwing punches and Violet dodging. She’s waiting for an opening, a moment to strike as he tires himself out. She lands a blow to his balls, and he falls over onto the mat, his mouth open in a silent scream.

“Tap out,” she orders, picking up the dagger she had dropped, and holding it to him. “I can cut you open at any second. You and I both know if this were real life, you’d be done.” 

“If this were real life, I would’ve killed you the second you stepped on the mat,” he seethes through gritted teeth. 

“Tap out.” She demands. 

“Fuck off!” 

He shoves her down and throws his dagger, and it lodges in her left arm, blood spraying everywhere. Pain erupts from the open wound, but she knows better than to remove it. 

“No throwing!” Emetterio shouts from the sidelines, but Jack is already moving again, his knee forces the air out of her body as he rams into her stomach. She stays on her feet with all of her strength, but she can no longer dodge his hands that move to clasp her face. 

At the contact, Genevieve can see what looks like Jack Barlowe pulling apart Violet’s thread of life, in slow calculating moves of his signet, and Violet is practically vibrating with pain from the searing energy that runs through her like he’s cleaving ligament from bone. 

She screams as Genevieve watches. 

“He’s using his signet!” Ridoc shouts, as Violet reaches for something in her pocket. All Genevieve can see is the sadistic grin on Barlowe’s face and the red rim around his eyes, too obsessed with his prospective victory to see that Violet has stopped screaming, and started moving in retaliation. 

In a split second she shoves a vial against Jack’s smile so hard, one of his teeth breaks. 

He collapses to the floor, clawing at his neck as Genevieve watches what looks like his airways closing. She immediately runs onto the mat, trying to reach Violet as she clatters to the ground. 

Violet’s teeth rattled as pain surged through her, overwhelming her senses. She collapsed to her knees, her vision blurring, but through the haze, she could see Jack Barlowe choking, his hands clutching his neck, his face darkening to a purple hue. 

Ridoc was by her side in seconds, his face full of worry. “BReathe, Sorrengail. Just breathe. Genevieve and I got you.” 

A shout rang out from the crowd. “What did you do to him?” 

Genevieve, holding Violet’s bloodied arm tightly to keep pressure on the wound, hears her faintly whisper before her body gives out. “Oranges… he’s allergic to oranges.” 

Violet’s eyes fluttered shut, and panic surged through Geenvieve as she scanned the room, spotting Xaden and Liam rushing towards them. 

She saw it then—Violet’s thread of life, barely holding on. Whatever power Jack has wielded was devastating, unraveling his essence. Genevieve place her hands on Violet, willing her signet to work, to heal the damaged thread before it was too late. 

Power flooded her, but it was like grasping at smoke. Violet’s thead flickered wildly, fading in and out, it’s fragile silver light shrouded by the shadow of pain. Jack’s cruelty had torn it apart, and Genevieve’s signet faltered under the enormity of it. 

Strong enough, she grunted, pressing farther, trying harder. I’m not strong enough. 

“Come on, come on…” she muttered, desperation lacing her voice. Violet wasn’t dead, but the damage was deep. Genevieve had trained for this—if Violet were dead, she should be able to pull her back, but it was as though Jack had stolen away the very essence of humanity from her. 

She focused harder, envisioning the delicate strands of Violet’s life force, trying to weave them together. But the absence Jack had inflicted clung to them, suffocating her efforts. 

“Genevieve!” Liam’s voice cut through the chaos, filled with fear. “What’s happening? Is she–”

“She’s not dead,” Geneveive gasped, her voice strained as dark vines and black flowers sprouted around them. “But I can’t fix this…”

“You have to try!” Liam pleaded, kneeling beside her. “You’ve been training for this, you can do it!”

His words ignited a spark of determination in her. She was the strongest—she could do this. She should do this. But the darkness Jack had left behind clung to her too, seeping into her veins, threatening to pull her under. 

“Come one!” Liam’s panicked voice cut through her concentration, and she looked up to see him hovering over Violet, terror written across his face. “You never lose! You can do this!”

Closing her eyes, she reached deeper, focusing on more than just the thread. She focused on the connection between them, their bond, the interweaving of their threads together. 

Then it clicked. It’s a give and take. Sgaeyl’s words echoed in her mind, “This power comes at a cost—every life taken, every life restored, will demand something from you”. It will demand something from you. It will demand her own life. 

Amid the chaos, she grabbed Violet’s silver thread, and took hold of her blue one, finding the point at which they converged. She felt a flicker of warmth through her renewed resolve, and she pressed down, summoning her own life, and weaving it into Violet’s thread with a fortification it hadn’t had before. 

Flashes of their shared moments came to her—the times they had defended one another, the laughter, the pain. She poured it all in, filling in the gaps Jack had torn. 

Violet’s thread pulsed faintly, a glimmer of life returning. But just as Genevieve thought she had a hold, Jack’s tainted energy surged again, shadows surrounding her. 

With a final surge of will, Genevieve fought against the darkness, her powers swirling. Slowly, the threads of Violet’s life began to weave back together, stronger, more vibrant. 

“Come on,” Genevieve whispered, her heart pounding with what felt like… weakness. “Almost there…”

Violet’s eyes fluttered open, locking with Genevieve’s. In that moment, their connection surged, a rush of life passing between them. It was fragile, but unbreakable, and Geneviev clung to it, pouring the last of her strength into mending what had been shattered. 

The gym fell silent. The wound on Violet’s arm was gone, all of what seemed like Violet’s permanent bruises healed, not even a scar remained. Her life force, once tattered, was now whole again. 

“Genevieve…” Violet whispered, her voice soft but clear. “You did it.” 

Exhaustion crashed over Genevieve like a wave, and she collapsed beside Violet, her chest heaving. She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, every muscle in her body trembling with relief. 

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” she gasped, her heart still racing. 

Liam knelt beside them, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You two are insane!”

Xaden, who now was towering over them, leaned down. “What the fuck just happened?”

But Genevieve didn’t have the energy to respond. She simply closed her eyes, thankful they had even survived. 

“I never want to do that again” she whispered, her voice barely audible, before darkness claimed her, and she passed out on the gym mats. 

—---------------------------------------------------

“How is this the second time I’ve had to come save you from burnout in the span of 2 months, Gen?” Xaden asked as he paced the length of her bedroom. “You need to get this under control, or at least figure it out better.” 

“Well, how do you suggest we do that? Because both times I went to burnout it was because I was trying to either kill or save a human, and last night I checked we can’t exactly grab random cadets for me to practice on.” She snapped back, despite being unable to hold herself up, relying on the sturdy wall behind her back to prop herself up. 

Xaden stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing in frustration as he took in Genevieve’s exhausted form slumped against the wall. “That’s not the point, Gen. You keep burning yourself out, pushing until there’s nothing left, and one day, you’re not going to come back from it. You can’t keep saving people.” 

Genevieve rolled her eyes, though the motion took more energy than she cared to admit. “You think I want to do this? That I like losing control? This power doesn’t come with a manual, Xaden. It’s chaos, and I’m barely holding it together.” 

He took a deep breath, clearly trying to rein in his temper, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. “And you think I don’t know what it feels like? To be drowning in power you never asked for, that you can’t always control?” 

“That’s not the point, Xaden,” she countered, her voice rising. “Look me in the eye and tell me that if Garrick, or Bodhi, or Liam were dying right in front of you, that you wouldn’t want me to give it my all to save them. That you wouldn’t want me to save your best friend, or your cousin, or your brother using everything I had.” 

Xaden’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with the frustration of her words. He crossed the room, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Of course, I’d want you to save them.” He admitted, his voice low. “But not at the cost of losing you, Genevieve.” “So you understand that I had to save Violet.” She countered, completely ignoring his last sentiment. “She’s my best friend, despite how much I hate her, I love her. And she was practically dying in my arms.” 

Xaden let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at her with a mixture of exasperation and concern. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have saved her. I know you had no choice. But you can’t keep doing this, Gen. Didn’t Tairn and Sgaeyl say this would have consequences if you went unchecked?”

Genevieve pressed her lips together, her stubbornness flaring up. “I’ll get stronger. I can control it, I just need to get stronger.” 

“You don’t have time to get stronger,” his voice was harsh, but she could hear the underlying worry. “Everytime you push yourself like this, it’s like playing with fire. One day it’s going to burn you completely.” 

Her gaze hardened. 

“Then I’ll burn. If that’s what it takes to get stronger again, to protect the people I care about, so be it.” 

Xaden’s eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, the air in the room seemed to crackle with tension. “You don’t get to make that choice alone anymore. We’re bound together in life and death and you’re not a weapon to be used up until there’s nothing left anymore. You matter. To me. To Violet. To Rhiannon. To Liam. To everyone.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “You can’t just decide that being suicidal for a ‘good cause’ justifies killing yourself, Genevieve!”

Genevieve stared at him, Xaden’s words slicing through the haze of exhaustion that clouded her mind. His anger, his frustration, they were all rooted in fear–something she hadn't wanted to face. She mattered to him. To them. And that terrified her. 

She looked away, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “I’m not suicidal.”

Xaden scoffed, pushing off the desk. “Really? Because everytime you burn yourself out like that, it looks a hell of a lot like you don’t care if you survive.” 

“That’s not fair” she muttered, her voice quieter now. “I care, I just don’t know how else to do this. And wouldn’t getting rid of you solve me being a thorn in your side constantly? Didn’t you say it was a worse case scenario?” 

“And I regret saying that with every fiber of my being. This is not the worst case scenario, and I’m so sorry I ever told you that.” He said, practically begging. “This isn’t about you being a thorn in my side either. This isn’t about me. It’s about you realizing that people need you. That I–” He stopped, his jaw clenching as he swallowed the words he couldn’t say. 

Genevieve raised an eyebrow, her exhaustion leaving her, forgotten as she sensed the shift in his demeanor. “That you what?”

Xade shook his head, his gaze intense as it locked with hers. “You act like you’re expendable, like throwing yourself into danger is the only way to prove your worth. But it’s not. Everytime you laugh with Rhiannon and Violet, or play fight with Ridoc and Sawyer, you’re surrounded by people who care about you, but you forget that you have them. You have people who don’t want to see you destroyed because you feel like you have to save them.” 

She blinked, her mind devoid of ways to respond to the words that were spilling out of his mouth like vomit. 

He walked towards her from the desk, kneeling in front of her, his hand cupping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You care about everyone else’s survival but your own. You’re ready to sacrifice everything, but you haven’t thought about what that would do to the people left behind.” 

Her throat tightened at his words, the intensity in his eyes making it impossible for her to look away. The vulnerability she saw there, the raw concern—it undid something in her. “Xaden, I don’t want to be weak. If I’m strong enough to protect everyone, maybe I won’t be.” 

His grip on her tightened slightly, frustration flaring again. “You’re not a burden, Gen. You’re not weak. But pushing yourself like this is going to break you. And if you break–” His voice caught, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “If you break, I don’t know if I’ll be able to put you back together.” 

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t realized until that moment how he had really felt. In some weird corner of her mind she had believed that this twisted ‘romance’ between them was one sided, but in this moment it was clear that he loved her the way she loved him, even if neither of them were ready to admit it out loud. 

“I forgive you,” she whispered, and his heart skipped a beat, the intensity of her gaze anchoring him in place. 

“What?” he breathed, his grip loosening as confusion crossed his features. 

“For saying that being tied to me was the worst case scenario,” she clarified, her heart racing as she met his gaze. “And for hiding the fact that our dragons are bound together, forever.” 

Xaden blinked, processing her words. “You… forgive me?” 

“Yes,” she said, pressing on, the weight of her own emotions now spilling out. “I know you didn’t mean it. You were scared, just like I am. I can’t keep doing this either, but I can’t pretend I don’t care about everyone anymore, about you.” she took a breath, the warmth of his hand on her chin grounding her. “I’ve always been afraid of being weak. But if being strong means losing everyone, losing you, I don’t know if I want that anymore.” 

His eyes softened, the anger giving way to something else in him. “You’re not weak. You’re brave, Gen. But you have to let us in. We’re a team now; we fight together. You don’t have to bear this alone.” 

“I just thought if I could get stronger, I wouldn’t lose anyone else,” she admitted, her eyes leaving his. “I don’t think I can handle losing you.” 

“Then don’t push yourself to the brink,” he said firmly. “You die, I die. We’ll face whatever comes together. Just promise me you’ll try to take care of yourself, too.” 

“Okay,” she whispered, feeling the tension begin to dissipate. “I promise.” 

Xaden smiled slightly, relief washing over his features. “That’s all I ask. And for what it’s worth, I’m not going anywhere.” 

She felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words. “I’m glad,” she said softly, their gazes locking in an unspoken understanding. 

“I’m going to tell Liam that he doesn’t have to spend the night in your room anymore,” Xaden declared, a playful smirk crossing his face as he stood up. “I’ll be taking nightmare duty from now on.” 

Geneveive snorted, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten as she raised an eyebrow at him “Oh really? You think that’s going to fly with him? Liam’s made it his mission to get me to sleep through the night.” 

Xaden chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I’m sure I can convince him. Besides, I think it’s time you got used to the idea that I’m sticking around.” His tone softened, a warmth lingering in his words. “And Liam needs some good rest. I’ll take his spot.” 

Genevieve felt her lips tug into a small smile. “He does need sleep.”

He stepped closer, reaching out to brush a strand of now longer hair behind her ear. “You should get some rest. I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

Her heart swelled at the simple gesture as he pulled the chair that Liam had been sleeping in out from under the desk. The realization that despite everything—the arguments, the misunderstandings—he truly cared. 

“You don’t have to sleep in the chair.” 

Xaden’s gaze flickered with surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. “You sure?”

Genevieve nodded, her walls crumbling at the presence of his unwavering loyalty. “Yeah. I’m sure.” 

Without another word, Xaden unlaced his boots and tossed his jacket onto the chair, taking a seat beside her on the bed, his back leaning against the same wall she had been resting on. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, the weight of their earlier conversation still lingering but less oppressive. 

It felt like a truce—an unspoken promise that neither of them would carry their burden alone anymore. 

As Genevieve’s eyes grew heavier with fatigue, she felt the warmth of Xaden’s presence beside her, grounding her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Finally, he laced his hands in hers. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Xaden whispered, his voice a quiet vow. 

And Genevieve closed her eyes, her exhaustion finally winning as the words he spoke settled in her chest. She didn’t need to say anything in response—he already knew. The warmth of his presence, the steady beat of his heart, was enough. 

Her head fell to his shoulder, and she fell asleep. 

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Hey everyone!! What's up? How's life? My life right now is lowkey insanity (yay!)

This chapter was definitely somewhat of a filler chapter but also had a huge plot component which I was very excited to show you all. What do you think of this new development to her signet? was it what you were expecting?

i've loved developing her signet this far, Genevieve truly is a labor of my love, and she's growing up so much! from last chapter to this chapter, we definilety get more insight into her and her relationship with xaden (hehe)

anyways, thats it! let me know what you guys think, leave a like, kudo, or comment if you enjoyed, and as always, stay tuned for saturday's update! I have a taglist now, so lmk if you want to be added! bye bye~

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taglist: @awkardnerd

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 13: Imprisonment

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.2K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

The guards aren’t gentle as they march you through the streets, soaked in the mid-morning sun. You were not even extended the courtesy of putting on shoes, and your feet are chilled by the stone-paved roads that have yet to amass any warmth from the sun as they are gouged by pebbles and glass squishing in revolting puddles of fluids you dare not give much thought. The guards push and prod with unyielding pointed tips of their gauntleted fingers, chewing your skin and causing pinprick points of blood to plume on your pale blue shirt.

Mr. Blackwell trails the procession, spitting lies and causing a stir. Waterdhavians whisper in hushed tones, snickering and gawking. Parents holler and cheer as their unruly children throw rocks with their trilling laughter as you progress through the crowds toward the Waterdeep County Jail, which lies just beyond the city walls. It’s a mercy when you reach the large, square-shaped complex.

You instinctively scan the building and surrounding area, counting guards and inventorying potential escape routes and exits. The corridors and halls are a maze as you’re ushered through them into a small, cramped cell. Rubbing the raw skin of your wrists, you realize you don’t occupy this cell alone. Dirty faces with sunken eyes barely reflecting the low light are huddled along the walls, peering at you through the murk. Some are sullen and morose, barely lifting their heads at your arrival, while other’s lips are twisted in repellent smirks.

The air is damp and chilled without the sun to warm it, and you shiver harshly, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and muzzle the nip that feels like it’s penetrating your bones. The Weave doesn’t heed your call when you reach for it, and there’s an uncomfortable hollow pang where your magic usually resides in a burning reservoir.

You limp to the back of the cell and eye a corner that might give you an advantage if one of these ruffians decides to try and see what you’re made of. This is not the first time you’ve been in prison, and just as in the animal kingdom, the weak are conquered.

“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” an amiable voice from your left warns. “Tempting as it is, that’s the… lavatory corner.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you mutter with a cringe, peering around to scout out a place to sit and think about how in the Hells to get yourself out of this mess.

“Here,” you hear shuffling, and the woman’s voice growls, telling off whoever was beside her. “You can sit with me.”

You squint to make out details in the dim illumination. The woman is as dirt-streaked as the rest of the prisoners. The Tiefling’s white hair is tied back, and her flaming orange eyes starkly contrast the drabness. She pats the floor beside her with a sincere and kind smile that gives her an appearance of harmlessness. Then again, all the best and worst scoundrels appear innocuous at first glance.

The options are limited, and she looks less malicious than the rest of the brutes huddled around you, so you sit with a feigned affable smile.

“I’m Hecat,” she holds out a deep purple hand. “A pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you, Hecat,” you shake her hand but do not offer your name in return.

You glare at your upturned palms, trying to claw at the Weave, but it doesn’t matter how deep you dig; you cannot even get the faintest of sparks or magic to emit. Having your magic suppressed like this feels akin to having a limb amputated, and you let your head rest on the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“A sorcerer?” Hecat chimes pleasantly while she throws and catches a small rock for amusement, “Right?”

“How do you know?” You hiss more harshly than you should, narrowing your eyes at the Tiefling.

“Oh! Easy now,” she chuckles and puts up her clawed hands innocently. Hecat points to your face. “Your scales. Draconic sorceress, right? Not many of your kind around. You blend in with those as much as I do with horns.”

“Oh,” your fingers idly dawdle over the glassy-smooth, iridescent scales engraved into your skin. “I’m sorry. I— I’m a little on edge.”

“Not a problem,” Hecat nods curtly with a toothy grin. “We are all a little on edge given the environment we find ourselves in. I’ve been in more pleasant sewer canals.”

“Me too,” you can’t help but let out a small laugh, remembering Astarion’s expression when you told him you had to go trudging around the sewers under the Lower City.

“Come now,” Astarion cringes with an exasperated huff, “Do you really expect me to go down there? In these boots?! With this hair and these nails?! You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You don’t have to join us, Astarion. You are free to lounge around camp while we do all the hard work,” you giggle, rolling your eyes at his theatrics as he glowers at you with crossed arms. “I’m sure Karlach or Halsin won’t mind getting out for a bit.”

“Absolutely not! No, no. Nope! Don’t you dare think about asking me to stay behind.” Astarion clicks his tongue disapprovingly, jutting out a hip and cocking his head defiantly. “There is no way in all nine Hells I will let you go without me. I can’t trust those fools to protect you sufficiently. Where you go, I go, my love. Always. Even if that means I have to go gallivanting through the bloody sewers. Gods above. Well, come on then - lead on. Let’s get this over with.”

“I’m definitely going to splash you when we’re down there,” you laugh mirthfully, jogging away from him, trying to retreat quickly.

“That had better be a joke, Kamena!” He growls. In a couple of soundless, long steps, Astarion picks you up by your waist, crushing your back against his muscular chest, kisses your neck and grumbles low near your ear. “Don’t jest, darling. I bite.”

Astarion whined every minute you spent down there. He annoyed everyone except for you, of course. You could happily listen to that voice nonstop, even when it’s complaining, scoffing at your not-so-funny jokes, or calling you “idiot” or “pig-headed.” Gods. You wish you could hear his voice now. You swallow the urge to cry and scold yourself for being weak. This is not the place for another pathetic breakdown. Inhaling a deep breath, you contract and relax every muscle, from your shoulders to your toes, to centre yourself. You’re not a maiden that needs saving from the jaws of a dragon; you are the dragon, and you will pour oceans of fire and eat the shadows whole.

“Your magic will do you no good down here, I’m afraid. They have an anti-magic field wrapped around this place.”

“Lovely,” you sigh while inspecting your bloodied feet, trying to pick slivers of glass out of the soles.

“Did they drag you straight out of bed or something? Hecat queries.

“You could say that,” you mutter, cool and dry.

Gods. I should have stayed in bed this morning.

“Animals,” Hecat scoffs. She shuffles around and offers you her soiled coat. You glare at her with questions in your eyes. She shrugs nonchalantly, “You look cold. We can share while we’re stuck here.”

The days in prison drag by slowly. It’s hard to know how much time passes in places like this where the sun does not rise or fall, but you’ve been paying attention to the stone’s temperature to figure it out. During the day, the walls and floor are still cold but generally dry. During the night, the bricks are bitterly icy and damp. It’s the best you can do in your situation. Your best guess is that you’ve been here nearly a week. You’ve been watching the guards, their routines, counting how many are on duty at once.

The prison corridors and halls are always well-lit by several wall torches placed at specific increments to leave no corner or cell door obscured by shadow. Sneaking out of this place is unlikely to be feasible. Magic is also out of the question, and there’s no knowing how far the barrier extends. From what you can gather without looking too suspicious, there are always ten to fifteen guards on duty. Pairs of them walk in perfected circuits.

You’ve been taken from the cell a dozen times for interrogations that you’re not sure usually happen. The guards query you about attacking Mr. Blackwell and why you would do such a thing to such a nice man. Then, they move on to his son and ask you where Aldous is. When you don’t answer the guard’s questions, they try to beat the answers out of you.

You’re tired, battered and bruised from head to toe. The last time was particularly rough, and you’re sure that one or more of your ribs have been broken, as indicated by the large hematoma that now extends up your side and the need to take shallow breaths lest the pain make you nearly faint.

Despite the dire situation you find yourself in, you’ve become increasingly close to the Tiefling, Hecat, coming to rely on her much more than you want to. The first night, you accidentally fell into your trance. The other prisoners thought that might be an excellent time to see if you had anything valuable to offer them. Hecat had stepped in and scared them off. She was a formidable Fighter that much is clear to you. Now, you take watch while she sleeps, and she watches when you trance. She also assists you with your wounds in any way she can, which is admittedly not much, but she tries. You continue to share the grimy coat, although she tends to let you have it more often.

If Astarion were here, he would say it’s because you’re “grumpy when you’re cold.” You can practically hear his voice tutting you, and it makes you want to laugh and cry concurrently.

The other captives in your cell have started to dwindle, and the room isn’t so crowded now. You and Hecat have taken a corner to yourself, far away from the dreaded lavatory corner.

“How are those bones of yours today? Hecat asks when she sees you yawn upon waking, wince and strangle back a whine.

“Never better,” you smile, but your voice sounds breathy.

“When they come for you next time.” Hecat snarls with her fists balled at her sides, “I’m going to take them out.”

“Don’t bother,” you sigh, shaking your head. They didn’t seem to take any other prisoners, but you haven’t yet figured out why. You assume Mr. Blackwell has paid them off, “I wouldn’t doubt if they were being paid to torture me personally. It’s fine.”

“You must have pissed off someone with deep pockets.”

Neither of you speaks to the reason you’re in prison. For all you know, Hecat murdered her entire family, or perhaps even worse. But, right now, you need each other, and the alliance has turned out to be rather helpful.

“The guards deviated from their routine last night,” Hecat whispers low, leaning in by your tapered ear. “There was some commotion, but I couldn’t make it out, and they all left their posts.”

This commotion she speaks of, you pray, is not Astarion. Hopefully, Gale has been able to talk some sense into that marvellously beautiful bastard. You’re relieved he hasn’t come in here, blade swinging. It would just cause a further scene that there is likely no coming back from. You believe, on some level, Astarion knows this. You can and will get yourself out of here. It’s just going to take a little time.

But Good Gods, you miss him. His voice, his fragrance, the way he feels like home, safety and happiness. You miss his lips on yours, his hands on your body, and his cock stretching you.

Not the time for these thoughts. Hells, Kamena. Get a hold of yourself.

“Would it have given us a chance?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Hecat shakes her head, “They were all summoned to the gate for something, and if what you’ve said is correct, that gate is the only way in and out of this godsforsaken place.”

Truthfully, you don’t know if that’s even the way out. At most, you know it’s the way out of this wing or sector, but what lies beyond the door is a mystery.

“We just have to bide our time.” You smile half-heartedly at the memory, “A smart friend once told me that “with patience, anything can be done.”

“Sounds like a smart friend indeed,” Hecat winks. There must have been a little too much fondness in your voice when you said that. Damn. “Patience has never been a virtue of mine.”

“Nor mine,” you laugh, but it’s low and almost sullen. You want out of this place before you get taken for another talking to. “But I don’t think we have much choice in the matter right now.”

“Will this friend of yours be coming to perform a heroic rescue anytime soon?” The Tiefling teases with a toothy grin. She’s obviously caught on to the fact that this friend of yours is a little more than a friend. You’re going to have to be more careful, “Throwing rocks is getting very boring.”

“I am hopeful he’s smarter than to come barging into a place he doesn’t know, but there’s still time for him to do something stupid, so who’s to say?"

Hecat laughs, “So, is this friend smart or stupid?”

“I’d wager a little bit of both,” you sigh. Missing Astarion hurts in a way that’s hard to describe. You’re undecided if talking about him is making it harder or easier, “He’s the most cunning man I know, but he can be reckless and a little murder happy.”

“Oh. Murder happy? I like him already,” Hecat says, and although it’s silly, your jealousy flares wildly. It takes considerable effort to remain poised, “What if those brutes come again and take you?"

You’re not sure if her concern is really for your safety or because she thinks you’re the best chance she has of escaping this place.

I assume it’s the latter.

“Don’t worry about it. Really.” You assure her, hiding your fear behind confidence. The beatings have only been progressively getting worse. You’re not sure how much more your body can take.

You are, of course, a little worried that if you do take Hecat with you when you escape, you’re releasing a murderer back into the city, but you’re going to need her fighting skills to get through the guards. You suppose if she is some heinous criminal, you can deal with her after. Astarion would likely be happy to have someone to murder.

Hecat puts a hand on your shoulder to get your attention, “Should we go over the plan some more?”

“Sure,” you nod and start reviewing all your possible escape routes and options.

Currently, you both think the best course of action is to rush the guards when they try to come and drag you away, but that will need to be done at night when fewer guards are on duty. Unfortunately, the guards do not appear for you at night often. There’s a concerning abundance of details that remain unknown. Like the prison layout, for example. You’ve only been in this corridor and one other where the small room of your torment exists. You don’t remember much of what you saw on the way in. There were too many twists and turns, and they made you walk briskly so you couldn’t get a good look at them. Hecat mentioned her arrival was much the same.

You’ve only seen the outside of this place once when you were being brought in. You remember very high stone walls, guard towers and gates. None of these would be any trouble if you had your magic, but you don’t, and you can’t imagine they would stop the anti-magic barrier until you’re at least outside of the complex, which means you will need to figure out how to get over the fucking walls or through the gates while being chased by guards.

No wonder Astarion always says that murder is efficient.

“Not exactly much of a plan,” Hecat snorts, but she already knew this.

“I never was much of a planner,” you shrug and comb your fingers through your increasingly filthy hair, trying to brush the knots and snag out, but to no avail. “Chaos was always more my thing.”

“I like you,” Hecat laughs. “I’ll take the first watch tonight. Get some rest.”

Your cottage amid a heavily forested area is hidden away on the outskirts of Rivington, close enough to the city to enjoy the comforts, shops and taverns and easy access to the forest so Astarion can hunt freely. You’d offered to be his primary food source, and he’d giggled at your enthusiasm to be a vampire’s juice box.

The wildflowers grow in patches, filling the air with a honey-sweet aroma. The tall trees filter the dappled sunlight as they sway slightly in the afternoon breeze. You tap on the door before opening it a crack to warn Astarion to get away from it if he happens to be nearby upon your return home. You only open the door a crack, enough to fit your body through, close and lock it promptly.

“Darling,” Astarion chuckles as he strides toward you with a bemused grin. It doesn’t matter how long you live with this man. You’re always awe-struck by his beauty, especially when he’s smiling at you like he is now - broad, happy, and unashamed to show his fangs. “You know you don’t have to knock when you get home. How many times must I tell you? I can hear your trampling approach long before you arrive.”

“I’m aware. You keep chastising me,” you roll your eyes with a snort. “What if you were tranced or otherwise occupied? Maybe I am extra quiet one day, and you don’t hear me? It’s just safer this way. It hardly takes any effort to knock on the damn door.”

“You, my sweet, fiery love, could never hope to be quiet enough to be successful in such an endeavour,” he taunts with a hand on his hip and boyishly handsome lop-sided grin. “You do realize that even if the sun touches me, I will be fine. It’s not an immediate death sentence. You have seen it for yourself.”

You cringe at the memory of the docks as it warps your heart, making your chest burn with a mixture of rage and despair. You still have nightmares of watching Astarion’s hopeful expression contort into one of mourning as his milk-white skin starts to smoke and turn matte grey. It was just not fucking fair, life rarely is, but this was an injustice that you’re having a hard time reconciling with. Astarion had accepted it with little fuss, but to you, it was unacceptable. You curse every single God in your head for their abandonment of the hero before you.

"I know,” you mutter. Your body suddenly feels heavy, laden under the weight of memories of watching the sunrise together, basking in the sun with him in meadows and fields, the way he was so captivated by colour, and you slam your palms onto the table to stabilize yourself. “I will find a way for you to walk in the sun again, Astarion.”

Astarion’s demeanour changes instantly. He knows this is a sore subject for you, even more so than himself.

“Kamena.” The timbre of his voice lowers into an auditory caramel, soothing, buttery and rich, “It doesn’t bother me any longer. I missed it briefly, but the shadows are part of me. I am at home in them. You are all the light I need in my life. You are my sun, Solicallor.”

The guilt makes tears start to prick your eyes. Astarion should not have to be comforting you over this; you should be comforting him. Your stomach sinks nauseatingly like an anchor has been tied to it and cast into a bottomless ocean. The feeling is so physical that your head spins and throbs.

“I will find a way,” you say, quieter than a whisper through a clenched jaw, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself.

“Sweetheart?” You totter on your feet, and Astarion wraps a solid arm around you. He places his hand, which feels colder than usual, against your forehead and cheeks, “You’re hot.”

“Why, thank you,” you try to giggle through this rather odd stupor you find yourself in and sag into him, allowing him to hold your body weight up.

“Not exactly what I meant.” His warm voice is steeped in cottony concern with a hint of alarm, “You’re a vision, but I mean, your skin feels hot - too hot. I think you have a fever.”

“Oh,” Astarion guides you to a chair to sit on, helping you into it. “I suppose that makes sense. I’m not feeling great.”

“You’re sick?” The tenor of his voice increases into a high treble, showcasing his worry.

“Maybe,” Astarion’s eyes are streaking around the room. No doubt, for some potion, scroll or other supplies that could help. He looks terrified, and you guide his eyes to you. “It’s okay, Astarion. Mortals get sick sometimes. It will pass. It’s nothing to be troubled over.”

“But I—“ he swallows thickly, making his Adam’s apple bob, “I do not know what to do. I haven’t had to worry about being sick in two centuries, and I hardly have practice taking care of someone ill. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me how I can help you.”

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You walk his bouncing eyes back to you. You would find this a little humorous if Astarion weren’t so clearly distressed. He must understand that not every sickness is terminal, right? In another situation, you might taunt him playfully, but you decide reassurance is the best route. “Everything is okay, my love.”

Astarion places his hands on your forehead, which starts to sheen with sweat and then to your neck and chest. He looks utterly disorientated and afraid, believing a fever might kill you.

“I’ll help you get undressed and into bed,” he finally instructs, but his voice shakes.

Astarion’s fingers have less finesse than usual as he undoes the claps and ties, keeping your robe on, and removes it. Scooping you into his arms, he takes you to the bedroom and gently places you on the bed. Astarion busies himself with removing your underclothes until your bare, even while you protest that you’re okay. He glowers at you, and you’re sure he’s going to call you an idiot, but he keeps his mouth closed, deciding he probably called you an idiot enough with his eyes.

He has.

He pulls his shirt over his head, folds it neatly just as he did for your clothing, and starts unlacing the ties of his breeches. Astarion catches you staring and winks with a roguishly handsome grin, and you think this, right here with him, is bliss. Fever be damned.

“What are you doing, Astarion?” You chuckle but watch in rapture, taking in how magnificent he is; all toned muscle, perfect skin, perfect hair you long to tangle your fingers into and those damn breathtaking red eyes, “I mean... I wouldn’t say no.”

You would, in fact, scream a resounding “yes,” or probably several.

“Bloody Hells. Get your head out of the gutter,” he teases, head falling back and laughing, deep and gravelly. “You have a fever, and I am deathly cold. I don’t know much about mortal sickness, but I’m pretty sure we need to try to break your fever, yes? What better way than to curl up with your cold, vampiric lover.”

“I will take any chance I can get to cuddle naked with my vampiric lover,” you giggle, patting the bed with a theatrical pout, “What are you waiting for? Get in bed, Aerasumé. Come cool me down. I am ever so warm.”

“Always so eager.” Astarion chuckles, climbing into bed and pressing your back to his chest, making sure to get every contour of his body to align with yours. He places a gentle kiss on the back of your neck. “If you’re not feeling better come nightfall, I will fetch Jaheira. She’s still in the city being an absolutely fantastic mother, I assume?”

“Yes, she’s still in the city. She’s helping with rebuilding efforts. I spoke to her the other day, but you don’t need to trouble her.” You shiver against him, and he rubs your arm with his nose in your hair, gripping you tighter to him. “This will pass.”

“I could steal some Potions of Healing or whatever else you need.” His words come a little too quickly, not in his usual balmy, drawling baritone. “Tell me what you need, and I will get it, or I will be fetching the Druid come nightfall. I will drag that wizened elder here if I must.”

“I only need you.” You roll over to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your forehead on his. Astarion hugs you tight as if he’s afraid you might drift away. “Tell me why you’re so scared, Astarion. Surely, you’ve seen sick people before. It’s normal.”

“Of course, I have seen the infirm before,” he says, hands roaming your body in gentle, soothing caresses. You know Astarion is trying to use himself as a vampiric thermometer, but his touch always feels good - so you won’t complain. “The difference is I have never cared about anyone before. Whether they lived or died was of no consequence to me. You are the first person I truly care for. I love you. I can’t lose you. I could not bear it.”

“I love you too. You will not lose me to a fever. You’re stuck with me for hundreds of centuries yet.” He smiles widely at that and kisses you intimately, slow and savouring, with his fingers combed into your hair, massaging your scalp. You suppose one of the perks of having a vampire for a partner is you can’t exactly get him ill.

“Stuck with you for hundreds of centuries, am I?” He pulls you in so that your head is resting on his shoulder and his on yours, “I think I can live with that.”

“You think?” You purse your lips, jutting out your chin in a way that mimics how he does it. It takes a monumental amount of effort to keep your giggling suppressed. “I’m offended.”

Astarion knows you too well and simply chuckles at your display, “You know an eternity with you still wouldn’t be enough, silly thing. Now. If you’re quite done being dramatic, what would you like to do with our day lazing around in the boudoir?”

“Will you read to me?”

“Of course, love,” Astarion points at a pile of books beside the bed. He chooses which book to read on any given day depending on his mood, so he’s always in the middle of several at once, "What would you like me to read today?”

“You pick.” You giggle, making sure it’s the sweetest, chiming giggle he’s ever heard. “But will you do the voices?”

“I don’t know,” he glowers at you playfully while you wrap yourself around him, slinging a leg over him. You’re sure he’s softer than any silk you could ever import, “It’s terribly unbecoming of a hero.”

“Please, Astarion.” You pout, batt your lashes, and give him your best puppy-dog eyes. “I am sick.”

“Ugh,” he rolls his eyes, trying to look irritated, but it fails as the corners of his perfect lips twitch up, “You’re too fucking adorable. It’s inconceivably irritating. Fine, but only because you are not feeling well! If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“What fun!” you snicker.

“Get up, dragon girl!” Hecat is furiously shaking you from your trance.

It takes you a minute to become fully aware of the clash of steel swords vibrating like a swarm of angry bees bounding off the cold stone walls. Metal boots thud, sprinting down the corridors with the angry wails and roars of battle.

“What in the Hells is going on?” You ask, looking to Hecat for answers. Your heart is pounding in your chest, requesting more breath than you can give it without feeling the shooting agony of your fractured ribs.

“I don’t know,” Hecat shrugs. “I tried to get a look, but the bloody cells are designed so you can’t see much of anything going on beyond a couple of feet.”

Please. Please. Don’t be Astarion.

Shoving and pushing the other prisoners away from the cell door, you try to get a good look, craning your neck to see if you can view anything over the stone lip, but as Hecat had said, visuals are limited. These cells are built depressed into a thick block arch to block prying eyes. You can see, at best, about halfway up the corridor, give or take a little. The melodies of battle are only increasing, but where there were bellowing battle cries and roars. Now, there are screams and pained yelps for help, but whether the screaming is from the attackers or the guards – you're unsure.

You and Hecat slink to the back of the cell together, giving yourself distance from the other prisoners so you can talk in private. Thankfully, everyone else is too focused on what’s happening outside the cell to pay you any heed.

“This wouldn’t happen to be your daring friend trying to rescue you,” Hecat waggles her brows with a saucy grin. “Would it?”

You shake your head at her, “No, I doubt it. My friend would not create this much havoc.” Something doesn’t feel quite right, and it’s nagging at you. You rub your arms to try and dispel some of your rising anxiety, “No. This wouldn’t be a rescue for me. Something else is going on here.”

Hecat gives you a once over, “You’re not wearing any shoes, and your ribs are still broken. You’re in no shape to be running, even if we manage to get out of here. Much less battling with guards and who knows what.”

“You let me worry about myself,” you scoff, crossing your arms with a scowl. Hecat has no idea who you are, and you’ve kept it that way on purpose. Although, you are sure that you don’t look very battle-proficient right now. “If I fall behind, you can leave me and get yourself out. You don’t owe me anything.”

“You think I would leave you behind?” Now it’s Hecat’s turn to scoff and glower at you. You like her, but you only trust her as far as you can throw her, and that isn’t far at all.

“Look,” you try to put your silver tongue to work. The last thing you need right now is to fight with the one person who has helped since you got here. “I didn’t mean it like that. If I become a burden, you need to watch out for yourself. I might not seem like much, but I have been in countless battles. I can hold my own with or without shoes and intact ribs.”

Hopefully.

“Can you use a sword?” Hecat’s pacing, tapping her lips in the usual way she does when trying to think, “If we could procure some from the guards, we might have a better chance.”

“No,” you admit, almost sheepishly. “But if we can get our hands on a dagger, I am slightly better with those. I am death incarnate when I have my magic, though. If we can get out from under the suppression, that’s where I will really shine. Admittedly, I won’t be much help here.”

“That’s okay,” Hecat smiles, patting your arm. “We planned to run, and I think that’s exactly what we should do as soon as we get the chance.”

“I agree. Running is our best bet. There are too many guards for only the two of us.”

Hecat nods and keeps talking strategies, but you’re drawn away from the conversation as you listen to the screaming getting quieter and the clash of blades reducing. There’s an odd aroma in the air. You’ve smelt it before, but it’s not quite strong enough to connect any specific memory to; it smells organic, earthy, wet, and cold. Whatever that smell is, even if your brain cannot comprehend it, it seems your body does. You’re shaking, surging with adrenaline, but you cannot place the unease you’re feeling.

There’s commotion in the hallway by the cells near the front where you can’t see. All the prisoners seem to gasp at once and start screaming, skittering and flailing. You can hear the sound of boots grating on the ground as they press themselves up against the walls of their cells. The high-pitched screeching of iron bars being wrenched on and doors being forced open increases the utter cacophony. People shout, but you cannot make the word out when it’s buried under so much noise.

You and Hecat push your way to the front of the horde, everyone trying to stick their heads through the bars so they can see what’s going on. They step on your bare toes with boots, and elbows smash into your already smashed ribs, making you let out a whimpering breath.

Hecat is right. You’re in no shape to fight or run.

Suddenly, it hits you like a gust of icy wind of a summer’s day, freezing you to your core and sending shivers down your spine. Your maltreatment wasn’t done as some pointless abuse at the hands of petty guards - no. They weren’t truly interrogating you for information or because they were paid to make your stay here extra special.

Someone wants you to be weakened, hurt, and your magic stripped away.

Someone needs you to be weak and helpless.

But that still begs the question - who and why?

You catch rapid glimpses of a pale arm here and an ashen leg there. They are sickly looking, slim and emaciated. Your heart palpates in your chest as you remember where you last smelled that raw organic scent.

The Szarr Palace.

You drift to the back of your cell, taking Hecat with you until your backs are pressed against the stone. Hecat quirks a brow at you, obviously confused with the dread you’re sure is framed in the features of your face. Sticking your hands behind your back, you hope she didn’t notice them trembling.

You swallow and whisper, “Have you ever fought vampire spawn before?”

Questions march through your head like a restless army, but you try to focus on the most important ones. How many spawn will you need to outrun? You shudder at the thought. You know firsthand how quick vampire spawn are, and your fingers hover over your broken ribs.

Hecat gawks at you with brows raised so high they look like they might be trying to mount her scalp. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Vampires,” you repeat hoarsely, obliviously trying to fight back tears. “Have you ever fought them before?”

You just got Astarion back, and now you might fucking die here in this prison after being arrested for a crime you didn’t even commit. What kind of cruel joke is this? Why can’t life give you a damn break? Why can’t you have a happily ever after with the man you love?

Fear suddenly relents and bursts into anger, and you stoke those flames to kindle it because anger is far more productive than fear.

Hecat is looking at you with a slack jaw and round eyes, “How do you know what’s out there is vampire spawn?”

“I have had a lot of experience with vampires.” You try to keep your intonation as unwavering as possible. “You don’t have to take my word for it. You will see them soon enough.”

“Yes,” Hecat confirms. Her forehead creases in worry, “I have some experience with them, but not much. I tend not to enter into battles I’m not sure I can win.”

Smart woman. Maybe I need to take a page from her book.

“The plan is still the same,” you instruct. “Run and only fight when you have to.”

“They are fast!” Hecat is pacing now, hands in her hair. “There’s no way we can outrun them, especially with you injured and magicless.”

“With this much blood, they will be frenzied. Their bloodlust will make them distracted. It works in our favour.”

“And the others?” Hecat points to the horde of prisoners still trying to figure out what’s happening, craning their necks at the gates.

In another life, you might have tried to save them, but you’ve learned that not everyone can be saved.

“Fodder.”

Hecat eyes widen at your detached answer, but she doesn’t have time to argue with you as the first spawn start coming into view from your cell. Everyone jumps back from the bars as their bloodied fangs snap, claws clench, and they hiss like snakes. Their eyes bore into you, black and glowing crimson like Astarion’s siblings when they were under Cazador’s compulsion.

“Oh, fuck,” you hear Hecat stutter as several more come to stand before the cell.

“Get ready,” you slide your feet across the stone floor, curling your toes into it, testing your purchase.

The spawn lunge at the cell door. Their teeth snap around the iron bars with loud, metallic pinging. They wrap their hands around the bars and pull with ferocious growls. The metal whines under the force, the stone where the door is moored cracks and crumbles, and the door gives way.

The spawn flood the cell like an ashen wave, cresting with bared frothing fangs over a restless, screaming sea.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments :) Keep them coming (if you feel like it - of course 😅)

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Expect us to stay in Kamena's POV 75% of the time, but we will be returning to Astarion's eventually. I want Astarion's POV to remain interesting and special, so there will be less of it. We're still going to explore more of what he got up to when he left though.

Vampire attacking the prison? Why? Is it Mr. Blackwell's doing or something more sinister?

I just want to express that I hate, loathe, detest, Mr. Blackwell.

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK CHAPTER 20: ENDURING RESOLVE

Ganondorf has gone into hiding. His two most loyal servants guard the desert in his stead. Hyrule approaches, knowing not what kind of death awaits them, deep beneath the sands. Zant tests out his blade.

FINALLY DONE! sooo sorry my beloved tumblr readerbase. this update has been available on ao3 for a little over a week now, but i had to steam through a pretty bad art block to get this promo image done exactly how i liked it. so without further ado, here it is!! i have a real doozy for you all today! again, thanks so much to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading the chapter! there's a couple secret languages in this chapter again... thanks very much to @unironicallycringe for helping me with figuring out Akkadian. as for the translations, well... you go puzzle it out!

content warnings this chapter for: graphic violence, animal death, medical gore, domestic violence/physical abuse (for lack of a better term)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

ao3 mirror

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away. 

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed. 

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade. 

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim-hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all. 

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration. 

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant. 

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky. 

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done, he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too. 

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his, then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips. 

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice. 

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him. 

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between. 

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted. 

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries. 

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces. 

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart. 

Now is the time to flee. 

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling. 

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind! 

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin. 

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.” 

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission. 

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him. 

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched. 

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act –  it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over. 

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit. 

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants. 

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks. 

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses. 

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes. 

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides. 

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit,” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself. 

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’. 

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage. 

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons. 

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction. 

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface. 

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern. 

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!? 

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle. 

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side. 

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire. 

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground. 

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear. 

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance. 

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos. 

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants. 

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were. 

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately. 

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running. 

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace. 

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all. 

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea. 

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails. 

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon!” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls… 

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions. 

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable!”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them?” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant’s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him. 

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum. 

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now!”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet. 

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased. Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable. 

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy. 

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me.”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge. 

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity. When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk. 

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die? 

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature. 

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile. 

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection. 

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest. 

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant. 

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime. 

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding. 

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted. 

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration. 

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it. 

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust. 

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim (was he even worthy of a name?) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more. 

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient. 

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili!”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink. 

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time. 

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him. 

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here. 

[allycat75]

Remember, in the end words mean very little Boston Dumb Fuck. It is your behavior and actions people will remember.

That is why hardly anyone remembers you saying your hate yourself in the unfortunate SMA article and how you don't recognize your life in the disastrous GQ article, but we will all remember your sunken, lifeless eyes with the 100 yard stare, hunched posture, pre-programmed locations, along with a full cast of characters ready for their part and the misguided full speed ASP promotion, chock-a-block-full of hubris, vanity and rich, white male Privlege.

There are good, honest people who want to help you, but they can't do that if you don't help yourself first. And even those angels can't wait forever. So prior to finishing the Kool Aid, reach out before you are too weak to move and the time runs out on your Hollywood sell by date.

Many, if not most, of your fans may still not return and you may never find that partner you have cried for, but you just may find you like yourself, hopefully even love yourself, truly love yourself, and that is your reward.

Take it from someone who knows, when you clear the bullshit and the lies and see yourself for all you are- the good, the bad, and the ugly- you begin to clear a path and can do the work to get you to where you were always meant to be. And you will wonder why you spent so many years being miserable and afraid to take up the space that was always intended for you. It will feel like home.

[lemonxlimee]

Think of these thoughts as hackneyed and trite

Cliched, depraved, disturbing and contrived

Shallow, cold, wretched, miserable, dark

And any other adjective

Choose to sit safely out of the sun

Away from rays so blinding to the eye

Singing songs someone's already sung

Averting gaze from beautiful light

But as complacency settles, anxieties will rise

And part this soul as Jekyll parted Hyde

Now I'm but half of the hollow man's lies

The love, the hate, the emotional side

Whats the point in trying if this end result of dying sits persistently encloaked in dimness?

Life can't thrive controlled by digits

I know I'm weak, I know that I'm vile, but sometimes that is needed to survive

That's what I'll say to rationalize

I'm needed if we're to stay alive

And yet here I lie with black, sunken eyes

My mind's consigned our sighs to a leaden void

the soul remains tempered, I remain plied

Condemned till we are both all but destroyed

But I know that one plus one can't equal two if happiness is both our truths

Our total sum must equal one if we're to find that golden hue

Spiralling down entropically, I beg of thee, have mercy on me

I was just a boy, you see

I plead of thee, have sympathy for me

See how it hurts when the sound (begins to ring)

And you feel it start to rot

And you beg for it to stop

But you've already dug your lot in the ground

See how the mind tricks the soul

Into being something sickly, dead and cold

As you feel it start to tire and fester so, so slowly

Up until the point where it will finally die

Just in time to see what could have been

Do what you want, you automaton freak

No, I can no longer bring myself to care

This hollowed-out vessel's beginning to creak

So take control, let's see how you fare

[zephrunsimperium]

Y'all... I have another AU ToT Bill got to be a human so naturally I made a completely different universe in which Ford is a demon. The brainrot is real and I wanna post stuff here soooooo

What I love about this AU is that I’ve put the twins in a world where their skill sets are valued at opposite levels than they were on earth. But I will say, this AU has developed so much that it's barely recognizable as having started from GF.

TW for death of a pregnant woman, spousal abuse/toxic relationships

Zeph's Demon Ford AU

Part I: Mortality

Stan is the leader of a thieving crew in an apocalyptic world called Scadrial. (I've based this part off of the world in Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn trilogy, but although I recommend it highly, I'll describe all of this so nobody has to have read it to understand.) As for Ford... He and Stan aren’t identical. Ford never bulks up like he does in canon. He likes to read and write but doesn't have much of an outlet for that - he’s just constantly journaling. He’s very quiet, but very spiteful. He doesn’t speak much and is very sickly and awkward. He also doesn’t sleep much so he’s got really sunken dark eyes behind longish dirty hair.

Stan obviously loves Ford very much, but the crew members are kinda pissed that he’s there because they feel like he doesn’t do anything and yet he gets paid for their work. At one point his journal gets stolen and he’s outed for his crush on one of the (male) crew members. This really weakens Stan’s reputation and the crew pulls a coup.

The twins end up on the streets and Ford just feels awful; he was utterly humiliated and the crew members really roughed him up. He hated feeling so weak. He also starts having awful nightmares; he's being targeted by a dream demon named Korro. The demon repeatedly asks Ford to make a deal with her, but Ford refuses again and again. Ford ends up killing a nobleman; for his pocket change, but really to prove something to himself. The noble's murder attracts the attention of law enforcement and he and Stan are captured. Before they're executed, Ford decides to take the demon's deal.

Part II: Fiddleford

Ford and Stan spend years as the demon's servant, until Ford is able to overthrow her, taking her power for himself. He received the powers of the dream demon and Stan received the power of a shapeshifting illusionist. They were left with a problem, however: if Sixer didn’t get enough worship, both he and Stan would die. Taking the name Sixer to separate himself from his younger, weaker self, he devised a strategy where he would find a mortal to seduce, squeeze all the worship he could out of them, kill them, and live off of the power until he needed to find someone else.

Eventually, Sixer started conning Fiddleford McGucket, a newly wed cattle driver in 1880s Texas. He preyed on Fiddleford’s closeted sexuality and faith, posing as an angel sent from god to help cure his sexual deviance. Fiddleford, however, took longer to con than most and Sixer was forced to spend more time with the man. Out of jealousy, he poisoned a pregnant EmmaMay, getting Fiddleford all to himself.

Sixer decided he had spent far too much time and energy on Fiddleford to murder him like the others - and growing up with very little as a child had made Sixer VERY territorial. Before Fiddleford could find out that Sixer had lied about being an angel, he convinced Fiddleford to give him his soul and make him immortal, gifting him the power to control memory and a body made of vegetation.

Fiddleford would spend the next century trying to justify…. Everything. Sure Sixer had lied and had been trying to con him, but he was clearly being given special treatment compared to Sixer's other victims. Sure he only admitted he loved him when he was intoxicated but he did love him! Sixer's drunken rants about his childhood and peeks into his memory only made him seem more redeemable.

(Stan, in case you’re curious, just eventually learned to do his own thing, scamming people on the internet by pretending to be a gamer girl named StaZ. He talked to Fiddleford one on one a lot but Sixer had changed so much, any interaction he had with him usually ended in a shouting match. Unable to leave, Stan just tries to keep his head down and enjoy what little he can)

Part III: Bill

While Sixer grew resentful of Fiddleford’s clinginess, Fiddleford grew resentful of Sixer’s unfair treatment. Eventually, he murdered one of Sixer’s targets in self defense, cutting off his worship supply. In retaliation, Sixer picked up a recently reincarnated Bill Cipher (from after the canon Weirdmageddon events) to make Fidds jealous.

Excited about the prospect of winning over a different Stanford with sticking it to a different Fiddleford as an added bonus, Bill agreed to the hook up and ended up convincing Sixer to get rid of Fiddleford entirely. Sixer hated the fact that his soft spot for Fidds had made him weak and Bill offered to fix the problem of his worship supply's connection to his mortality so it seemed a fair trade.

Sixer's regret for killing his unofficial consort was strong, but he tried his hardest to push it down. The regret grew, however, into resentment for Bill and Sixer decided to overthrow Bill the same way he did his old demon master. Bill figured out early that Sixer was planning something like this, but - unwilling to accept the idea of losing Ford a second time - denial prevented him from taking any course of action against Sixer's machinations. Until, that is, they grew too hard to ignore and Sixer exploded about how killing Fiddleford was the worst mistake he ever made.

Enraged by a second betrayal, Sixer met the same fate by Bill's hand that Fiddleford had met by Sixer's own.

(And Stan lived happily ever after)

[lovesickval3ntine]

A LITTLE THING IM WORKING ON. ALL THE TWS

The odor of blood and decay suffocates Adam as it radiates throughout the pitch-black bathroom.

Zep's lifeless body lies a few feet in front of him, his body bloated and discolored, he vaguely feels maggots squirm on his ankle, eating away at the dying flesh around the raw welts but he can't bring himself to care.

Adam shivers as he leans against the cold pipe of the bathroom, the bullet wound on his shoulder burns as it rubs against the fabric of his shirt, causing him to groan and squeeze his eyes shut in pain.

In his feverish daze, he wonders if Lawrence will come back for him.

He promised, Lawrence promised, he wouldn't lie to him.

Would he?

Adam stares at his hands in front of him as he flickers in and out of consciousness, they shake violently.

Adam feels his hunger deep in his bones, leaving him aching and weak. He lets his head fall into his weak hands, furiously shaking as he begins to hear an all too familiar voice.

"I wouldn't lie to you” a familiar voice whispers harshly against his ear. Despite the words being said, the voice makes every muscle in Adam tense in fear.

"You're not real, shut up!" Adam grits out between clenched teeth, his voice dry and strained as it echoes throughout the empty bathroom, his fingers itch for a cigarette now more than ever.

“It doesn't matter now, does it? You're dying Adam” The doctor's calm voice says, devoid of any emotion.

As Adam attempts to hold back the tears that threaten to fall, he clamps his hands over his ears roughly to muffle the echoing whispers of Lawrence.

It doesn't help, his voice sounds just as close and clear as it did before.

Tears start to fall off Adam's sunken cheeks and sharp jaw as he finally breaks out in sobs, strained apologies, and confessions are whispered frantically.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry” Adam cries as his wails echo around the bathroom, “I want to live, please let me live, please come back” he whispers as his grip around his ears tightens.

Adam passes out with his head in between his arms for what has to be hours before he jumps up, woken up to bloodcurdling screams echoing all around him, his skull vibrates from the volume as he recognizes Zep's screams, the screams he caused.

But Zep was dead.

Wasn't he?

Adam slowly opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and looks a few feet in front of him where Zep’s corpse is supposed to be, he can smell the decaying flesh and the metallic blood covering them but Zep's body is gone, even in the dark bathroom he can tell that Zep’s body is gone.

Adam strains his eyes to make out the details in the darkness, he frantically looks around as things come into focus, Zep had to be in the bathroom with him.

He remembers the feeling of warm blood splattering onto him, covering him in the sticky red substance. He remembers when Zepp’s skull cracked under him as his adrenaline-filled body smashed, smashed, smashed away Zep’s only chance at life.

Adam looked around the bathroom as best as he could when he noticed a glint of metal in the bathtub, and sure enough, Zep's rotting corpse lay at the bottom of the bathtub with his gun lying in his left hand and his tape on top of his chest. Adam reaches his arm towards Zep's gun and just as his fingers whisper over the handle of the pistol Zep's rotting arm reaches up and grabs the small of his wrist with bruising strength.

“There are rules” Zep’s corpse whispers as he yanks Adam by the wrist roughly, making him hiss.

“you should be dead,” the corpse whispers calmly, “You wanted to die” Zep digs his blood-covered fingernails deep into Adam’s wrist, Adam winces and uses the rest of his strength to rip his wrist out of Zep's hold and sink back into the corner, laying his head against the chilled pipe behind him.

Zep continues to whisper nonsense Adam can't quite make out through the pounding of his head, bright hot pain shocks him as it runs through his body in a wave.

~NOT DONE~

[dreambigwithastro]

Think of these thoughts as hackneyed and trite

Clichéd depraved disturbing and contrived

Shallow cold wretched. Miserable dark

And any other adjective

Choose to sit safely out of the sun

Away from rays so blinding to the eye

Singing songs someone's already sung

Averting gaze from beautiful light

But as complacency settles anxieties will rise

And part this Soul as Jekyll parted Hyde

Now I'm but half of a hollow man's lies

The love the hate the emotional side

What's the point in trying if this

End result of dying sits

Persistently encloaked in dimness

Life can't thrive controlled by digits

I know I'm weak. I know that I'm vile

But sometimes that is needed to survive

That's what I'll say to rationalize

I'm needed if we're to stay alive

And yet here I lie with black sunken eyes

My Mind's consigned our sighs to a leaden void

The Soul remains tempered. I remain plied

Condemned 'til we are both all but destroyed

But I know that one plus one can't equal two

If happiness is both our truths

Our total sum must equal one

If we're to find that golden hue

So spiraling down entropically

I beg of thee have mercy on me

I am just a boy you see

I plead of thee have sympathy for me

See how it hurts when the sound begins to ring

And you feel it start to rot

And you beg for it to stop

But you've already dug your lot in the ground

See how The Mind tricks The Soul

Into being something sickly dead and cold

As you feel it start to tire and fester so so slowly

Up until the point where it will finally die

Just in time to see what could have been

Do what you want you automaton freak

No I can no longer bring myself to care

This hollowed out vessel's beginning to creak

So take control let's see how you fare

wh.. how did you know I listen to Chonny Jash?? thank you though.. I should really listen to that song again.. sweet dreams!

[r4zzled4zzle]

Think of these thoughts as hackneyed and trite

Clichéd depraved disturbing and contrived

Shallow cold wretched. Miserable dark

And any other adjective

Choose to sit safely out of the sun

Away from rays so blinding to the eye

Singing songs someone's already sung

Averting gaze from beautiful light

But as complacency settles anxieties will rise

And part this Soul as Jekyll parted Hyde

Now I'm but half of a hollow man's lies

The love the hate the emotional side

What's the point in trying if this

End result of dying sits

Persistently encloaked in dimness

Life can't thrive controlled by digits

I know I'm weak. I know that I'm vile

But sometimes that is needed to survive

That's what I'll say to rationalize

I'm needed if we're to stay alive

And yet here I lie with black sunken eyes

My Mind's consigned our sighs to a leaden void

The Soul remains tempered. I remain plied

Condemned 'til we are both all but destroyed

But I know that one plus one can't equal two

If happiness is both our truths

Our total sum must equal one

If we're to find that golden hue

So spiraling down entropically

I beg of thee have mercy on me

I am just a boy you see

I plead of thee have sympathy for me

See how it hurts when the sound begins to ring

And you feel it start to rot

And you beg for it to stop

But you've already dug your lot in the ground

See how The Mind tricks The Soul

Into being something sickly dead and cold

As you feel it start to tire and fester so so slowly

Up until the point where it will finally die

Just in time to see what could have been

Do what you want you automaton freak

No I can no longer bring myself to care

This hollowed out vessel's beginning to creak

So take control let's see how you fare

Uh.. What does this mean?? (Are these lyrics..?)

[ghostgirl101]

Did some random creative writing for Canon BEN Drowned...

So anyone that knows all the arcs and is just as weirdly informed about it all as I am might find this a good read while I finish up some slasher fanfic 🙃 ...or not. Just felt like sharing it.

He could almost taste it; just like how your tongue soaks in the airy salt when you wander the beach, waves crashing and frothing, dragging in uneven sheets of golden grain in their wake.

Like burning chlorine in your eyes, your mouth, smelling strong and chemical and making you wonder exactly what you're swimming in, but tasting weak and repulsive when you accidentally choke down a mouthful.

The water overwhelmed his senses, leaking into every opening, flushing out any other feeling apart from floundering in the very element used to kill too many Children to count. There was no blood, no dramatic gore or broken bones. Nothing but silent screams that bubbled to the surface of the lake, floating figures bobbing about like they were in kaleidoscope, underwater. Little and large bodies, but only shells, empty, unconscious, dead shells, as the mind was transported to a pixelated, hellish scape that they were promised looked like heaven. The bodies had sunken too many years ago, a lifetime ago, a world away, dust in the water, polluting the clear blue with lonely remains.

Moments like these made him hate a little more, hate the players, the victims, himself, themselves... the Father. That taste resurfaced, crashing with hard electricity; he shuddered, and so they shuddered with him, all one and the same trapped in one warped consciousness, feeling the all-too-real memory of a cold, cruel death... of a Child who believed in the Moon.

It won't do them any good. Not to think about it, to feel again, to remember what happened in a life that wasn't shielded by a screen and embedded in code, not a life of lies where the truth was inescapable and merciless and twisted. It won't change a thing, it won't change what they shouldn't have done.

...

A flash penetrates the blocky grass. The original game music sounds ear-piercing and hollow from its depths, and just like that, there's a mindless young man peering into the game, yanking a blonde-haired and green-clothed puppet through the story, the save game that does not belong to him, or anyone beyond the screen.

And yet, it's perfect.

The man will die, that much is certain. He might not drown, but he'll die. He'll lose his mind, every grip on sanity. He'll question everything, look everywhere, in every familiar place in his room and dark nook and cranny in his home, looking for phantoms that appear with a broken game, until he snaps.

Perfect.

...

DAY FOUR.WMV

[swiftmitsu]

Think of these thoughts as hackneyed and trite

Clichéd depraved disturbing and contrived

Shallow cold wretched. Miserable dark

And any other adjective

Choose to sit safely out of the sun

Away from rays so blinding to the eye

Singing songs someone's already sung

Averting gaze from beautiful light

But as complacency settles anxieties will rise

And part this Soul as Jekyll parted Hyde

Now I'm but half of a hollow man's lies

The love the hate the emotional side

What's the point in trying if this

End result of dying sits

Persistently encloaked in dimness

Life can't thrive controlled by digits

I know I'm weak. I know that I'm vile

But sometimes that is needed to survive

That's what I'll say to rationalize

I'm needed if we're to stay alive

And yet here I lie with black sunken eyes

My Mind's consigned our sighs to a leaden void

The Soul remains tempered. I remain plied

Condemned 'til we are both all but destroyed

But I know that one plus one can't equal two

If happiness is both our truths

Our total sum must equal one

If we're to find that golden hue

So spiraling down entropically

I beg of thee have mercy on me

I am just a boy you see

I plead of thee have sympathy for me

See how it hurts when the sound begins to ring

And you feel it start to rot

And you beg for it to stop

But you've already dug your lot in the ground

See how The Mind tricks The Soul

Into being something sickly dead and cold

As you feel it start to tire and fester so so slowly

Up until the point where it will finally die

Just in time to see what could have been

Do what you want you automaton freak

No I can no longer bring myself to care

This hollowed out vessel's beginning to creak

So take control let's see how you fare...

Not again bro.

WHOS SINGING IN THE BACKGROUND I AM IN THE MIDST OF A WAR HERE.

[its-time-to-rise-above]

think of these thoughts as hackneyed and trite clicheed depraved disturbing and contrived shallow cold wretched miserable dark and any other adjective choose to sit safely out of the sun away from rays so blinding to the eye singing songs someones already sung averting gaze from beautiful light but as complacency settles anxieties will rise and part this soul as jekyll parted hyde now im but half of a hollow mans lies the love the hate the emotional side whats the point in trying if this end result of dying sits persistently encloaked in dimness life cant thrive by digits i know im weak i know that im vile but sometimes that is needed to survive thats what ill say to rationalize im needed if were to stay alive and yet here i lie with black sunken eyes my minds consigned our sighs to a leaden void the soul remains tempered i remain plied condemned till we are both all but destroyed but i know that one plus one cant equal two if happiness is both our truths the total sum must equal one if were to find that golden hue so spiraling down entropically i beg of thee have mercy on me i am just a boy you see i plead of thee have sympathy for me see how it hurts when the sound begins to ring as you feel it start to rot and you beg for it to stop but youve already dug your lot in the ground see how the mind tricks the soul into being something sickly dead and cold as you feel it start to tire and fester so so slowly up until the point where it will finally die just in time to see what could have been do what you want you automaton freak no i can no longer bring myself to care this hollowed out vessels beginning to creak so take control lets see how you fare

wow wow the heart acoustic I’m so proud and was very concerned when I saw this!!