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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

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The Man with the Lost Soul

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: virgnity loss, smut, angst, violence, mention of the suicide, murder attempt, trauma, mourning ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She remembered little of her father's speech, focusing only on the fact that she had a fever and on her little brother's body, cuddled into her, shaking with sobs. She wore a matte, black suede gown with open shoulders, its sleeves reaching all the way to the ground.

She wore no adornments, her hair loose, falling freely down her back. She felt his presence a few paces behind her, separating her from the rest of those gathered, the lords and ladies of the court immersed in disbelief, weepeing loudly in despair as if her mother's fate would ever concern them.

They all knew that her father had kept her locked up for years.

She looked at her King and though she could see his lips moving, tears on his cheeks, but she could not hear or feel anything − all she could think about was what Vhagar had told her that night.

Your father the King wanted me to make it look like she took her own life.

"It was with great regret that I accepted the high priest's decision regarding the fact that a person who takes his own life cannot be buried with honours in the royal tomb. For this reason, therefore, my beloved, poor, suffering-stricken wife will be buried outside the town walls, respecting her remains and her memory, needless to say." He said in a trembling, deep, hoarse voice, as if he really suffered at the thought.

She felt something surge through her heart, a tightness and pain from which she parted her lips in trembling breaths, a single, lonely tear running down her cheek.

When it was all over, her servants braided her hair and put a black, translucent veil over her face. She felt suddenly that she was partially covered from the world, that she was surrounded by the darkness she felt in her heart.

She wondered if this was what Vhagar felt while hiding behind his mask.

She followed her father and brother in a small procession behind a closed coffin covered by a shroud, a monk in front of them singing a slow, mournful chant that echoed in her mind.

She stared at the back of her king-father and thought only of the fact that he had killed her mother and deprived her of an honourable burial, without even waiting for the mighty of the Kingdom or her own family to arrive to bid her a proper farewell.

She watched as the coffin containing her body was lowered into a deep grave dug outside the city walls, heard the sobs of the mourners, but she herself shed no more tears. She looked to the side − behind her father stood his guards, his ghosts, but her ghost, her Vhagar stood by her side, a few steps behind her.

She felt his presence, the presence of death with her whole being.

When it was all over her father pulled her out of her musings by approaching her, pale, wiping his face with his palm, as if he himself could not believe that all this was really happening.

"I know you blame me for this and you have every right to. By separating you, I drove her to the brink of despair, she obviously felt she no longer had a reason to live." He muttered in a trembling voice, not looking at her but somewhere to the side, far away.

She looked at him through the thin material of the veil, feeling only her breathing and the beating of her heart, besides having the impression that she was surrounded by nothing but emptiness.

"I do not blame you, my King. You have done everything in your power. She was mad with despair. You could not help her." She said softly, calmly, her words like pleasant music to his ears. He grunted and cheered up, walking up to her, grasping her face in his hands, placing a long, drawn-out kiss on her forehead.

"My beloved child." He said warmly − she felt a squeeze in her heart and forced herself to smile.

As soon as he passed her the corners of her mouth sank down, her gaze focused on the spot where she saw fresh earth and a small stone monument, all surrounded by flowers.

"My Princess."

She heard his voice and shuddered, only now noticing that there was no one around them anymore, they were completely alone.

"It's time to go back."

She shook her head as she walked closer, placing a hand on the cold tombstone − she had the feeling that everything around her was blurry and foggy, her heart and throat squeezed.

"No. I won't leave her alone this time." She whispered, feeling like just laying down next to her, growing into the ground, being covered in flowers and grass, falling asleep next to her.

"She's free now."

She pressed her lips together, feeling a squeeze in her throat at his words, her nostrils quivering in an anxious breath. She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking at his tear-streaked mask, and thought that they were the same now.

She approached him with the quiet rustling of her gown, the hum of the grass and the singing of birds all around them, their robes blowing in the wind.

She stood in front of him and looked at him, at the man who had betrayed her, at the man who had killed her mother, at the man who had taken away her chance to decide her own life and death.

Every time she thought about it she had to remind herself that it was her father who made him follow her, it was her father who made him report on everything she did, it was her father who ordered him to kill her mother and it was her father who made her want to end her life.

He was just a tool, a blade held by someone else.

She placed her hand on his chest, rose on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mask where a tear had been outlined − despite the material that separated her lips from it, she felt the cold, unpleasant, tart taste of steel.

She heard him swallow loudly, his bright iris looking straight at her in surprise, his pupil dilated wide, his eye almost completely black.

"This is my expression of gratitude for your dedication to the affairs of our family." She whispered with feigned fondness, running her hand over the spot where his cheek would have been, the steel beneath her skin uncomfortably cold and slightly wet due to the moisture it had gathered from the air around them.

She passed him without a word, heading towards the gate. As she walked along the roads of the city, the people living in the townhouses threw field flowers under her feet, called out her mother's name, expressed their love for their Queen.

She trampled their wishes, their gifts, their words with each step, looking ahead, lifting her gaze to the great fortress standing on the hill before her in the distance − it seemed to her now completely black, its towers partially veiled by grey clouds.

A great black coffin, she thought.

She was as dead as her mother.

As she stepped into her chamber she ordered loudly that she wished to take a bath. Vhagar stood at her door watching as her servants filled the tub they had brought moments earlier with warm water, one of them helping her undo the ties of her gown.

"Your Grace…is he…" The girl asked uncertainly, looking at the hooded figure standing on the other side of her chamber.

"Let him look." She said dispassionately, feeling no shame or embarrassment as she was left in just a thin white chemise − her maid swallowed loudly and nodded, curl by curl loosening her hair.

She stepped into the tub and sighed quietly, resting her head against its edge, closing her eyes, saying softly that they could leave.

She heard quiet footsteps, the sound of a door opening and closing, and then there was complete silence.

She lifted her eyelids and saw that he was standing in the same place as before, right at her door, straight, with his arms folded in front of him, looking at her unashamedly, her naked body peeking through from under her wet undershirt.

"Do you draw satisfaction from this sight?" She asked teasingly, twisting in place with a quiet splash of water, its pleasant warmth relaxing her tense muscles, finally no longer shivering from the cold.

He stared at her in silence, his pupil fixed on her face.

"Do not do anything thoughtless under the influence of emotion." He said dryly, his eye wide open, his chest rising slightly with each breath he took. She furrowed her brow at his words, feeling a tightness in her throat.

"I don't understand what you mean, Vhagar." She said coolly and he chuckled under his breath, however it was a laugh from which a cold chill went through her despite the warmth of the water.

"Your father wants to believe your words, which is why he does not yet see what lurks in your gaze. But when he finally notices it, it is not me he will send to you. I will not protect you from what will happen, and your greatest nightmare will come true." He said with a cold tone filled with some kind of superiority and opened the door from her chamber, disappearing behind it with a quiet clatter.

She pressed her lips together at his words, drew in a breath and slid backwards, sinking her entire head under the water − the voices in her head silenced, only an all-consuming hum around her.

She lasted like this for a moment before she felt a tightening in her mouth, her body craving another breath against her will, demanding to live. She rose to the surface, drawing in air loudly, wiping her face of the water droplets with her hands, sighing heavily.

She closed her eyes, thinking of what her mother had said, what she had spoken about since they had lived in this fortress.

The passage in her chamber and the cry of the child.

She opened her eyelids, feeling the sudden, rapid pounding of her heart.

Has Prince Aemond's body been found at last?

She stepped quickly out of the bath with a loud splash of water, quickly putting on a black, matte robe, tying it around her waist, opening the door of her chamber and stepping out into the corridor.

Although her body was shivering from the cold, she had the feeling that her heart was on fire.

She felt his surprise, his quick steps behind her, trying to catch up with her. She ran into her mother's old royal chamber, and as he entered behind her she looked at him with furrowed brows.

"No, Vhagar. Wait outside. It is time for me and my mother." She said coolly. She felt him hesitate, stand still for a moment − he turn his head, impatient, and walked out, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.

She looked around the room, running quickly to the walls, touching them with her hands, trying to discover some roughness or unevenness, something that would tell her there was a hidden door behind them.

She pressed her lips together and ran her hand over her face in impatience, unable to find anything, wondering where the child could be hiding.

She circled the room with her fingers pressed to her lips, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

His face was cut open, he couldn't survive it.

At the time of the attack he was not in his room but in his mother's chamber − her father's soldiers said they attacked him first − his mother threw herself at them to protect him, and then the Prince suddenly disappeared and was not found.

The entire chamber was searched, at first believing her mother that he could indeed have been hiding there, however nothing was found and it was decided that it was a figment of her imagination, the result of her remorse, and that the boy had taken advantage of the inattention of the men when they were wrestling with his mother and had fled.

She looked to the side and froze, licking her lower lip, feeling the cold sweat on her back as she looked at her mother's large bed.

Where did children hide when they were most frightened?

She walked over there slowly and crouched down, peering in from underneath, seeing only the dusty wooden floor. She swallowed loudly and pulled herself in deeper, feeling her body quiver at the thought that maybe she was now in his place, imagining all that must have been going on around him, that he had very little time.

She began to press the various pieces of wood one by one, hoping something would happen, however nothing did. She sighed heavily as she pressed her forehead to the floor, resigned, thinking it was pointless and suddenly she felt something under her hands.

It seemed to her at first that it was simply a piece of wood that had chipped away over the years, but it had a semi-circular shape, and was so small that only her little finger could fit in there.

She tried to lever it up and lift it, but nothing happened. It wasn't until she slipped her finger in deeper that she felt she had pressed on something cold and made of steel, and when she pushed it hard and let go she heard a quiet click − the piece of floor lifted slightly, as if the hinges holding it in place had loosened.

She lifted the flap higher, breathing loudly, feeling the chill emanating from the black stone hole, with a small staircase that a very petite woman or child could fit into.

She clenched her eyes shut, feeling tears of regret and horror running down her cheeks, panicked at the realisation that her mother was not mad, that she had died for nothing.

Was his body there or had he managed to escape?

Where did this passage lead?

She began to crawl down inside with difficulty, seeing only complete darkness in front of her, and then she heard a slam and loud footsteps, someone's large hand grabbed her ankle and aggressively pulled her backwards.

She screamed, terrified, clenching her hands on the wood, her willowy legs trying to kick him but to no avail − after a moment he forcibly dragged her out from under the bed and turned her onto her back, his eye wide open, staring at her in disbelief, she could hear his loud breathing.

He seemed to hesitate.

"What have you done?" He asked in a trembling voice, his hands held her shoulders pressed to the floor so that she could not move, her breathing laboured, looking at him in horror.

"I have discovered a secret passage." She muttered, feeling that she was trembling all over. "My mother said she heard a child crying inside her chamber. I think she heard Prince Aemond."

He was silent for a long time, breathing loudly − she heard him swallow with difficulty and clench his eyes shut, and when he opened them his gaze was different, frantic, dangerous.

"I told you not to do anything thoughtless." He said tiredly and resignedly, coldly, in a way that made her feel a shiver run down her spine.

His hands moved from her wrists to her neck, clamping down on it, instantly cutting off the oxygen supply to her lungs. In an involuntary reflex, she grabbed his wrists, her eyebrows arching in horror and pain, her body beginning to wince in despair.

"You're making me do this." He muttered under his breath apparently trying to drown out the sound of her choking, her mouth desperately trying to catch her breath.

He leaned in suddenly, the cold steel mask pressed against her forehead, a desperate growl of grief and rage escaped his lips, his hands let go of her, her lungs drew in a quick, deep breath.

She tightened her hands on his shoulders, trying to keep him away, but he lay on top of her, pressing her to the floor − she shuddered, a quiet gasp escaping her lips when she felt something hard throbbing between her thighs.

"You are my curse. My ruin." He breathed out; she felt his hips move back and forth, rubbing against her, her body went breathless all over − she felt something pulsate deep inside her, some kind of tickle in her lower abdomen from which she sighed quietly, her heart pounding like mad. "My doom."

He exhaled heavily − she could feel his hot breath gushing into her face through the holes in his mask, his hands from her neck slid down to her thighs, slipping under her thin robe. She shuddered as she felt his leather-gloved fingers tighten on the bare skin of her plump buttocks.

They both let out a loud, ripped breath, her hands slid lower from his chest, pressing his hips closer to her body, the spot between her thighs throbbed hard − she felt some kind of need inside her, for some reason despite her terror she didn't want him to stop.

She wanted him to take everything from her, she wanted him to strip her of her dignity, to punish her for allowing all this to happen.

"− destroy me − leave me with nothing −" She whispered softly; she heard him groan low at her words clenching his eyes, his hands slid down her thighs to the material of his coat − she saw him unbuckle his belt, her fingers helped him untie the bindings of his breeches.

"− fuck − fuck −" He mumbled, both of them breathing loudly in what felt like excitement and desperation, she tightened her hands on his back and whimpered when she felt something begin to push against her flesh between her thighs, trying to force itself inside her.

"− let me inside − don't fight me −" He breathed out, trying to forcibly slide deeper into her − she clenched her eyes shut and cried out, spreading her thighs wide in an attempt to ease the immense discomfort and excruciating pain she felt, one of his hands placed next to her head, the other firmly holding her hip.

He rooted into her with one brutal thrust of his hips and she whined loudly − despite his mask she could see that he was looking at her with a misty gaze, his body in what felt like a natural reflex began to move inside her, his manhood rubbing her again and again at a spot that sent shivers through her.

She panted and sobbed beneath him, feeling with every movement he made that one more thrust from him and he would tear her apart − he was too big, her muscles clenching against him in terror.

She heard his growl of pleasure each time he sank deep into her body again, instead of slowing down he accelerated, his movements beginning to be followed by the quiet click of her moisture.

"− g-gods, forgive me −" She mumbled out panting along with him, feeling with horror that the faster he slammed into her the more pleasurable it became, the tickling between her thighs became unbearable.

They both sighed with pleasure as her hips began to respond to his movements, his length rooting into her with increasing ease, sticky with her moisture − she felt as if her body had adapted to his size.

"− good gods, you are fucking enjoying this −" He scoffed teasingly, the thrusts of his hips sinking him deep inside her again and again. She felt with embarrassment her own wetness running down her buttocks − she tensed so that with each push he rubbed that wonderful spot from which shivers of pleasure ran through her.

It was so wonderful to be so full when she felt so empty, it was so wonderful to shudder with emotion when she thought she would never feel anything again in her life.

"− Vhagar −" She mewled beneath him, her heavy breathing making the moisture condense as vapour on his mask − he groaned low, both of them panting loudly, apparently taking surprising pleasure in this primitive, animal slapping of flesh against flesh.

"− no − not like that − you know my name −" He hissed out, she felt him twitching hard inside her as if the thought of her knowing his identity aroused him even more − she felt her heart pounding like mad, her lips parted wide, her hands slipped under his breeches and tightened on his buttocks.

She knew him.

Gods, she knew him.

"− I − I don't know −" She mumbled between his aggressive, sure thrusts, from which she felt stupefied, felt unbearable tension and heat in her lower abdomen − she had a feeling that a few more of his stabs and something would happen.

"− come on, you can do it − say my name − say my fucking name −" He growled, slamming into her with loud, low groans of pleasure, she could feel him throbbing hard inside her, her walls clenching down on him greedily, sucking him inside.

She shook her head, unable to give him an answer, her mind completely frazzled with pleasure, only whimpers and sobs coming from her mouth, her hips responding involuntarily to his every push, feeling the wonderful tickling between her thighs, in her fingertips, in her lips.

"− I − p-please, oooh, gods, yes, yes, yes −" She cried out loudly tilting her head back, feeling the unfamiliar, overpowering hot pleasure shake her body, her insides began to throb like crazy.

She heard him growl low feeling it, rooting into her with a few more desperate, sloppy thrusts before she felt something warm spill inside her, a loud sigh of relief escaping his lips.

His seed.

She looked sideways at the closed door to the chamber, hearing only their loud, raspy breaths, her body convulsing, her mouth parted wide in disbelief.

What had she done?

They both pulled away from each other − she hissed in discomfort as he slid out of her and rose slowly, quickly tying his breeches. They were both breathing loudly, terrified of what they had done, of what had happened.

She moved away from him, looking at him in disbelief, wondering if he was going to try to strangle her again.

Why did her discovery frighten him so much?

Who was this man?

It seemed to her that he could read the doubt written on her face − he stood up and sighed heavily, buckling the belt of his coat.

"If your father finds out we missed this, he'll kill us all." He said lowly, and she felt some kind of relief that he had done it purely out of fear.

She swallowed loudly, looking at him distrustfully, catching herself with shame that she could still feel him deep inside her, her walls sore from his aggressive, greedy thrusts.

"If you wish, I will inform him of what you have discovered in your presence." He said finally and she turned her face away, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart.

Did she want her father to find out?

If Prince Aemond was still alive, he could return and take the throne for himself.

He could have done what she had secretly dreamed of since she saw her mother's coffin disappear into the black depths.

He could kill the King.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years ago

Note

AEIWAM - Some details about whats going on with Komamura. IIRC canon said he was a werewolf, are you doing anything with him?

Me: What IS Komamura's backstory? Me: *reads backstory and eventual canon fate of Komamura* Me: Hm. Me: That's thematically weird and depressing. Me: I'll just ignore that :)

---

So in An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy, there's ALL KINDS of animal-people and supernatural creatures of varying degrees of anthropomorphic states in the Soul Society! Wolf people! Yokai! Centaurs But Bad! Snake people (sneople)! Mothmen! Whatever the fuck The Philosopher Wax is! Hell, Zaraki Kenpachi was raised by eagles! More nonhuman persons than you can shake a stick at!

They just stay away from the humans because The Humans are TERRIBLE.

...Not as terrible as my immediate family though, The Young Wolf is willing to gamble. he has to leave his home suddenly, in the middle of the night, frightened and injured. Family feuds are bad enough, but a drought year for a large group of apex carnivores and great-grandmother dying and creating a power vacuum? I'm lucky I got out alive! He reasons, tightening the bandages and wincing.

It doesn't look so bad. he lies to himself, looking at his reflection in the where he had finally collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss the previous night and somehow woke up alive this morning. Great-Grandfather did me a favor, trying to bite me in half like that- a tail would just make it even harder to blend in with the humans!

...Clothes would help more though. He sighs.

One man's trash is another's treasure, and that has never been more true than in the case of wolves that want to live with humans. The Young Wolf nearly weeps with joy when he finds the dump- barely-rotted animal carcasses to eat! broken wood for a fire! and clothes! Big enough to fit him! Alright that's definitely a bloodstain with a big, sort of sword-slash-shaped hole in the middle, but nothing a dunk in the river won't solve!

...Or not. Well, at least being covered in mud is less suspicious than being covered in blood? How does this thing even go on anyway? The garment is so confusing, he almost doesn't hear the humans who came to dump something until they are nearly upon him, and realizing they'll panic if they see his face, he grabs a broken basket and jams it over his head.

"Hey!" one of the humans calls out, seeing the movement. "What're you?" An old man peers around the pile at him, curious.

The Young Wolf sputters- he's heard tales of humans before, but this is the first human he's ever actually seen- The stories tell of their strange dark eyes and flattened faces how their fur is so fine they're nearly bald all over, and this man fits the description perfectly. An old woman- he guesses this one is a Woman, because what little fur she has is longer- she appears behind him, equally curious, then smacks the man under the ear.

"You dummy!" She snaps. "That's a monk!"

"Big damn monk!" The man laughs- indeed, even though he's one of the smallest of his people and not even grown, The Young Wolf towers over him- but still, he extends his open hand. Like the stories say, his claws are blunt and pale and the pads of his paws are soft. "What's yer name, venerable?"

"He can't answer that, he's a monk!" the woman snaps, exasperated. "They got- whatchyamacallit- Vows of Silence!"

"Oh, right!" the old man laughs. "Well, wouldn't matter if you could talk anyhow- my Old Lady's deaf as a post and I'm dumb as a rock! Come on, this is no place for a holy man!" he waved.

"Our home is up this way- it isn't much, but it's better than sleeping in Garbage! You stay with us and I'll fix that ratty old robe right up!" She said, grabbing him by the hand-

Ba-San looks down at his hand- it feels strange in hers, but it's not the fine gray fur covering his fingers or the rough pads on his palm or the dark nails that taper to claws.

It's that the hand is bleeding, scraped and cut and one of his nails missing like it had been torn off in a fight.

Ba-San is so old that everyone has forgotten her name and they just call her Ba-San, even her husband (who is so old that everyone has forgotten his name and calls him Jii-san, even his wife), and she didn't get this ancient by being an idiot. She glances up at the broken basket she knows got thrown in here by her neighbor not a week ago and sees the large golden eyes inside, staring down at her.

She's also old enough to know what a frightened child looks like, no matter how tall or what species he is.

She makes a show of squinting at his hand. "Why, your nails are FILTHY! You can wash up at the well out back too." She pats his hand.

"Of course! That's right!" Jii-san laughs. "Like I said- I got gravel for brains! He can sleep in Sajin's bed- Sajin is our Boy, but he's long since left home. It'll be good to have a young person around again!" he says, taking the boy's other hand.

He follows, stumbling awkwardly in the badly-tied robe and like he's been injured, but if he leaves paw-prints behind him, they don't remark upon it. - After about a month, the boy has something to confess. And something to ask.

Ba-San and Jii-San have been kind to him- they let him into their home and fed him and Ba-San didn't fix his robe so much as make an entirely new one "appropriate for a Monk", and Jii-san found a pair of old work gloves for him "so you can do your Good Works without losing another nail". Ba-San always gives him her soup-bones "I don't have the teeth to chew them anymore" and Jii-san always moves over so they can both sleep in the sun-patch that appears in the middle of their home every afternoon.

He's tried to repay them how he can- he's tall enough to fix the holes in the roof of their one-room shack standing flat-footed on the floor, and he carries water from the well every day to wash the stone steps outside and re-painted the red gate out front and every morning he makes them breakfast to wake them up and every night he rubs their tired necks and shoulders.

"Mmm-rr." he tries at breakfast, and they both look up, but it's hard enough practicing human words in the woods behind the shack to the birds, let alone now, at the table with the two people he cares most about in the world.

"You say something, Venerable?" Jii-san asks. "Don't worry- I won't tattle to the abbot on you-" he teases.

"Shush!" Ba-san barks at him. "What is it?"

He sighs, and tries again, focusing on the sounds. "mMnoddamunk."

The two elders stare blankly at him.

"Ahm nodda munk." he tries again, enunciating better. "Ahm nodda yumn eethrr."

The two look at each other, then turn back to him and place a hand on each of his.

"...Sorta figur'd the first when you didn't recognize the shrine." Nods Jii-san. "-But that's alright. You take good care of us."

"...Sort of figured the second when I saw your hand on the day we met." Nods Ba-San. "-But that's alright. You're a good person, which is a very different thing than being a Good Human."

The Boy stares at them, stunned, then cringes, embarrassed. Of course! They're old, not stupid. "Aiyee- r-r-r MN! Aiyee LLied." he apologizes, stumbling over the difficult consonant in the middle, determined to conquer it.

"I didn't hear any lies, did you, Jii-san?" asks Ba-san.

"I didn't hear nothin' and my ears even work!" he grins, ears perking up.

The Boy sighs, still exasperated with their antics but mostly relieved.

...Then something Jii-san said caught up with him, and he frowns.

"Aiyee- Aye haffa..." Another tricky consonant. "Aye needa assk ssmmng." he changed tracks. L was enough of a battle for one day, Q and his frustrating wife U could wait.

"Whadday wanna know, Venerable?" Jii-san asked, and Ba-san frowned, turning her ear out behind their home, already suspecting his questions.

He held up two fingers and they nodded, waiting. He'd gotten very good at numbers and pointing already, and until today, that had carried the conversation. "sssHrrine?" he asked.

Jii-san frowned. "...what's your second question?"

"th-Therre'ss ah- Grrrave?" he pointed out behind the shrine, to where a stone stood, with what he now recognized as marks signifying a name carved into it. "wHo?"

Ba-San and Jii-san looked at each other, distraught for some time before Ba-San finally turned back to him, both hands on his.

"...Venerable," She finally spoke. "You had to run away from home in a hurry, didn't you?"

The boy nods.

"-And Jii-san and I were the first people you met that weren't you family, right?" She continues.

He nods again. She purses her lips, agitated.

"Jii-San." She finally speaks. "I think we ought to show him Sajin."

Jii-san sighs and nods, agreeing with her, and stands up. At the back of the house, there is a little cabinet with two boxes they never open, and something covered by a black cloth. Jii-san opens the cabinet and takes out the thing covered by the black cloth, pulling the cloth aside and bringing the thing to the table. It's a flat rectangle, and on it is a drawing of a very strange creature.

It's face is almost perfectly circular, and it's body covered in clothes, like how Humans dress, including a funny hat. What the boy can see of the creature is perfectly smooth and hairless and the same color as not-quite-ripe peaches. It has a long mane of straight dark gray hair growing from the top of its head, and a beard a bit like a billy-goat's

"This is Sajin," Says Jii-san, voice wavering a bit. "He wasn't our son- you can tell, we're not related by blood- but he was Our Boy. He took care of us, like you do now."

"He was Our Boy." nods Ba-San, on the verge of tears. "Then he was Our Man. And then he was Our Old Man, and then-" She stopped, and began to cry in earnest. "-And then he left home, and we buried his body out behind the shrine, and marked his grave, as Humans do."

The boy continued to stare at Sajin's portrait. "...Sajin." he whispered, and the name didn't fight him at all. "...Ihff- if Sajin iss Yumann-?" he looked up at his friends. "Whattrrre You?"

Ba-San beckons him and Jii-san back to the cabinet, and puts her hand on one of The Boxes They Never Open. Jii-San puts his hand on the other, and together, the open the lids just a tiny bit for The Boy to see inside.

He gasps and steps back in horror- the things in the boxes are very much like the skulls he's seen of his people before, but the noses are all smooshed like they didn't grow right, and the eyes are too large and- -And they're just the right size each to belong to Ba-San and Jii-San.

"We are Koma, Guardian Dogs, and this is our shrine." Says Jii-san, closing the lid on his box as Ba-san closed hers, and placing the drawing of Sajin back on the shelf above them. "We wear clothes and speak like humans because we once took Names, a very long time ago, and thus we are People and we act like People." He explained.

"Nnames?" the boy asks.

"A Name is... a sort of contract, that the humans made up." Says Ba-San, locking the cabinet back up. "Humans can live together in such huge packs and crowded cities because they have Rules- you're not allowed to kill other people except in self-defense. You're not allowed to take food someone else caught. Nobody is allowed to kill a child for any reason, things like that. If you take a Name, it's like saying- 'I am this Person! And I agree to abide by the rules of being a person!', and you have to follow the rules, but everyone else has to follow the rules for you too, because you have a Name. So Humans can live very close to each other, because they all have an understanding that nobody is going to violate those rules."

"It's not just humans that can take names- long ago, some wolves decided to take names, and those wolves became Dogs, that live with humans. They were our ancestors, and like our ancestors, we took Names, and we obeyed the rules, and for that, we were fed and allowed to sleep inside and given soup-bones and let to sleep in the sun-patch, but most of all, we were Loved." Said Jii-san.

"-And just the same, we Loved Sajin. He was Our Boy. And We were His Dogs." Said Ba-san, bursting into tears again. Jii-san held her, tears running down his face as well.

Ba-san cried into Jii-san's shoulder for a long time, and The Boy Who Was A Wolf That Wanted To Live Among The Humans sat in silence, thinking.

"...Cour-could Aye- take a nName?" He asks, slowly.

"You'd have to take two, and learn all the rules-" Nodded Jii-san. "But yes. Anyone who can talk can take a name. And you've been talking my tail off!" he wagged.

"Two?" the boy asked. He didn't need to use his fingers this time.

"Humans have two names- one is the name of that specific human, and one is the name of their family or the place they came from or what they did, as a sort of... Introduction. Humans are very big on introducing themselves and all their friends- though I suppose it makes sense, what with them having names to introduce themselves with."

"You can be a Komamura!" Jii-san said, wagging excitedly. "Ba-san and Jii-san are Koma, and we are your Ba-San and Jii-San, so you must be part of our family, so that makes you Mura, a relative- so you're a Koma-mura!" he nodded.

"Humans also give their children names of revered ancestors, to honor the ancestor, and protect the child." Added Ba-san. "You do Sajin's chores, you sleep in Sajin's bed, you take care of Sajin's Dogs... You must be Sajin!"

"That's your name, if you want it- Komamura Sajin!" Said Jii-san. The Boy stared at them for a long time, completely still, until they realized that, for the first time since they'd known him, the scarred nub on his backside was wagging too.

"Thank you." Said Sajin, tears streaming down his face too. --

Many months later, a Monk* leaves the little shrine to Ba-san and Jii-san at the edge of the dump. He leaves his home in no particular rush- if anything, he's lingering- in the middle of a bright morning, hale and with joy in his heart. He waves to his Ba-san and Jii-san as he heads down the road, promising to come back and visit.

"Look at that." says Ba-San. "Our Boy is leaving home again."

"I know," Says Jii-san. "-but this time it'll be alright."

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #Bleach #bleach fanfiction #sajin komamura #komamura #The Dog Does Not Die!#except for the dogs that are kind of already Dead #but they're alright #I promise

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 years ago

Text

Cross to Bear

Summary: A certain monk catches the attention of a woman that Uhtred and his men are gracious enough to rescue. Based on this request. Warnings: Brief mentions of cancer, illness, death, abuse and alcoholism. Slight angst. Eventual smut. Word count: ~3.4k

She is sixteen when her mother passes away from the lump in her breast. She cannot grieve. There is no one left to shield her or her younger sister from the beatings that their father is eager to dish out each evening when he stumbles home from the tavern, drunk and stinking of ale. They make the decision to leave, taking their chances out in the world.

The life of a vagrant is hard, but the exhilaration that is found in freedom is simply unmatched. On bad days, she is forced to share her body with strange men in exchange for coin to ensure her and her sister have enough to eat. On good days, they pick wildflowers in the warmth of the sunshine, and at night tell stories as they cuddle up together beneath the stars. They never remain in a single place for long, always moving, always searching for somewhere to call home.

She is eighteen when her sister develops a fever. She soaks rags in a stream to cool the scorching heat of her skin, allows her to drain their waterskin dry without complaint, and rubs her back as the persistent coughing denies her sleep. Within three days her sister is too weak to travel any further. They have been sheltering in dense woodland and are at least a day’s walk from the nearest town, so she cannot go to get help, she cannot risk leaving her alone in the open for so long. She has no choice but to sit and watch her deteriorate, providing what little comfort she can. By the next morning she is gone.

Upon waking to the feel of her sister cold beside her, she finally allows herself to weep. The ache in her chest that she has held at bay for the last two years finally breaches forth, blooming painfully through the expanse of her heart. She cries for the loss of her mother, for the loss of the only friend she had in her sibling and for how utterly lost she feels. Long after her tears have subsided she remains hunched over the body, consumed by her grief.

“If it is fever you must burn the body.”

She has no idea how much time has passed as she has laid there mourning, but the voice startles her out of her stupor and she looks up to see four men on horseback looming over her. She hadn’t even heard them approach.

They look to be mercenaries, all of them wear light armor and carry swords. The man that has addressed her has long dark hair and is brutish looking. One of his travel companions is bearded and surly, while another has a half shaved head; the Mjölnir around his neck indicates he is a Pagan. Ordinarily, she would be fearful in the face of such intimidating looking men, and assume they mean her harm, however, there is something about the fourth man that eases her mind and assures her she is in no danger. He has soft blue eyes and a kind face that wears an expression that suggests he is more afraid of her than she is of him.

“I-I cannot. I am alone.” She confesses, her voice hoarse from her earlier sobs.

“Then you will allow us to help you.” The long haired man insists, climbing down from his horse.

She learns their names are Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric and Osferth. They carry her sister’s body to a clearing and she stands solemnly, numbness settling over her, as she watches it burn.

“Who was she to you?” Finan enquires gently.

“My sister, my only friend, all that I had left.” She doesn’t attempt to hide her despair, she does not have the strength.

“We should say a prayer.” Osferth offers, his voice soft and full of sympathy.

She has never been particularly religious. What kind of a God would allow her to endure all she has been through and think it just? But she finds comfort in his orison, joining in with the “amen” that he finishes with.

“What will you do now?” Finan asks her.

“Truly, I do not know. I have nowhere to go and no one to go with.”

“You can join us.” Uhtred steps forward, eyeing the rest of the group as they all nod their affirmation.

“I have nothing to offer you.” She says, her cheeks flush with shame.

“Neither do we.” Quips Sihtric with a wry smile.

“Then it’s settled.” Finan decides, clapping Osferth on the back. “Baby Monk, she rides with you, you’re scrawny enough that your horse can carry both of you without any trouble.”

When Osferth discovers that she has never ridden on horseback before, he suggests that she rides up front with him behind her, so he can ensure she doesn’t slip off.

He helps her into the saddle and then climbs on after her. Her heart hammers in her chest as he puts his arms around her waist to take hold of the reins. She can feel his leather breastplate pressed against her back. Being in such close proximity to him causes her breathing to quicken and she stays rigid as they set off at a leisurely trot, afraid that he may feel the reaction she is having to him.

“My lady, please relax, or this will be an uncomfortable journey for you.” He tells her, though his voice is hesitant with shyness.

She blushes scarlet with embarrassment, mortified that he has noticed her unease. She does as he says though, settling back against him. His presence is calming, the warmth of him against her coupled with the gentle undulation from the horse soothes her.

A few moments pass in silence before Osferth speaks. “What happened to you?”

“It is a long story.” She sighs.

“It is a long journey.” He counters. She can hear the faintest of smiles in his voice.

She tells him of her mother, her father, of her and her sister leaving home and all they had endured on their travels. She recounts her sister’s fever, of watching her fade, everything up to the point that she had met him.

He listens, allowing her to speak without interruption. When she finishes he is quiet for a moment longer.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lady. I pray better days may find you.” He says eventually.

She sighs, eager to focus the attention on anything other than herself. “And what of you? Do you have a family?”

“There is not much to tell.” He admits. “I was a monk. Now I serve Lord Uhtred.”

She detects a sadness in his tone, there is definitely more to his story, but she dares not press him further as he is clearly uncomfortable speaking of it. She feels foolish for allowing herself to entertain her attraction to him; of course he is a man of God, he’d never be interested in her.

They ride on wordlessly, eventually coming to a stop once the sun begins to set. They set up camp and she is touched by the effort that the four men go to to ensure she has the shelter of a tent and a bedroll to sleep on.

However, she feels too confined as she lays under the canopy, so used to being able to stare up at the night sky, pointing out each of the stars with her sister. She misses her.

Dragging her bedroll out into the open, she places it close to the dying embers of their fire and lays down.

“My lady, what are you doing?” She hears Osferth whisper in the darkness.

“I am not used to not being able to see the sky.” She responds.

When he says nothing, she allows herself to drift off to sleep, feeling the safest she ever has.

Her eyes flutter open as dawn breaks and she is immediately met by the sight of Osferth seated by the burned out fire pit, looking exhausted.

She pulls herself up slightly, rubbing her eyes. “Osferth? You are an early riser.”

He smiles uncomfortably. “Truthfully, my lady, I have not been to bed.”

“Why not?”

“I did not wish to leave you out here by yourself, it’s not safe. I watched over you while you slept.”

Her heart flutters at his admission, an involuntary smile spreading its way across her features, which he returns with a genuine one of his own.

As the weeks pass, she and Osferth become comfortable travel companions. She spends her days leaning into his chest as they travel by horse. They share a waterskin, their fingers brushing ever so lightly as they pass it back and forth. She is unable to help the tingles that dance across her skin at each of his touches.

Their evenings are spent sitting around a fire, their knees grazing as they sit side by side, exchanging shy smiles and stories. He gives up the use of his tent, laying his bedroll out in the open too - a means for him to rest, but also ensure she is kept safe.

The first time that the group shares ale together, dread gnaws at her stomach. She has witnessed the effects that it had on her father, and does not know how she will cope with that when up against four men instead of just one. To her surprise and delight the mood becomes lighter and jovial as the amber liquid is passed around. She happily accepts and drinks her fill when Osferth passes it to her. He laughs when she grimaces at the taste.

She knows she is falling for him and there is nothing she can do to stop it. She is certain he feels the same way though, there can be no other explanation for how he looks at her, how he treats her.

That is until they stop for a few days in a town. She hurriedly follows Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric, as Osferth rushes over to them, pleading for help.

“He’s mine!”

“No, he’s mine, you bitch!”

“Filthy whore!”

She watches in shock as the two women exchange insults, slapping at each other, until Finan and Uhtred eventually pry them apart.

He has fucked both of these women. Both of them.

“Why do they fight over you?” Uhtred asks Osferth, holding back a red haired woman, who struggles wildly against him.

“I-I’ve no idea, Lord!” He stammers, before swiftly walking away.

But she knows why, and her heart sinks. She turns away, blinking back tears as she chastises herself for being so foolish. She had misinterpreted his friendliness for romantic interest and is now left feeling hurt as a result of her own delusions.

She swipes angrily at her eyes, swearing to herself that she will pull away from him after this, no longer allowing herself to entertain the girlish fantasy that they could ever be more than friends.

His behavior towards her goes unchanged though. He still holds her close as they share a saddle, still allows his fingers to linger against her own whenever they share water or ale, he sleeps outside each night with her, though always on separate bed rolls kept a respectable distance apart. It eats away at her, makes her ache, to endure such closeness and know it will never be anything more. Yet she endures it, knowing the only alternative is to return to a life alone.

It is a warm afternoon as she stands knee deep in the river, bathing. The water is refreshing against her bare skin and, for a moment, her troubles seem far away, running off of her in much the same way that the rivulets of moisture slide down her body.

She turns and catches sight of Osferth on the edge of the treeline, watching her. She has no idea how long he has been standing there for, but he freezes when he sees he has been caught.

While she is a novice when it comes to matters of the heart, she is certain the look in his eye is one of desire. Deciding to be bold, she steps out of the water and back onto the bank, not bothering to retrieve her discarded clothing. If her feelings truly were requited then this was the best way to find out.

She walks towards him, closing the gap between them. She can see his breathing is unsteady as he takes in the sight of her, he is trembling slightly. Leaning up on tiptoes, she presses the lightest of kisses to his lips, and her heart swells as, for the briefest of moments, he reciprocates.

As quickly as his lips meet hers, he is jerking away. “No, my Lady!”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Backing quickly away from him, the familiar sting of rejection piercing her heart once more, she grabs her clothes and runs from him, before he has the chance to say anything else. Tears stream freely down her cheeks, this time she does not try to wipe them away. This is the second time she has allowed herself to be drawn in by Osferth, only to endure heartache.

He has now made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in her and she decides it is in her best interests to pull away from him entirely.

She forces herself to sleep inside her tent, becoming used to textile above her head, instead of the glittering stars. She sits as far from him as possible at every opportunity. There are no more shared waterskins, their knees no longer touch. If the rest of the group notice the shift in dynamic then they choose not to say anything. She rides with Sihtric, sitting snugly behind him in his saddle, ignoring the pleading looks of sadness from Osferth each day when she climbs onto another man’s horse and not his.

He is just missing her companionship, she decides, he will get over it when they arrive at the next town and he finds another woman to warm his bed. She hardens her heart, allows her sadness to devolve into anger and continues to keep him at arm’s length.

The day they arrive in Coccham, they spend the day at an alehouse. Uhtred has managed to acquire the only two available rooms upstairs for the evening, so they will have the luxury of sleeping in an actual bed for tonight. She is almost giddy with excitement at the prospect.

When they have drunk their fill, they head up the rickety wooden staircase. Sihtric and Finan file into one room, with Uhtred following close behind. He stops in the doorway, turning to her and Osferth.

“Looks like this room is full now. The pair of you can share that one.” He nods towards the door opposite, before closing his own.

Her face blanches. Bastard. He has done this on purpose.

She sighs, pushing past Osferth and stalking into the room. A small double bed takes up most of the space in the narrow confines.

“Oh, fucking perfect.” She spits, rolling her eyes.

Osferth offers an apologetic smile. “I can sleep on the floor, my Lady, I don’t mind.”

She rounds on him, her anger flaring. “I’m surprised you haven’t found another whore’s bed to share for the evening!”

His eyes widen in shock. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You fucked those other women, Osferth!” She shouts, and before she can stop it, her voice is cracking as the dam bursts and she starts to cry. “You’ll put your cock into anyone but me it seems…”

His face softens and he moves to comfort her, but she is quick to push him away. “What’s so wrong with me?!”

He looks guiltily at her. “There is nothing wrong with you, my Lady, I think you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen actually…”

“But you rejected me! When I tried to kiss you, you rejected me.”

He shakes his head, closing the gap between them and gently grabbing her by the shoulders. This time she doesn’t push him away. “You didn’t give me time to speak.” He explains, looking into her eyes with sincerity. “I wasn’t rejecting you. You deserve better than to be humped against a tree. If you’re to be my woman then I want our first time together to be special.”

She sniffles, her tears subsiding, replaced by confusion. “Your woman? If that is what you wanted then why did you lay with those other women in the last town?”

He sighs, averting his gaze, shame etched across his angular features. “That is not something I’m proud of, my lady. I have wanted you for so long, and been so pent up, I needed a release. I never told you of my feelings because I didn’t think I stood a chance. You are so wonderful and I-I am Osferth. I am simply Osferth.”

Her heart beats wildly against her ribs as she listens to him, staring up at him doe-eyed, unable to resist the grin that tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, you are Osferth.” She whispers, leaning up towards him.

When their lips meet he does not pull away. He wraps his arms around her, his mouth moves hungrily against hers in a kiss that is full of need and desperation. They pull at each other’s clothing, months’ worth of built up longing propelling their movements.

When they are both finally naked, Osferth guides her to lay back on the bend and she drinks in the sight of him appreciatively. While he is tall and slender, he is not as skinny as she’d expected him to be, well developed muscles add a broadness to his chest and shoulders. His erection sits hard, thick and heavy at the apex of his slim thighs and she bites back a moan at the sight of it, arousal pooling hot between her legs.

“You really are beautiful.” He murmurs, his gaze flickering over her form as she lays beneath him. “Will you let me show you just how much I desire you, my Lady? I wish for there to be no doubt in your mind.”

She nods, biting her lip in anticipation, waiting to see what he will do.

His hands trace over every curve of her as moves slowly backwards down the bed, stopping once his face is level with her cunt. Spreading her thighs he inhales sharply at the sight of just how wet she is for him.

There is no preamble, and she gasps, arching her back when she feels the flat of his tongue move through her folds.

He whimpers softly at the taste of her, the sound vibrating through her core, his grip on her thighs tightening as laps greedily at her, occasionally dragging the tip to her pearl, causing her legs to tremble.

She cants her hips against his face, noticing how he ruts against the bed as he devours her, his moans of pleasure intermingle with hers and the sloppy sounds of his lips and tongue moving in earnest against her centre.

As he sucks harshly against the apex of her sex she begins to feel the pressure of her climax building deep within her, her breaths becoming short and shallow. Osferth’s grip on her is almost bruising as the movement of his thrusts against the bed speed up.

With a final swirl against her bud, she falls apart against his mouth, clenching and writhing as he keeps his mouth firmly against her as she cries out in ecstasy, white hot sparks of pleasure rendering her boneless and light headed.

She closes her thighs around his head as he emits a guttural groan against her oversensitive cunny, his own pelvis stuttering against the mattress.

He appears dazed as he finally looks up at her, eyes hazy and chin shiny with her slick. She is certain she must look similarly bedraggled with how hard he has caused her to peak.

“We may have to wait a moment before we do anything else.” He confesses sheepishly, sitting up and looking down at the blankets where he’d been laying.

Her gaze follows his line of sight and she sees the mess he has made, a large patch of the bed now sticky with his release.

“You’re lucky we have the whole night then.” She giggles.

He moves to lay beside her, pulling her against him. “Yes, very lucky.”

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zvtara-was-never-canon · 11 days ago

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I'm not good at English, sorry. I have seen posts on tumblr from actual Tibetans, South Asians and Indians that the ATLA cartoon is nothing but a racist, colonizer cartoon. They said that the series about dreams and nightmares and gurus with chakras is a mockery of Indian culture and spirituality. The series about Theo and the mechanist is about collonization, cultural appropriation and erasure of culture. Zuko is a character that is meant for lovers of white imperialism ( as “Zuko's story” is unchallenging and bland. Zuko is a “Weeping colonizer and dictator”. Katara is a “white feminist” and Aang and the air mages are a mockery of Tibetan monks and their genocide.

what do you think about that?

As usual lets go through this bit by bit

1 - "I've seen posts from X group saying Y"

This is already not the greatest of starts to discuss whether something was racist or not, because the internet gives EVERYBODY a soap-box to stand on and shout at people from, and can give you the wrong idea that something is consensus among a group when it absolutely isn't.

I've seen the kinds of posts you've mentioned. I've also seen posts from people of these same cultural backgrounds with opinions that range from "Avatar is super a important, positive, nuanced depiction of asian cultures" all the way to "Can we focus on real issues that affect our communities and not on whether non-asians are allowed to enjoy a cartoon they watched as children without guilt/fear of being cancelled?"

Hell, there are works that we actually boycotted by some people groups that also have defenders amongst said groups. Sharing an ethnicity is not the same as sharing an opinion, and pretending otherwise does nothing to genuinely make people think critically about the media they consume.

2 - "They said that the series about dreams and nightmares and gurus with chakras is a mockery of Indian culture and spirituality"

They are correct, both in a neutral "Well duh, it was an actual joke" (there's nothing inherently racist about joking about a topic) and in a negative "It got a bit racist" way.

3 - "The series about Theo and the mechanist is about collonization, cultural appropriation and erasure of culture"

Once again, correct, but also missing the point. The entire message of the episode is that, although these people didn't MEAN to cause any harm, they still did, not out of malice but out of ignorance. They're destroying holy things because they don't know what's holy. They're in a place where they don't belong because they have nowhere else to go. Aang eventually makes peace with it, but he's obviously still upset. It's a genuinely nuanced topic and it was handled appropriately.

4 - "Zuko is a character that is meant for lovers of white imperialism because he's a sad dictator that is never challenged"

Ah yes, because nothing screams lack of challenge quite like being literally forced to live like, and amongst, the people that his nation/family/himself was harming so he'd realize they're human and deserve to not only to exist, but also to live according to their own culture, not his.

Nothing makes an imperialist happier than hearing the character that is supposed to be a stand in for them "We were taught that war was our way of sharing our glory with the world. What an amazing lie that was. They don't see our greatness, they hate us, AND WE DESERVE IT." Forgive me for saying it, but this hardly the Manifest Destiny these people are claiming it is.

5 - "Katara is a “white feminist”"

Literally what the fuck does that mean? Are they talking about FANON (especifically Zutara) Katara? The one that exists to be the pretty foreign wife that just absorbs her husband's culture and cuts all ties with her own because they're "barbar-" I mean, "sexist"? The one that falls in love with the Fire Nation for "treating women equally" (which they don't) even though she's banned from having that same treatment because of her race and that is never acknowledged? Because that's the only version of Katara that gets anywhere close to white feminism, and as the VICTIM, not the enforcer.

Canon Katara is a genocide survivor, the last person in her tribe able to engage with a particular spiritual part of their culture as the last waterbender, fighting against literal invaders and colonizers because she fully believes her tribe (and their tribal culture) deserve to survive. She's everything white feminism despises - a woman that doesn't need to be "saved" by becoming more like them.

6 - "Aang and the airbenders are a mockery of Tibetan monks and their genocide"

Ah yes, because nothing screams mockery quite like making something the biggest injustice in the show and that is constantly shown as a tragedy of unbelievable proportions and that can't be just magically undone/made better (until we get to the bullshit that was Korra at least).

Not to mention, getting immediately banned in China, a HUGE market that would have made them fucktons of money if the show had been a hit there, for not only daring to acknowledge that Tibetan people exist, but for also reminding us "By the way, China is killing them and that's fucked up." Truly the actions of evil colonizers that don't actually care.

7 - "ATLA cartoon is nothing but a racist, colonizer cartoon"

Let me tell you guys about two Disney cartoons made during WWII, Saludos Amigos and the sequel The Three Caballeros. They're nothing special at first glance, and don't really have a plot beyond Donald Duck (because OF COURSE the US character is the main one even when the focus should be other countries) getting a taste of latin american culture (aka learning a few words in spanish and portuguese, chasing after hot women in bikinis, seeing some pretty jungles, etc) and meeting two characters: Panchito Pistoles, the mexican dude that OBVIOUSLY has a sombrero and two pistols, and José Carioca (literally Joe from Rio), a smooth-talking, charismatic, but not at all trust-worthy guy that just has that air of a scammer.

These cartoons exist ONLY because of the american government, who, officially, "wanted to prevent latin america from siding with the evil nazis" - which is not a lie per se, but conveniently ignores the much more pressing reason: the US's cultural and economical imperialism that had the explicit intention of turning latin america into a bunch of puppet states that would buy whatever they were selling and support whoever they supported (culminating with the US funding actual dictatorships during the cold, which killed millions through multiple countries, including mine).

Disney was chosen for the job not only because of how rich and sucessful the company was, but also because people were less likely to think too deeply about a silly Donald Duck cartoon in which the joke is "Donald is annoyed/confused/flustered by his wacky, funny, super affectionate new friends."

THAT is cultural imperialism through and through. The movies obviously were not the cause of it, nor the biggest problem with it, but they are an undeniable result of it. They don't mention war or politics at all, yet wouldn't exist without it. They're meant to make people (both in latin american and in the US) see the dynamic of the US having all the power (economical, political, cultural) in this "friendship" as a good, totally harmless thing that would not (previously, currently and futurely) exploit.

With that context of what an actual piece of imperialistic propaganda (however "subtle") looks like and how it gets made: can ATLA, a cartoon made in 2005, by two nerds that just wanted to toy with some anime tropes/aesthetic and simplified lots of cultural/spiritual elements, that they actually had some obvious interest in, for the sake of not confusing their target audience of 7-year-olds, really be put in the same category?

Or is it simply a cartoon that had some flaws (like how chinese and japanese culture were far better handled/explored due to the stronger ties with the US, meaning the writers were more familiar with them) but was made with genuine love - and had the balls to actually go "Imperialism is bad, guys" in a scene that creators specifically said was a metaphore about AMERICAN imperialism and culture of "bomb the fuck out of everybody until the agree with us"?

Because remember: ATLA was being imagined, created and aired during the US's invasion of Iraq, post 9/11, and post the US screwing around in the middle east for decades and creating, helping out and/or siding with groups like the fucking Taliban, which was, to put it mildly, A Very Bad Idea. Even without direct confirmation from Bryke, it isn't hard to notice the parallel with the moral of the story being "Everybody would be better off if this imperialist nation could just mind it's fucking business."

Like I said, Korra is the show in which I see some influence from pro-american imperialism media that was replicated without much critical thinking - hence the 1920s american aesthetic, the far more western mindset clashing with the eastern setting, and the fucking statue of liberty knock-off because the US needs to be the good guy even when it doesn't fucking exist in that world.

Hell, fucking Dragon Ball Evolution is closer to US racism than ATLA ever got because the main reason it sucked was because it just HAD to ruin the entire setting by turning it into a generic, typically american story of the high school loser that gets bullied a lot but then ends up with the popular girl.

ATLA is imperfect, but it still deserves to be given quite a bit of grace, and praise, mainly because...

BONUS! Flawed media and even straight up propaganda are not inherently devoid of artistic merit

Back to Saludos Amigos and Three Caballeros: from what I've said about how it presented Brazil and the truly awful motivation behind it, some of you might assume these movies are loathed here, right?

Well, you'd be wrong. The Watercollor of Brazil segment and the character of José Carioca are almost unversally beloved, and for one simple reason: Disney got the vibe.

The music sounds great and fits with the time and place, José Carioca is based not only on a stereotype of Brazil but also in a popular trope that brazilian media loves toying with all the time, and even the art-style and the colors SCREAM Brazil. Regardless of the ethically abhorrent reason the US had Disney send artists to latin america, said artists did get genuinely inspired by what they were seeing. It's dated and wasn't without flaw even at the time, but it was sincere enough to actually connect with lots of us, and make some people in the US get a little interested in latin culture.

How many Jackie Chan movies had bits, or entire plots, that Did Not Age Well because they got very racist? How many of these movies made OBSCENE ammounts of money world-wide, including in China?

Hell, how many movies made by Disney (an american company) were SUPER successful in europe, despite radically changing european fairytales?

And I could talk all day about weird, problematic, or straight up racist depictions of Brazil in anime that are openly CELEBRATED in Brazil because we just like Japan that much and they clearly like us too.

Not a single piece of media nowadays, from any country, isn't directly or indirectly inspired by foreign media/culture in some way. ATLA just happens to be one in which that cultural mix/appropriation/celebration is one of the selling points - and it aged beautifully.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #racism #cultural appropriation

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pharawee · 1 year ago

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I've been seeing some confusion about what it is that Phaya and Tharn have done in their past lives to deserve punishment now - or in what possible way they have wronged others and are now "reaping bad karma".

I've also seen the theory that the venerable Luang Por might be the reincarnation of the naga that wanted to be a monk... which is actually a really touching possibilty because the story about the naga monk does exist. You can find in in the Vinaya (Mv.I.63.1) but here is a condensed version:

... Once a Naga, a powerful serpent who can take the form of a human being, was mistakenly ordained as a monk. Shortly after, when asleep in his hut, the naga returned to the shape of a huge snake. The monk who shared the hut was somewhat alarmed when he woke up to see a great snake sleeping next to him! The Lord Buddha summoned the naga and told him he may not remain as a monk, at which the utterly disconsolate snake began to weep. The snake was given the Five Precepts as the means to attaining a human existence in his next life when he can then be a monk. Then out of compassion for the sad snake, the Lord Buddha said that from then on all candidates for the monkhood be called 'Naga' as a consolation. They are still called 'Naga' to this day.

*by Ajahn Brahm

So if the naga by following the Five Precepts is reborn as a human being he can then be a monk. 🥺🙏

As for Phaya and Tharn's karma - it's not so much that they've done something morally wrong. It's more that by their intentional actions they have wronged Chalothorn and this is what leads to the consequences we've seen. It makes more sense if you don't view karma as a direct result or as punishment/judgement, but rather as a cause and effect that's not really for us to understand.

I also think it's more important here that Chalothorn's continuous intentional actions are the cause of his own downfall (and that of Phaya and Tharn), while the venerable Luang Por states: "Remember, your [Phaya and Tharn's] good deeds and merits will always protect you."

#jane watches stuff #the sign #the sign bl #i'm only a beginner in buddhism and i still have a lot to learn but i thought i'd try and explain #i think what it comes down to is the cultural difference of understanding existence as action and judgement vs cause and effect #but the story of the naga monk is one of my favourites #i first heard about it in pee nak of all things lmao #but i found is super touching

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quitealotofsodapop · 1 year ago

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I jsut had an idea for Slow Boiled Stone Egg au.

Basically, in the base jttw canon story, both Buddha and Guanyin are supposed to be present DURING the fight with Macaque. So you can bet that after a battle like that, Guanyin is going to insist on Wukong getting a checkup, like... he's pregnant for crying out loud and just had to kill his mate. While she is doing that, Gold Star basically comes down to get statements and discovers A) Wukong is a Stone Monkey, B) he pregnant, and C) he very much wants to keep this a secret. Now, Gold Star always liked Wukong. It's why he tried also hard to defend him when the Jade Emperor was all for killing him for his insolence from the get-go. Learning his favorite troublemaker had been a member of his favorite species of extinct primate celestial this time is a big shock to him, and he did so after discovering he had to kill his own mate, who without the magic to keep up a glamour, is now very obviously seen as another Stone Monkey. He's gonna know what that means for Wukong, being ghe msot knowledgeable about Stone Monkeys and their mating habits, and he'll feel a lot of sympathy for him.

I imagine he'll have a talk with the Pilgrims, just letting that they should take it easy on Wukong for a bit after the death of his mate, and offhandedly mentioning the fact Stone Monkeys mate for life. And kindly ask that they follow Wukong's request to keep these facts hidden and secret, and to respect that Wukong is in grieving and likely will not ever truly be able to find romantic love again.

Oh gosh, and Guanyin and Gold Star were likely unaware that Macaque didn't know until the fight was over. Buddha probably did but he has a lot on his cosmic plate rn.

The PIlgrims, the Gods, and even Guanyin herself wanted to step in and stop the fight; but Wukong refused. He demanded that it stay between him and his mate, that he can find a way to calm him down enough to tell him.

In the Jttw Stone Egged au: Wukong is successful.

However, in the Slow Boiled au: he tragically isn't.

Wukong is sobbing, wailing, screaming over the deceased monkey before him. His Pilgrim brothers are so disturbed by what they just seen that they can't even speak. Guanyin is stoney, trying to hide her own tears of sympathy as she tries to approach the monkey to determine his and his unborn's condition. Wukong refuses to move from his spot drapped over his unmoving mate.

Meanwhile, Gold Star stands nearby. A look of dismay, confirmation, and horror upon his face.

I hc that Gold Star has some huge empathy, not only for demons, but for any form of life - as the planet Venus is now scienfically believed to have once had a basis of life similar to what later developed on Earth's pre-Cambrian. The primordial god of Venus had to watch all life on his planet die off, whether due to supernatural or cosmic changes. When he became the Jade Emperor's right-hand man, Gold Star advocates for all life, now matter what - including a little chaos monkey he suspected was a reminder of the far past.

When the Monkey King and the Six Eared Macaque fought and the Macaque died; Gold Star basically witnessed what very well could be the last member of an extinct species kill their mate in self-defence. And upon realising that both monkeys were an extinct species of celestial primate? You might as well have crushed a dodo egg right infront of him.

Stone Monkeys mate for life.

Sun Wukong is an *immortal* Stone Monkey. One that's carrying a Stone egg (!!).

And he has just killed his mate in self-defence.

Gold Star bluntly states the above bullet points to the Pilgrims when asked why he himself is tearing up. All four companions weep with sympathy as the knowledge sets in, Tripitaka in particular blaming himself for banishing Wukong just before the Macaque tried ambushing them. Had the monk maybe have been more trusting of his student then maybe both monkeys could be alive right now.

At some point during the grieving, a mass of chains rise up from the Underworld and pull the six-eared monkey down into the depths, ignoring how the Monkey King screams and digs through the dirt to follow his mate.

The stench of death magic hangs in the air.

Wukong stare blankly at the dirt. His moonlight has been taken into the Underworld. Somewhere he himself is unwelcome.

In the next few years he attempts to bursts through the gates to retrieve his mate, only to recieve word that the Liu'er Mihou is not listed among the dead throughout all the levels of Hell. Wukong cries once more, now bittersweet, that his mate has passed through the Bridge of Naihe into the next life.

Wukong spends the next thousand years waiting.

#slow boiled stone egg au #stone egg talk #character death tw #canonical character death tw #sun wukong #shadowpeach #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #pregnancy tw #lmk gold star #lmk guanyin #jttw au #lmk au #lmk #lego monkie kid #jttw #journey the west #angst tw #death tw

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beginning-writer · 2 months ago

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I did dance headcanon and i am absolutely happy about it.

Yes you didn't read wrong. I was peacefully doing a ballerina drawn during one of my classes, and i remember that ballet dance was patented by the french. More specifically Louis XIV. And it's okay that ballet actually originated in Italy, but I'll politely leave that in the corner. With all due respect.

there is the unfinished drawning if you're interested:

Now, who else is french? Exacly. Lancelot du Lac. But i didn't wanted to do a cultural dance for Lancelot and the Ashfolk and leave Gawain, Squirrel, Pym, Nimue and the Skyfolk aside. They're a big, dysfunctional, but happy, family. So i decided to make a cultural dance for both of them and i'm going to explain why in this post. Which probably will be quite long.

The ashfolk and Ballet.

As i have said before, i know that ballet is not originally french, but italic. If you didn't know about this before, yes, ballet origins are italic. The dance came to France when Catherine de Medici married whit the King Henry II of France. but it was only patented by Louis XIV, the Sun King, years later, and it became popular among high society.

And i do know france have a lot more of cultural dances like: Cancan, quadrilha, gavotte, minuet and more. But reading each of them to try to fit it and not be stuck in the stereotype, i realized that, no, none of them actually mached whit Lancelot personality. And not just Lancelot. His family was incribably cristhian in the legends, and strict too, so the other dances didn't fit what i was looking for. So that's why i chosed ballet as the ashfolk cultural dance.

Lancelot/The Ashfolk and Ballet.

Now, when i talk about Lancelot in the weeping monk adaptation, the first thinga that came to my mind are his past abuse and his melancholy. Obviously how absolutely pretty he is too, but that's not the point. And whit the past abuse and scenes like: When Carden slaps him in the face because he asked for mercy for Squirrel; We see how he is constantly expected and forced to be rigid and up to standard one hundred percent of the time. Which, depending on which perid we see, matches whit how ballerinas were treated.

Most people from outside see the ballet houses - As we call from where i'm from - by the pictures and shows, but also by those overexaggerated pictures from internet where we see the ballerinas's foot and bodys badly hurted by the sneakers and the injuries caused. And a lot of people believe that ballet is like dance moms, I don't know if that's the correct name of the show, but that actually doesn't happen. I'm not saying it never happens, but it's not how you see or think. It's not just delicacy and elegance, but it's also not just demands and frequent pressure. As a former child dancer, I know that there is a lot of pressure on dancers, even children, and depending on which house you're from, you can end up having an abusive house where you are excessively demanded and overstandard.

Having explained that. Ballet is an elegant and graceful dance, but it takes time, strength and a lot of dedication. And of course, with many expectations about perfection and rigid routines and trains. Which matches Lancelot's personality perfectly. "Perfect" steps with elegance and lots of training and effort. The difference is that if Lancelot had had a ballet house, he would have ended up in an abusive one with obvious problems but which no one dares to comment on.

Lancelot doesn't talk much in the show or in the legends, and the ballet is not a play with words, but rather one where a story is told through music and movement, which is perfect for our darling who barely speaks.

Ballerinas at first don't wear pointe shoes, their feet were flat on the floor like in any other dance, but over time it was added to make the ballerinas look bigger and elegant, and Lancelot also fits into this, along with most French people.

Ballerinas' bodies are thin and yet very strong, and by the looks of Lancelot's as well. You can't look at my face and say that that man eats three meals a day healthily, that's a lie that not even the devil can forgive.

Ballet is known mainly for its elegant jumps, endless pirouettes and, as my little sister calls it and I think it's incredibly cute, "kicks in the air" - which would be the splits and opening the legs in pirouettes. Lancelot has a similar fighting style, with lots of kicks, somersaults and spins. What I particularly like to think of as an adaptation of his cultural dance to a fight. so he has at least something from home nearby every day, even if not in the best way.

Ballet pieces were formerly known for paying homage to Greek myths, love, nature and life. Which refers to the fey nature and how Lancelot became known for his love for Guinevere in the legends.

Everything mentioned is a way of explaining why Lancelot suits ballet better than the other dances I studied, even if I tried to avoid stating the obvious.

The ashfolk and ballet culture

Now listen to me carefully. Yes, bale is a very delicate dance that needs rehearsals and that wouldn't make sense in something like: Simple dance at a cultural celebration because the music was nice. But this can get solved.

For this type of occasion, I like to think that the relaxed ballet dance on lighter cultural occasions where they simply want to dance, could be in the style of Marianela Nuñez's dance in Don Quixote in 2013 in the first act, just more relaxed and with more improvised movements.

Their clothes would also be less elegant and more focused on comfort due to heightened senses. And of course, because they have a type of connection with fire, the clothes would be vibrant and with more handmade details attached to the clothes.

But when it was for the plays and presentatios they would use what we usually see in the ballet shows, but more adapted to their time and conditions.

Lancelot and ballet presentations i see him doing

Lancelot in the weeping monk have this melancholy attached to him. When you talk about the weeping monk the fist thing you'll say about him is: "He's depressed." And there is just so much presentations knowed for their melancholy and saddnes and death as their signature mark too! The most famous is Swan Lake, but i can also see him doing ballet plays like: Giselle, Sylvia and The Corsair, etc.

He would totaly do the black swan and you won't convince me the contrary; The act two of Giselle is totally him; I won't mention Corsair and Sylvia cause i cannot put into words what i'm feeling about both plays righ now, i'm still in the overcoming phase, but if you waavth it you'll get what i'm saying.

Scene time!

Squirrel was eagerly telling Lancelot about the cholheita ritual they would do next spring, telling him every detail about their dance and how Nimue, Pym and Gawain were excited about it and how incredible they would look prancing the gods in their traditional clothes.

The little one spoke like a rattlesnake without stopping to breathe, and Lancelot, as always, listened to everything without any problems with the one-sided conversation. At one point in the conversation, Squirrel changes the topic to how he would love to see other spring celebrations and other people's dances. And then came the inevitable question:

"Hey, what's your cultural dance? Do you dance?" Squirrel asks looking at him with those big curious eyes.

Lancelot wanted nothing more than to rigidly deny and end what he knew was coming in the bud, but the boy spoke so eagerly and with so much enthusiasm about the subject that he didn't have the heart to lie to him at that moment. He sighs and accepting his fate for the next few hours, responds. "Yes. In my village we danced ballet. I danced my share of times while I could."

"Ballet? like that delicate and elegant dance that makes you stretch to the maximum, full of jumps and things like that?" He asks with those eager eyes and fingers clenching in anticipation.

"Yes, that same one. I was a ballerina."

"That's so cool! You not only dance, you dance ballet!" Squirrel speaks excitedly, almost jumping from where he was sitting. Excitement was written everywhere on his body. "Oh oh, can you do that thing where you stretch your leg up there?! eh.. I forgot the name, but you know what it is."

Lancelot smiles at the boy's imminent excitement, almost enough to smell it. This was going to be a long evening.

Additions.

I thought about talking about the cultural dance I chose for the skyfolk too, but this post is already too far away so I'll leave it for another post. The dance is not very well known, but you will agree with me when you read the next post.

If you've read this far, congratulations, you're a champion. Thank you for your time and patience.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

#cursed netflix #head canon #i hate tagging #lancelot #lancelot the weeping monk #weeping monk #ballet #ballet culture #dnace #Squirrel #Percival #what the hell do i put other than just his name?#fuck i'm bad at tags #arthurian legend #lancelot du lac #Ashfolk #propably overthinked head canon #long post #very long post

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grifff17 · 10 months ago

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Audiodrama Sunday 04/28/24

So much stuff this week! I think this is going to be my longest writeup yet!

@camlannpod what the fuck? Trying to avoid spoilers, but the ending of that episode was wild. The sound design for the last scene was so good. Also “You're good with an axe, right?” was brutal, I audibly said "oof". Only 1 more episode in the season, hopefully they get funding for a second one.

The first episode of @wanderersjournalpod came out this week. This was a promising start to a new show, I'm excited to see where it goes from here. The setting feels very mystical, I can't wait to learn more about the world.

@worldsbeyondpod was so tense. Suvi and Ame had the most awkward conversation in existence. This story has so much nuance, neither of them are clearly in the right, though I feel inclined to take Ame's side due to the "Geas + Alter Memory" double espionage scheme. Meanwhile Ursulon discovers that Orima of the Reaching Green is a short queen and gets a cool horse.

I'm now up to date with @lostterminal. Season 15 was great. I love Nia, and Daphne and Raffi were really interesting new characters. Also, the dragon was terrifying. This show doesn't usually have very much action, so the confrontation with it really stood out. The description of the automatic turret going "click, click" as it locked on to Maddie was so intimidating.

@worldgonewrongpod I loved this episode. The storytelling felt so natural and real, like someone telling me a story about a weird road trip they went on. I think I said this about the last episode too, but this was my favorite episode yet. It also sets up the backstory which was never really explained as to why Jamie and Malik are separated at all.

In @midstpodcast we finally had a nicer episode. No horrible fucked up Weep/Trust stuff happening, just Lark reunited with Zeila and Sherman. However, there's so much tension between these characters. I was surprised that Lark forgave Sherman for selling her out. Something to remember is that Lark and Sherman had been hooking up before everything went to shit, which was mentioned once and I think really changes their relationship.

New @keepitsteadypod! This is the first new episode of this show since I started doing these. This was a really cute episode. For how popular fake dating is as a trope in fandom spaces, you don't see a lot of it in audiodramas.

Fun episode of Mission Rejected this week. It was cool to see Bowden go from "vain actor" to "badass spy" when the stakes ramped up. We don't get to see him take charge very often, it was neat for him to be a competent leader. I wonder if the gang lying to Zelda(who definitely saw through it) and Chet(who probably didn't) is foreshadowing for more of a conflict with the new Secretary of Defense later in the season. Also I loved the squabbling gay couple running an illegal mining operation as the villains of the week.

@breakerwhiskey episode 200 wow. A letter from Harry! We learned that Harry has been listening to most of Whiskey's broadcasts, which recontextualizes a lot of the previous episodes. Also, the end was heartbreaking.

I started season 2 of @longcatmedia's Mockery Manor! I'm 2 episodes in and really like it so far. JJ and Bettie are employed in different parks, JJ is on the run from an organized crime ring, and Bettie became a monk? Also, it's clear that neither Hilda nor Jenkins stole the shipment, neither of them have motive. But I don't know who else would have motive either. Lots of mysteries this season.

Spout Lore had a great planning episode. I'm excited for the "saving Highspear" arc, the Highspear is so cool as a concept. A reverse Tower of Babel, that lets the whole world talk with each other. A literal monument to wizard hubris, which feels destined to fall. However I doubt it will, because, as the players mentioned, it would be really annoying from a storytelling perspective if everyone suddenly spoke different languages. This has actually made me realize I really want a story set shortly after some sort of "fall of the Tower of Babel", where communication is a struggle, but that's just because I think linguistics is cool. Anyways, the buffet talk had me rolling.

What a great week! However, it did not help my queue, which continues to grow instead of get smaller. I'll reach the end of it one day.

#camlann #camlannpod #wanderer's journal #worlds beyond number #twtwtwo #lost terminal #world gone wrong #midst podcast #keep it steady #mission rejected #breaker whiskey #mockery manor #spout lore #spout lore podcast

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roguelioness · 5 months ago

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fables from the field

[written for ffxivwrite2024]

Day 17: Sally

Rating: G Words: 1233 Pairing: none

For all his mad behavior, Theodoric was a meticulously organized man.

Or that is the impression Alyzen is left with as she looks around the ruins of a prison cell filled to the brim with treasures and valuables of untold value. Items seized and forcibly taken from the many, many victims of the Mad King, hidden away from the city, in the depths of a lake, deep within the ruins of once-glorious Skalla.

Fighting through the remnants of the city had a challenge; each specter, each abomination had been a former relative to the king, and she could not help but wonder if they were related to her. Despite her reservations, she knew she was doing them a favor; death would release them from the prison of their monstrous bodies, from the dungeons of a long-forgotten city, from an existence that was the cruelest torture she could imagine. Seeing the countless antique vases and gilded statues, the now moth-eaten carpets and crumbling books fills her with rage. So much history here, so much wealth that could have been used to better the lives of the people, instead hidden away and hoarded by an insane, vengeful, petty, paranoid man.

Alyzen walks slowly around the room, examining the many boxes and chests placed in neat piles, stacked atop each other. At the forefront of each pile is a large wooden box, the top of which is engraved with heraldry. Most of it she cannot recognize, but tucked away in a dimly-lit corner is a symbol that has her heart racing fast enough to burst out of her chest – a hawk, with its wings spread wide.

Her family’s bird. Her family’s symbol.

Hands shaking, she reaches out slowly – slowly, carefully, as though it is a grenade that might go off any second – and opens the lid to the crate.

Within it lies what remains of House Reinhard.

All that belonged to her mother, and her mother’s family, has been carefully audited and placed here. Piles upon piles of gold coins. Vessels crafted from precious metals. Jewelry bearing sapphires and emeralds and rubies, every kind of priceless stone. Furniture made of woods she cannot recognize. Clothing of satin and silks – ceremonial robes, finely embroidered wedding finery, armored vestments – now frayed and thinned from age. Portraits of family members she has and never will meet.

And at the very back, in an impressive, ornately gilded frame, stands a man with familiar features, a man she has never met but has heard so much about; Alyzen falls to her knees, all breath knocked out of her, as she glimpses her father’s face for the very first time in her life.

She starts to weep, huge, wracking sobs that shake her shoulders, giving a vent to the myriad emotions within her, unaware of Arenvald and Aphinaud calling out to her in concern. All she can think of is the many stories her mother has told her – her mother, who should be here, her mother, to whom all of this belongs to, her mother, who she wishes with all her heart was with her at this moment, so they could look upon her father together at least once.

Instead she is here alone, surrounded by wealth and all the things she had only dreamed of when growing up, and she is filled with such rage that one man, one demented, deranged man had brought so much suffering to so many people. Theodoric had destroyed her family, had killed her father, had been the cause of so much of her mother’s tears, and it does not seem fair that he is no longer alive to bear the consequences of his villainy.

Wiping at her face frantically, trying to unblur her vision, she gazes upon her father for a better look. He is dressed in full armor, a surprising choice for a monk of the Fist of Rhalgr. Perhaps it is his wedding portrait – Malyna had told her, many times, how she had hated the voluminous robes that she was forced into for her wedding portrait. If Runolf had been uncomfortable in his clothes, it does not show; he stands proud and regal, his gaze directly upon her, and there’s a pang in her heart as she imagines pride in his look. She has his cheekbones, she thinks, and his brow; his hair is a soft shade of brown.

Is he happy to see her? Would he be proud of who she is, of what she has become, of her deeds and triumphs?

Her weeping resumes, albeit quieter. She has never felt more like the orphan she is than at this moment; her heart is heavy from the emptiness within it.

Oh abbe, she wipes her eyes with the crook of her elbow, I wish so much that I could have met you. Are you watching over me now? Would you like who I am?

“Alyzen?” Arenvald’s voice breaks her out of her spiralling thoughts, though he is quickly hushed by Aphinaud. Footsteps move away from her, and she is grateful to the lad for giving her space; she does not have it in her to answer their queries.

There is– there is so much of her history here. So much she could learn from, if she had someone to tell her the tales of her forebearers, to teach her the ways of her ancestors. How difficult it must have been for her mother to have grown up in wealth, only to have it snatched away and be forced to flee into a life of poverty. How it must have burned Malyna to know all that had been taken from her.

Anger once more swells within her breast as she thinks of the many nights her mother had gone to bed hungry. All of their struggles that could easily have been solved had they but a fraction of the treasures found within this box bearing her family’s symbol. The fury rises and rises within her until she trembles with it, until she rises to her feet in a swift, fluid motion, drawing her blade a fraction of a second before she launches herself in a frenzied rush across the room, straight at the large, large portrait of Theodoric that hangs upon the wall.

She hacks at the linen canvas, screaming and shouting and shrieking her rage, each slice of her blade leaving a large gash upon the painting. She mars his heavy-set brow, the discontented, arrogant set of his mouth, at his eyes that seem to sneer at her; she cuts and cuts and cuts away until all that remains are pieces of colored canvas strewn upon the ground and an antique frame that is likely beyond repair.

Alphinaud’s hand, tentative and hesitant, brings her destruction to a halt. “Mayhaps you need some fresh air,” he gently suggests. “There have been terrible truths unearthed this day; ‘tis best to sort through them in the warmth of daylight. Come, my friend – We can return another day.”

Worn out, she lets herself be drawn away by the young lad, but not before pointing towards her family’s legacy. “Tomorrow,” she says, her voice hoarse and raw, “I will take my father away from this cursed place.”

“It would be my honor to accompany you,” Alphinaud promises.

Alyzen smiles, a weak, watery one, and drapes her arm around his shoulders. “Remind me to tell you about him.”

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxiv writers #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfic #fables from the field #alyzen kaide #roguelioness writes

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everlastingdreams · 2 months ago

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The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 24

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Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: The Baker And The Monk.

Notes: Looking back, I'm surprised how big this story got. Wasn't my intention lol.

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter: 24/47

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The others were still asleep in the morning when you had gone downstairs in the inn to drink some soup and enjoy a peaceful quiet moment alone before having to face the Monk again. Where to go from here? What with Percival, did he still have parents or was the boy on his own? There were a lot of things to think about and it was hard to come to a solid decision or plan. Your peaceful moment alone was interrupted when a man approached the table you were sitting at.

“I noticed you are sitting alone, care for some company to talk to?” He seemed rather friendly.

You were in doubt. “I fear I will not be very talkative.”

He did not give up just yet. “I’m quite the opposite, if you wish to offer a listening ear I might entertain you?”

It was starting to intrigue you. “What would you speak of?”

The man was an open book. “My successes and failures as a baker.”

“Fine.” You decided. “Take a seat. Start with the failures.”

He chuckled and took the chair opposite of you. This baker, whom was named Charles, was a friendly fella that loved to chat with anyone who would listen. Hearing how the life of another was so different compared to yours was refreshing. There was no talk of paladins or the war. It was just a baker speaking of his occupation with an enthusiasm not many still had. For just a moment, you forgot about your own situation and let yourself be carried into the story of another. That lasted until you saw the man look at something behind you, the Monk had came down the stairs and his attire was drawing attention. His attention however was solely on you, and how quickly you were to get to your feet and hurry over to him.

“Your surcoat!” you quietly scolded. “Do you want everyone to know we are hiding in this inn?!”

As you pulled at his arm to lead him back up the stairs, the innkeeper caught your eye and beckoned you over. With a small heart you went over to her.

She was drying off a tankard. “I was under the impression that you didn’t want anyone to notice he was here.”

It was a correct assumption. “You’re right, I’ll talk to him.”

“He’ll bring trouble in those clothes.” She nodded in his direction.

The Monk was watching the conversation, still waiting for you by the stairs. You were aware it was pulling attention to him. “It’s not our intention to-”

She put the linen towel down. “Follow me through the kitchen. I may have something in my quarters, he looks the size of my late husband.”

That was an offer you did not reject, you made eye-contact with the Monk and tilted your head to call him over. He understood the silent request and crossed the large room to where you were waiting.

“The innkeeper may have some less holy clothes for you.” you told him.

Before he could react to the jest, the innkeeper spoke up.

“The name is ‘Amelia’.” She proceeded to lead you through the kitchen of the inn, another door was opened and led into her large quarters. Amelia went to the large wardrobe and opened it’s doors. “Pick out a couple of clothes. Come back to the inn when you’re done.”

You thanked her as she walked past, she murmured something about how her late husband wouldn’t need them anymore. Her generosity was surprising, perhaps she had not always been as fortunate as she was now. The Monk had not set one foot in the direction of the wardrobe.

“Go on. See if you can find something in there for you.” you encouraged.

Slowly he walked to the wardrobe, and tentatively touched a shirt. “It was not my intention to cause you trouble. I had not considered that my clothes would be so noticed here.”

You strolled around the room somewhat impatiently. “A monk in an inn will always draw attention.”

He hummed in agreement. “I had not even noticed.”

That was strange to hear considering how perceptive he could be. “That isn’t like you, often you were the first to notice something out of the ordinary.”

The truth escaped him when he picked up a light grey shirt that interested him. “When I woke and saw that you were no longer in the room with us, my only concern was finding you.” The weight of his confession hit a second later, he almost looked in your direction but stopped himself just in time. A black leather jerkin caught his eye next and he took it from under the stack of clothes on top of it.

“You thought I had run off again.” you stated what was so obvious now.

He swallowed hard and shook some dust from the jerkin. “Yes.”

“I would.” You crossed your arms over your chest, finally daring to face him. “But you did not arrive here alone, there is a child up in that room who needs someone to look after him. Where are his parents?”

The Monk told you what the boy had mentioned to him. “They’re gone.”

It wrangled at your heart to hear it. “What now?”

Not even he seemed to know what to do, it wasn’t like he had experience with raising and looking after children, because even though Percival acted mature for his age he was still just a boy under that hardened character.

He walked towards the bed in the room and put down his choice of clothing, then began to take off his cloak. “He picked up a sword to fight the Trinity Guard, to save me. I will do all that is in my power to ensure he will be safe.”

“How?” It slipped out.

His hands slowed down on their task, his voice got quieter. “I had hoped to not be the only one watching over Percival’s well-being. He could use someone gentle of heart.”

It clicked right away what he was suggesting. “Using a child as leverage to keep me with you?” You scoffed and turned to head towards the door.

He caught you by the arm to stop you. “What must I do for you to forgive me?”

You pulled yourself free from his hold. “Stop trying to stop me every time I want to get away from you, that would be a good start! If you let me be free, I might be more inclined to seek out your company.”

It was something he would need to learn, to let what he was so protective over run free in this world full of dangers he had hoped to shield you from.

His hand moved along your arm until it could take hold of your hand. “It does not have it’s roots in trying to have control over you. I-…” A long pause fell. “I felt the loss of you for a day and it was worse than any punishment forced upon me. Hate me, scream at me, harm me… I surrender to your will. But I beg you, stay.”

You were hoping he could not feel how your body was trembling in response to his plea. “Lancelot, I don’t know if I can after what happened.”

He knew why you were so cautious towards him. “I needed no order from Father to wish for your trust. I meant what I said to you once, you are important to me.”

“Because I was the key to achieving Father Carden’s praise and love for you.” It came out bitter.

“No.”

“No?”

He stepped away. It wasn’t until he continued to dress down that you noticed how much his hands were shaking. “Your presence brings me solace.”

You crossed your arms again, hugging yourself for some comfort. “I hope this is not some elaborate plan to regain my trust and take me back to the paladins.”

He almost looked over his shoulder to you. “Do you think so low of me?”

Your eyes turned cold. “Why do you think that is?”

He swallowed his tongue.

You sighed. “But I trust Percival to be truthful.”

Not him… of course not.

You hated how you couldn’t help but look when he bared his torso and let the ruined clothes drop to the floor. “Your wounds look better than they did last night.”

It was as if he had already forgotten them when he looked down at his healing injuries. “I owe it to your kindness. I doubt you had ointment at hand to use.”

So he knew you must have went out and searched for herbs to make the ointment. It told him you still must have felt a form of attachment towards him. “You’re lucky I know how to make one.”

He slipped the shirt on and inspected its fit. “Indeed.”

To distract yourself, you strolled around the room a little. “Just so you know, I will be referring to you by your actual name in this place. It is best we do not draw attention to ourselves. I hope others here did not figure out already that you are a monk, it would starts rumors and rumors can spread to the paladins and lead them here.”

He had not a single objection to that. “That is alright.”

Suddenly he winced, a pained sound escaped him when he had tried to put the jerkin on.

You approached him right away. “Let me help.”

Again, he had not a single objection when you began to close the leather belts of the jerkin. When you gave a stronger tug on one of them, a chuckle fell out of him. “Is this an attempt to murder me?”

You rolled your eyes at the jest. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

The smile remained on his lips. He almost seemed to enjoy the slightly rougher handling.

“What happens now? Will Father Carden not wish for you to return?” you asked.

He was not sure what to expect. “I do not know. But returning will not be possible, news will have spread of my heritage by now.”

You finished closing the last belt and took a small step back. “And if they were to want you back…?”

He shook his head. “With broken faith? And after what I did? The only reason they would want me back is to kill me.” His eyes locked on your face. “Besides that reason, I know that if I were to return to them you would never forgive me.”

It was a correct assumption. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

He gave a nod. “It goes without saying that we should stay out of the sights of paladins. And I will try to see if I can find us a place that will be safer than here.”

Easier said than done. “Won’t be simple. We have not much more than horses and the weapons you carry.”

“We have coin.” He said oh so matter-of-factually, as if you knew what he was speaking of.

“What?” you blurted out.

He was confused for a second. “I-… I always have a pouch of coin with me as I travel. One never knows when it is needed.” Upon seeing your expression change, he asked, “Were you concerned there was none to survive on?”

Him having coin did not mean it would help you too. “Well, it’s your coin. Not mine.”

A frown creased his forehead. Realization hit. “Do you truly think that I would not share what I have with you? What is mine, is yours. You are my wife.”

You took a step away and handed him back his cloak. “Our marriage is nothing but an arrangement that has benefited everyone but myself.”

He held the cloak in his hand, feeling frozen in time and place. “Then it is time I prove what benefits this arrangement will provide for you.”

It had you mildly intrigued, but you didn’t dare to show it. “Put your cloak back on. I hope Percival is still upstairs in the room.”

He did as asked. “He was still asleep when I came to find you.”

You headed for the door to the kitchen, him speaking your name made you stop. He came closer again, stopping right in front of your nose. He intended to take hold of your hand but you moved it back a little and it made him abandon the idea.

He spoke in a quiet manner, “If it would put your mind at rest, I will go and fetch the coin from Goliath’s saddlebag and put it in your possession?”

You blinked. “Maybe you should fetch that pouch from the saddlebag before someone else does?”

His expression changed instantly, as if he had not even thought about the possibility of someone stealing it. “I-… One moment.”

Lancelot walked out of the room, through the kitchen and the inn, to outside. After everything, it was not strange for it to be forgotten or overlooked. It was also somewhat amusing to see him hurry out of the inn because of it. You on the other hand went back up the stairs up to your room after thanking Amelia and asking her for two bowls of broth. When you went inside, you found Percival starting to wake up. The scent of the broth was enough to wake him up fully.

“Good morning.” You handed him a bowl.

Percival mumbled the same in reply and went towards the bed. You cleared your throat to get his attention and he saw you point at the table. With a small sigh, he took place at the table to eat his broth. Just as he sat down, Lancelot entered the room and he went straight over to you. A pouch was put into your hand before you could even think to protest it.

Percival eyed you curiously. “What’s that?”

He told the boy the truth, “Coin.”

Percival’s eyes fell on the pouch again, slightly widened and very interested.

Lancelot noticed it right away. “She has a satchel to carry it in.”

The idea he fed was clearly aimed at you, but you were still a bit taken aback by the weight of the pouch that he had put into your hand. Never had Aldith or Cassian let you carry this much coin on you, they were quick to take it if they knew you had some savings. And for it to just be put into your hands now like it was nothing…

Even the boy had noticed the strange familiarity between you and him. “Are you friends?”

Your attention snapped to Percival, who was looking between you and Lancelot like he was trying to figure it out. Lancelot did not answer, he was looking at you to see what you would say. The last thing you wanted to do was alarm the boy by telling him that the friendship between you and Lancelot had come to a sour end not long ago, Percival barely knew the two of you and it would make more uncomfortable questions arise.

“We are.” you said, and noticed how relieved Lancelot looked.

“How?” Percival looked at Lancelot. “You killed the Fey, then how come you’re friends with her?”

Again he looked at you for an answer, but this time you gave him a look back that let him know that this was his answer to give. Lancelot struggled to explain it. “Father made an exception for her.”

The boy fired another question, “Why?”

He kept looking at you for help in this. “Because she is Ash Folk, as I am.”

“He only let Ash Folk live?” Percival frowned.

“The broth is getting cold. Eat Percival.” You turned to Lancelot. “The other bowl is yours.”

Lancelot was quick to ask, “Have you eaten?”

You gave a nod. “I had soup before you came down to the inn.”

Only then did he take the offer of the broth and took place opposite of Percival. You stashed the pouch of coins into your satchel.

You sat down on the bed for a moment, then let yourself fall back onto the mattress to look up at the ceiling. “You could use some more of that medicine I have given you, Lancelot. Charles told me that the market in this village is available for wares here everyday.”

His spoon stilled midway to his mouth. “ ‘Charles’?”

“The baker I was talking to before you came down the stairs.” you informed.

He continued to eat. “You wish to visit this market then?”

Your eyes closed. “I think it is necessary, that medicine will dull the pain for now, but when it wears off…”

“It would indeed be wise to be prepared.” He agreed to the idea. “Shall we go after this meal?”

Percival gave a ‘yes’ with his mouth stuffed full, earning a scolding look from the Ash Man.

“That’s fine.” you stretched your arms behind your head, enjoying the soft bed. Humming contentedly. A slight cold chill crept over the skin of your waist where it was exposed by your clothes that had moved up a little, it was not bothersome.

“Don’t you like the broth?” Percival suddenly asked.

You turned your head to look at the table and saw how Lancelot turned his head towards the boy. Percival was looking at him curiously, and perhaps hopeful that he would get the other bowl of broth for himself. Lancelot cleared his throat, and took a spoonful of the broth in his mouth in response to that. You smiled at the hint of disappointment in Percival’s expression and made a mental note to make certain the boy would have a proper set of meals every day as long as you could provide him with such.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

The walk to the market was rather odd, you had to keep a focused eye on Percival who showed a tendency to wander off alone. Lancelot did not seem all too comfortable among the busy crowd, he was constantly looking around himself.

“Try to be calm.” you told him. “You’ll hurt your neck if you keep turning it so much.”

He picked up on the jesting tone. “How can you be so calm?”

You stopped at a stall with small curiosities. “I’ve spend days living among the enemy. It’s nothing new.”

It was a small lie. Being among a crowd was causing you distress but you did not want to draw attention, so you pretended all was well.

Lancelot noticed Percival had taken an interest in a stall a little further away and caught the boy by the vest before he could disappear in the crowd. “Remain in my sight.”

“It’s not my fault if your eyes are bad.” Percival bluntly said.

He took on a more firmer tone. “Stay.”

Percival rolled his eyes and came to stand a little closer to you, looking down at all the small bits and trinkets on the stall. Visiting a market was something you had not done in quite some time and it was the first time you weren’t doing it alone.

“I can see a stall further up ahead that is selling medicine.” Lancelot informed you.

He leaded the way to the stall, a friendly old lady was selling some basic necessities for those who dabbled in medicine. There was a certain set of herbs that you needed to make more of that ointment you had made but the seller had no stock of it. Another trip into the forest for them would be warranted. Fortunately she did have a few vials of medicine for when Lancelot’s fever and pain would return. When it was time to pay, for the first time you found out just how much there was actually in the pouch of coins. The small gasp from you made the others look.

Lancelot came closer, noticing your startled reaction to the contents of the pouch, by doing so he blocked the view others could have on it. “May I?”

Was he truly asking if he could use his own coin to pay for the medicine? It was such a ludicrous thing. “Of course.”

He took two small coins out and handed them to the seller whilst putting the pouch back into the safety of your satchel, then put the vials into it as well. Your attention was pulled away from him when Percival lightly tugged at your sleeve.

“Can we get a sweetroll?” The boy asked so very carefully.

Out of reflex you looked at Lancelot for an answer, before reminding yourself that he had said that the coin was yours just as much as it was his. “I believe we can?”

A sweetroll, after how brave the child had been to step into the Trinity Guard fight with him? It was the very least he could give in return.

Lancelot noted the doubt and put your mind at ease. “Yes.” He relied on his nose to find what the boy was asking for. “Over there.”

For you it was still hard to distinct all the scents, especially in a place so filled with all sorts of kinds.

Lancelot gave Percival an encouraging nudge against the back once at the stall that sold the sweetrolls. “They are fresh.” Then he looked at you with a knowing look. “Can you tell?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“No?” he asked curiously.

There was no ill intent behind his question, you could tell. This was just him being curious how well your sense of smell was now.

Percival pointed at a sweetroll, one that looked a little larger than the others of course. “I want that one.”

Lancelot hoped to improve Percival’s manners and corrected his way of asking for something. " ‘May I have that one?’ "

Percival did not pick up on what was being gently taught to him. “I saw it first.”

You turned your head, covering your mouth to stifle a laugh.

“I meant-” Lancelot sighed, but he did not want to make this more confusing. He would speak to the boy about this later. “Alright.”

Percival became far more cheery when he could eat his sweetroll on the way back to the inn. On your way there, the path got more crowded with people, and after having been alone so often the crowd felt overwhelming. Seeing a threat coming felt impossible like this. People were almost walking against or into you constantly, the many voices flooded your ears, you began to lose sight on where you were and where you were going. Your heart was beating too fast, there was not enough air getting into your lungs. What on earth was happening…

“Are you alright?” Percival suddenly asked.

No. No, you were not. “I…”

Just before someone else could walk into you, Lancelot placed himself close to you, using his form as a barrier against the crowd. “What is wrong? You look unwell.”

It felt embarrassing to say it. “There’s too many people.”

Lancelot looked around him for a moment and spotted a smaller and less crowded path. “We’ll take that path instead. Come.”

You barely registered that he had placed a hand on your back to guide you along. The second you were out of the crowd, you leaned against a wall to recover.

Percival looked so very worried. “Are you sick?”

“No. I’m not used to being around so many people so closely anymore.” You hoped he wouldn’t ask why that was. “I can’t even see if there’s paladins around.”

Lancelot spoke. “Do not worry. I will notice them.”

He saw the look in your eyes change, it twisted a dagger into his gut. You did not trust that he would warn you if he saw paladins…

The boy touched your arm to comfort you. “It’s alright.”

No one expected for Percival to offer you the last bit of the sweetroll, it instantly made you feel a bit better.

“No, thank you.” you refused the sweet offer. “Did that sweetroll make you so sweet, or were you always like this?”

Percival’s face flushed a little, especially when he saw the slight grin on Lancelot’s face who saw it happen.

Lancelot came closer, supporting you by the arm to see if you were stable enough to walk. “Are you certain you do not wish for something to eat or drink?”

You pried his fingers loose from your arm. “I’ll be alright. Let’s get back to the inn before we run into paladins.”

The Ash Man kept a sharp eye on you whilst the three of you walked back to the inn. Percival and him picked out the lesser crowded paths and at some point you ended up on a narrow cobblestone street. Houses were build left and right in a long line and at the end of that street was a blacksmith working at his forge.

Lancelot came to a halt. “Do you mind stopping here for a moment?”

Of course he would be curious to see what sort of weapons this village had to offer. “Go ahead.”

He gave a grateful tilt of the head and approached the blacksmith, you and Percival followed suit.

“Good day.” The blacksmith gave a greeting nod and halted his work, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Good day.” Lancelot greeted just as polite. “Do you have wares for sale?”

“I do.” The blacksmith pointed at the house beside the forge. “My daughter keeps charge of the shop. Feel welcome.”

Whilst walking the short distance to the shop, you discreetly handed Lancelot the pouch. “In case you need it.”

He tucked it under his sword belt, in those few seconds Percival had already walked into the shop and reminded you both that this child would walk right through fire if there was something he wanted on the other side. Lancelot followed him inside immediately and grabbed hold on the back of the boy’s jacket. One look at the boy and Percival knew that Lancelot was serious about staying in sight.

A woman who looked your age was cleaning one of the many swords inside the store, she halted her task right away when she saw Lancelot. “Hello, is there something you seek? We have many weapons a man such as yourself would love to have.”

You noticed how it took her a little too long to even notice you were in the store too, not that she seemed to care, her eyes were glued to Lancelot from the second he had stepped inside. It irked you, a feeling you suppressed, this woman had done you no wrong.

“A sword.” he answered her.

She gestured for him to follow and leaded him to a wall with swords on display. “See something you like?”

Oh, it could not be more obvious that she was not talking about the swords then. Even Percival noted an undertone in her voice and looked up at her questioningly. The Ash Man said nothing, his gaze waved over the wall of swords and then he picked one off of the wall. He created some distance and spun the sword in his hand a few times.

“No.” he said, dissatisfied. The sword was placed back and another was put to the test, and another… and another…

You were watching the picky twit, starting to feel embarrassed for how he turned down sword after sword. “What exactly are you looking for?”

He smiled at the slightly annoyed tone. “Balance.”

“Balance?” Percival parroted. “It’s a sword. You just have to hit someone with it.”

He inspected the crossguard of the sword whilst explaining it to the boy. “A sword must have a good balance to control it well. It must be strong, not just the blade but the pommel and crossguard as well. A blade alone will not offer much aid in a sword fight without a strong pommel.”

The blacksmith’s daughter approached him now that he was just looking at the details of the pommel. “Spoken as a true swordsman. You are in need of a new sword then?”

She placed her hand on his lower arm, he looked at her hand right away. The sight of it bothered you, it shouldn’t have, not after all that had happened.

“No.” He finally read her intentions from her face. “It is for her.”

You saw him gesture your way and stared back at him in surprise. A sword, for you? Truly?

“Oh… I see… of course.” she stammered and stepped back.

When he beckoned for you to come closer, you became very aware of the sets of eyes on you. It felt a little awkward to approach him.

Upon seeing the reluctance, he approached you himself. He stood at your side and placed the sword into your hands, with your state from earlier in mind he behaved as gentle as he knew he could be. “See? Perfectly balanced steel. The right length for you to wield, a strong crossguard that can be used as a weapon in itself.”

The enthusiasm with which he spoke was infectious, if someone knew what sort of sword was good it had to be him. And with the way he was touching your arm and hands, you struggled to fully focus on the details of the sword he was explaining about.

He stood half against you. “What do you think? Do you like it?”

“Yes.” It flopped out, as if air decided to flee your lungs before the rest of your body could.

He looked at the shopkeeper. “We’ll take the sword.”

“Very well.” She sounded a little disappointed that he wasn’t interested in the other matters that she had wanted to offer.

He made an observation. “She needs a belt and sheath for it.”

“Of course.” She went to a hook on the wall that held multiple sorts of belts and helped you pick one out, then she attached the sheath to it.

Lancelot approved of the ensemble and was seemingly wondering if there could be more added to the belt that would be useful. “A small pouch for it?”

That sure sounded handy to store small things in. “I’d love that.”

With a polite gesture of his hand, he told the shopkeeper to add it to the ensemble. Then there you stood, with a proper weapon belt and a sword at your hip, the joy it brought was refreshing.

“Will that be all?” The shopkeeper asked.

Percival piped up, “I want a knife.”

“No.” Lancelot denied that request.

The boy fired back. “Mine was stolen! By the people you lived with.”

The way the child glared at him and gave him a warning look… It was a blessing that he had not referred to them as paladins.

Lancelot looked at you for advice. Was it proper to give the young boy a knife?

You mistook the look he gave. “If the sword is too costly for Percival to get a knife, I will manage without a sword.”

He sighed and looked towards the shopkeeper. “Do you have something appropriate for one of his age to use?”

“My ‘age’ ?” Percival glared at him. “What’s that got to do with it?”

You snorted a laugh, curious how Lancelot was going to talk himself out of this one. And apparently he considered it wise to not answer Percival’s bait for a battle. Thankfully the shopkeeper sensed the mood of the boy shifting in the wrong direction and quickly handed a knife to Lancelot.

He inspected the knife before giving it to Percival. “Good?”

The boy got very cheery instantly again, and with a wide grin he nodded up to him. The sword and knife were paid for and the shopkeeper bid you all a good evening. Indeed evening had arrived over the land, there were far less people on the streets now. With a sword that you could rest your hand on, you felt more at ease. Had this been Lancelot’s intention, for you to feel less threatened by the crowd? It worked.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

Before entering the inn, the three of you stopped by the horses. They were indeed being fed and taken care of, the innkeeper was one of the better ones out there it seemed.

“I miss Bear.” you said quietly whilst brushing the coat of the horse, that you had stolen from the paladins, with some straw. Lancelot was beside you, tending to Goliath’s coat.

Percival had heard it too. “Who’s ‘Bear’?”

“My own horse.” you told him. “This is the one I stole from the paladins. He’s sweet too, but he’s not Bear.”

The boy pouted a bit. “Where is Bear?”

You sighed. “Still at the paladin camp, I think.”

“He will be alright.” Lancelot reassured. “A good horse is always valuable, they will treat him well.”

You hoped he was right about that. “I hope so.”

After tending to the horses, you headed into the inn. The scent of warm potatoes and vegetables hanged inside the place, it was a warm welcome to your nostrils.

“I’m hungry.” Percival said the second you walked into the inn.

“I will ask the innkeeper for meals. Do we eat in the room?” you asked them.

“Yes.” Lancelot was quick to reply. The visit to the market had been enough risks for the day.

He did not have the heart to remind the boy that he had eaten a sweetroll not long ago, considering one of the ways to win the war against the Fey had been to burn their mills to cause famine amongst them.

As you walked towards the bar, he took Percival up to the room. Amelia was already looking at you, awaiting the interaction whilst she brushed a stray lock of her curly black hair behind her ear.

“That is a fine looking sword.” She nodded down at the sword resting at your hip. “Went to the market then?”

The wish for small talk was shared. “Yes. I needed more medicine for my friend.”

Her eyes narrowed for a blink. “That man you are with is your ‘friend’?”

Friend… it was the only way you could describe him that wouldn’t draw attention.

You worried what her reaction meant. “Yes…”

“I thought he was your lover.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And the boy?”

Rumors could be born so easily… at least Amelia was not afraid to ask for the truth. “Percival’s parents died, he only has us now.”

She hummed and filled some plates with the stew she had prepared for those at the inn. Her voice was just loud enough for you to hear. “Not many know what the Weeping Monk looks like, the people speak of him as if he is a ghost. Those who have not seen his face, or heard the stories, will not recognize him. But I have heard the stories. So tell me, should I be concerned?”

Your hands got clammy. She knew… she knew… “He is not a ghost, nor a monster. He will do you no harm.”

At least you hoped that was true, and that this was not some elaborate plan of his to get your trust back and return you to Father Carden.

She stared you down for a second, then gave a nod and placed the plates in front of your nose. “Be careful. Someone like him must have dangerous enemies, do not find yourself in the midst of it.”

If only she knew that you were already standing in the midst of it all. You took the plates to carefully carry them up the stairs. “Thank you for the meals.”

“You’re welcome. And once your ‘friend’-” she truly enunciated the word, “-feels better, do ask him if he could be so kind to move some of the lumber from behind the inn inside for the fireplace. There is no rush, but I would appreciate the help.”

It was a small favor to ask for in return for the hospitality she had shown. “I will ask. And he is truly just a friend, that is already complicated enough as it is.”

Her voice got a little louder, as if she meant to embarrass you in a playful way, “Perhaps it is complicated because he keeps imagining all the sins he would commit if he were to get you into bed.”

It caused your cheeks to burn. You tried to hush her. “What?! No! Of course not! He’s not like that-”

She arched a brow after you said the last part. “He’s not?”

Doubt was dripping off her tone and her expression, it only got you more flustered. She was such an open personality, unafraid to voice her thoughts and opinions and you found yourself at their mercy.

“He’s not.” you said firmly. Aware that your expression did not match the confidence of your voice.

A cheeky laugh escaped her. “Alright, don’t get so nervous. Who would I be to judge you for seeking some comfort in the arms of a monk?”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from her, carrying the plates in hand to carry them up the stairs. “You should write a book with that kind of imagination, Amelia.”

A laugh rippled through her chest and the sound followed you up the stairs, it wasn’t until you were in the room and had closed the door that you finally stopped hearing it. You placed the plates of stew down on the table. Percival was at the table not a blink of an eye later, Lancelot was more patient in his approach. He did not sit down yet when he saw you ignore the meal to attach your dagger to your new belt as well.

You finally noticed once you were done with the task. “Go on, sit. You don’t have to wait for me, you need your meals to get healthy again.”

“So do you.” he said whilst taking seat beside Percival.

You took the remaining plate of stew to eat on the bed. “How are your wounds? Is that ointment still working?”

“It is wearing off I believe.” He took a bite. “The vials will bring some relief.”

Those vials were good for fever, but you were not sure how well it would work against dirt getting into the wounds. “But you need ointment to protect you from infections, and it helps to quicken the process of healing. I’ll go search for what I need after the meal.”

He shook his head. “Tomorrow is better.”

You frowned. “But-”

He would not hear it. “There is no need to scour the woods for me at night. I will not perish within hours. You should concern yourself over your own health more, have your own bruises even healed yet?”

“ Fine, I’ll go tomorrow.” you agreed to it. “And they’re almost gone.”

“How did you get bruises?” Percival asked with his mouth full.

“Paladins.” You spared the boy of the darker truth, drank the last of the broth that was left of the stew and put the plate down on the bed.

Lancelot scolded the boy for the lack of manners. “Do not talk with a full mouth.”

“Why?” Percival asked with his mouth still full.

“It is not proper.”

“Why?”

Lancelot sighed when the boy kept speaking whilst he chewed. “I can see right into your mouth. It ruins the appetite.”

Percival rolled his eyes and finally swallowed the food down. “Then don’t look.”

Those two conversing was so entertaining to watch. Lancelot trying to help the boy learn some manners, whilst the boy reacted to it as if Lancelot was exaggerating. The patience he had with the child was admirable. You watched their entire interaction, and Percival proved quite talented at trying to change the topic when it was most convenient for him.

An unexpected question of the boy derailed their entire conversation. “That man that talked to you before you fought those masked paladins, why did he ask if I could smell the Fey? Can you smell who is Fey?”

Lancelot had finished his plate not long after Percival had, and confirmed what the boy believed to be true. “Ash Folk have a strong sense of smell. Fey kind gives of a different sort of scent than Manblood.”

The boy looked somewhat confused. “Different how?”

He leaned back into the chair. “Imagine it as a cloak hanging over them at all times, a fresh scent much like young grass. It is different for all Fey, but it always smells similar to what one can find in the woods.”

You had never been able to put the scent into words, but his description made complete sense. “It prickles the nose.”

His attention turned to you. “Yes.”

“But not in a bad way.” you assured Percival. “I can’t pick up on scents as good as he can, but his description fits.”

Lancelot was glad to hear that you experienced it in a similar way. “I can ignore most scents, it would overwhelm my senses too greatly otherwise. But I will always notice the Fey scent.”

“Because you used it to find us?” Percival was starting to piece the puzzle together again.

Lancelot gave a small nod, aware how even the boy must have realized how terrible it was that a Fey had used his abilities against his own kind.

It lead Percival to chase the truth. “Why were you with them? If you’re Fey, why did you fight against us?”

You didn’t want this to end in trouble. “Percival-”

“It’s alright.” Lancelot said to you. “He has a right to know.”

You rose from the bed and approached Percival, leaning onto the back of the chair with your arm as Lancelot began his story. He told the boy how he ended up in the hands of Father Carden, what was expected of him and why. Percival had not been so quiet in quite some time, often a look of confusion set in his eyes to which Lancelot explained a little more.

“Do you really think we’re damned?” The boy asked.

Lancelot got quieter. “I do not know what to believe anymore.”

Percival looked down for a second, chewing his lip. “But you won’t hurt the Fey anymore?”

That was at least one thing he was certain of. “No. Not unless it is to defend us from danger.”

To the boy it was an agreeable condition. Percival still had some questions that were a little less hard to answer, mostly about how monks lived and how they prayed. You did notice that Lancelot was careful not to mention how they used the scourge on themselves. The memory of the wounds he had inflicted upon himself the last time he had done so was etched into your mind, you doubted those were not still hurting him even just sitting there.

“Alright.” You grabbed their empty plates. “Whilst you two talk further, I’m taking these downstairs before it attracts flies into the room.”

They barely acknowledged the announcement, Percival was too engulfed in what Lancelot was telling him and Lancelot was too concentrated on not saying something that the boy was too young to hear about. So you headed down to the inn, Amelia was sweeping the floor and gave a grateful nod when she saw you carrying the plates down.

“To lessen some of your workload.” You held the plates up. “Do I put them in the kitchen?”

“Please do. Thank you.” She continued her task of cleaning the inn for the night.

The baker, Charles, was still up and sat at a table alone, you had to walk past him to go to the kitchen. “Care to offer a listening ear again, or perhaps accept one for yourself?”

You walked past him. “My ears always listen. I’ll put these in the kitchen first.”

Once you returned from the kitchen, he was awaiting your presence and leaned over the table to move the other chair so you could sit. Again he told of his life, about how before he became a baker he dreamed of being a bard, and when he offered to play on his lute you had to tell him that those already asleep in the inn upstairs might not appreciate the music at that hour. He was rather sweet, it was nice to listen to him talk. He had some quite amusing stories to tell about how some patrons would empty out a loaf of bread and try to return the shell of it to get their coin back.

Charles leaned a little closer over the table, his hands wrapped around the tankard that was long since emptied. “And you, what sort of stories can you tell me?”

It made you get evasive. “I’m not that interesting.”

He tsk-ed. “Nonsense. I see stories in those beautiful eyes.”

“‘Beautiful eyes’?” A chuckle escaped you. It had been a while since such flattery had been aimed your way.

“Not used to flattery?” he sounded surprised. “Hard to believe from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” You had a cheeky grin.

“I enjoy your company and would love to enjoy it for the rest of the night.” Charles made no secret of his intentions, especially when he reached over to place a hand over your own.

A plate was put down on the table between you and Charles, who jolted back in his chair from the loud clattering it made. You reacted the same way, your heartbeat spiked. It was not Amelia who had put the plate down on the table, no, Lancelot had brought down your empty plate that you had forgotten upstairs in the room.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Charles asked rightfully irritated.

"Her husband.”

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