#which gives some legends having Arthur aware of the magic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

28onlythebrave · 4 years ago

Text

'The Wicked Powers' theory regarding the plot based on Arthurian legend

I was looking for some infos about twp and i found this:

I had completely forgotten about this info CC gave us and because I have recently studied the Arthurian legend, I decided to look more into it. I think one of the most interesting things about the Arthurian legend is the Sword In The Stone/Excalibur.

Excalibur is the legendary sword of King Arthur, sometimes also attributed with magical powers or associated with the rightful sovereignty of Britain. It was associated with the Arthurian legend very early on. Excalibur and the Sword in the Stone (the proof of Arthur's lineage) are in some versions said to be different, though in most incarnations they are the same. In Welsh, it is called Caledfwlch. It was forged at the Isle of Avalon.

In Arthurian romance, a number of explanations are given for Arthur's possession of Excalibur. In Robert de Boron's Merlin, the first tale to mention the "sword in the stone", Arthur obtained the British throne by pulling a sword from an anvil sitting atop a stone that appeared in a churchyard on Christmas Eve. In this account, as foretold by Merlin, the act could not be performed except by "the true king," meaning the divinely appointed king or true heir of Uther Pendragon. As Malory related in his most famous English-language version of the Arthurian tales, the 15th-century Le Morte d'Arthur: "Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born." After many of the gathered nobles try and fail to complete Merlin's challenge, the teenage Arthur (who up to this point had believed himself to be son of Sir Ector, not Uther's son, and went there as Sir Kay's squire) does this feat effortlessly by accident and then repeats it publicly.

The identity of this sword as Excalibur is made explicit in the Prose Merlin, part of the Lancelot-Grail cycle of French romances (the Vulgate Cycle). In the Vulgate Mort Artu, when Arthur is at the brink of death he orders Griflet to throw the sword into the enchanted lake; after two failed attempts (as he felt such a great sword should not be thrown away), Griflet finally complies with the wounded king's request and a hand emerges from the lake to catch it. This tale becomes attached to Bedivere instead of Griflet in Malory and the English tradition. However, in the Post-Vulgate Cycle and consequently Malory, early in his reign Arthur breaks the Sword from the Stone while in combat against King Pellinore, and then is given Excalibur by a Lady of the Lake in exchange for a later boon for her (some time later, she arrives at Arthur's court to demand the head of Balin). Malory records both versions of the legend in his Le Morte d'Arthur, naming both swords as Excalibur. In some tellings, Excalibur's scabbard was also said to have powers of its own, as any wounds received while wearing the scabbard would not bleed at all, thus preventing the death of the wearer. For this reason, Merlin chides Arthur for preferring the sword over the scabbard, saying that the latter was the greater treasure. In the later romance tradition, including Le Morte d'Arthur, the scabbard is stolen from Arthur by his half-sister Morgan le Fay in revenge for the death of her beloved Accolon during the Fake Excalibur plot and thrown into a lake, never to be found again. This act later enables the death of Arthur, deprived of magical protection, many years later in his final battle.

Now, do you see the connections there?

The sword

There are many important swords in tsc such as, Cortana, Heosphoros, Pheosphoros and The Mortal Sword.

Cortana is based on the legendary sword Curtana, attributed to Ogier the Dane and the legendary knight Tristan. The real sword, Curtana, also known as the "Sword of Mercy", is a ceremonial sword used at the coronation of British kings and queens and is one of the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. Cortana is owned by Emma Carstairs.

Heosphoros is a family sword of the Morgensterns, Clary was in possession of it until she used it to kill Sebastian and the Heavenly Fire destroyed it. However, both Heosphoros and Pheosphoros (which was owned by Valentine and then Sebastian) still exist in Thule and Janus is in possession of both of them, in fact, Heosphoros was likely never even owned by the Clary Fairchild of that world, nor was it used on Sebastian. Janus took possession of the sword at one point and began to wield it, and then he took the sword and Sebastian's Phaesphoros with him to Ash’s world (aka the “real” world).

The Mortal Sword also known as the Soul-Sword, Maellartach, and Angel Blade, is the second of the Mortal Instruments given by Angel Raziel to Jonathan Shadowhunter. The Soul-Sword is primarily used to compel Nephilim to tell the truth, mostly during trials. Shadowhunters who wish to have their claims tested and proved may submit themselves to "trial by the Sword," during which a suitable judge, often a Silent Brother, sometimes the Consul or Inquisitor, wields the sword and places it in the hands of the deponent, where it adheres and cannot be removed until the judge wills it. Downworlders and mundanes cannot be compelled by the Soul-Sword, thus preventing the Sword from becoming used by the Shadowhunters as a general tool for interrogation.

The Sword can also have a dark purpose, if intended. Originally, the alliance of the Soul-Sword is seraphic, its power drawn from Angel Raziel himself. However, Valentine Morgenstern discovered an ancient spell to reverse the alliance from angelic to demonic, through a process called the Ritual of Infernal Conversion, where the Sword is seethed until red-hot and cooled four times in the blood of Downworld children: a child of Lilith, a child of the moon, a child of the night, and a child of the fey. With its demonic alliance, the Sword can be used to summon demons and allows its bearer to have control over them.

In September 2012, the Sword was used to question Annabel Blackthorn, who subsequently used it to kill Robert Lightwood and Livvy Blackthorn. It was shattered when Emma struck it with Cortana. Emma and Julian later acquired a version of the sword from Thule, claiming that the Iron Sisters had repaired it and used it to force Horace Dearborn to tell the truth about his involvement with the Unseelie Court and his schemes to gain the position of Consul.

I believe that in twp we will see more of Heosphoros and Pheosphoros in use, but I also think we’ll have a new enchanted weapon, one that will rapresent Excalibur. But if the sword is a parallel with Excalibur, then who is Arthur? In my opinion, the owner of this enchanted weapon will be Kit Herondale and let me tell you why. Arthur was a normal teenage boy who wasn’t aware of his lineage until he pulled the sword out of an anvil. We have three main characters in twp, Kit, Ty and Dru. Guess who is the only one who didn’t know he was a shadowhunter and wasn’t aware of his lineage? Kit. Also, the Arthurian legend is Welsh folklore. Which shadowhunter family is of Welsh orings? Yeah, the Herondales.

I assume The Mortal Sword will once again come in hand, except that this time it's a thule version of it. Also, the only other person who has an analogue arc to Kit's is Clary, and that's why I think the both of them will play a big role in the killing of Janus. Especially if you think about when Jace was once killed with the mortal sword by Valentine.

The lake

In a version of the legend where the sword of the stone and Excalibur are two different blades, Arthur breaks the sword of the stone and is given Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake at the enchanted lake.

The correlation here is obvious, the enchanted lake in tsc is Lake Lyn, also known as the mortal mirror of mortal glass. Ingesting the lake's waters can be poisonous to Nephilim, but it has no effect on Downworlders. Faeries have been known to drink from the lake, saying that it gives them true vision; for the Nephilim, the water causes hallucinations and may even drive them to madness. Among the Fair Folk, the lake is known as the Lake of Dreams or Mirror of Dreams.

The Lady of the Lake is a name used by several fairy-like enchantresses in the Matter of Britain, the body of medieval literature and mythology associated with the legend of King Arthur. They play pivotal roles in many stories, including providing Arthur with the sword Excalibur, eliminating Merlin, raising Lancelot after the death of his father, and helping to take the dying Arthur to Avalon. Different sorceresses known as the Lady of the Lake appear concurrently as separate characters in some versions of the legend since at least the Post-Vulgate Cycle and consequently the seminal Le Morte d'Arthur, with the latter describing them as a hierarchical group, while some texts also give this title to either Morgan or her sister.

The Lady resides in an enchanted realm, an otherworld the entry to which is disguised as an illusion of a lake. I think she may be in fact the Seelie Queen. It would make total sense for it to be her because of her correlation with Kit (the only known living descendant of the First Heir of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts), Ash Morgenstern (the son she had with Sebastian, who is half shadowhunter and half faerie) and Janus (whom she has an alliance with).

According to her backstory in the Vulgate Merlin, the Lady of the Lake was a daughter of the knight Dionas (Dyonas) and a niece of the Duke of Burgundy. She was born in Dionas' domain of Briosque in the forest Brocéliande. Which takes us to the next point.

The forest

Brocéliande, earlier known as Brécheliant and Brécilien, is a legendary enchanted forest that had a reputation in the medieval European imagination as a place of magic and mystery. Brocéliande is featured in several medieval texts, mostly related to the Arthurian legend and the characters of Merlin, Morgan le Fay, the Lady of the Lake, and some of the Knights of the Round Table.

Here too the correlation is obvious, the forest in Idris is called Brocelind. In September 2012, a portion, specifically the center, of the Brocelind Forest was blighted with dark magic by the forces of the Unseelie King, making the area a space where Nephilim runes and adamas-weapons would be ineffective. Making it, in fact, an echanted forest, like in the legend.

Soooo these were some of my thoughts, if you found something more please let me know cause I really like all of this lol.

205 notes · View notes

thefisherqueen · 3 years ago

Text

Review of The Green Knight

As a lover of Arthurian legend and medieval reenactment and a once-upon medieval literature student, the new movie The Green Knight of course was on my to-watch list. Especially after reading qqueenofhades’ excellent essay. I finally watched the movie last week. And I have some Thoughts to share.

There are a lot of things to like about this movie. It was delightfully non-sensational and devoid of GoT-like violence and political power struggles. There was some really beautiful cinematography, partly thanks to the beautiful Irish mountains this movie was shot in. I love that TGK not just adopted, but instead reworked the legend. The main moral themes and outcomes, while not a literal copy, felt authentic to the Christian medieval context of the poem, involving questions around honor, courage, hospitality, greatness, humility and what it means to be a good knight, or even a good person. The movie made it beautifully clear that Gawain’s main problem could have been avoided had he just given the Green Knight a scratch, but because he chose to behead the knight while said knight was lying kneeling and harmless at his feet, there is no escaping from facing the consequence of that action, which is neatly echoed throughout the movie. The green knight, the knight with the green belt and the lord who goes hunting in the green. The lover, the saint and the temptress. What you give, you will receive, and the other way around. The cast was great (too asexual to be thirsty for Dev Patel, though, sorry). The messing up of the mistaken image of medieval europe as just white is also always appreciated. I too liked that the film didn’t care to explain some of the wonders and mysteries, like the giants and the saint who lost her head, they just were accepted as part of that world. Being somewhat puzzled and enchanted is sadly rare in media nowadays where everything has to be explained or else it’s a ‘plot hole’. The liberty this movie takes with time, with multiple possible versions playing out and the reoccuring circular motives were impressive. However, the film as a whole didn’t quite work for me and I don’t really care to rewatch it. I think there are two fundamental reasons why.

The first is that the viewer isn’t given reason to care about the main character. I think this choice is deliberate, as we see Arthur asking Gawain to tell a tale of himself to get to know him, and Gawain replies that he has none, and after Gawain takes on the Green Knight’s challenge as an opportunity to gain a tale for himself. Questions about telling and re-telling tales and achieving greatness are a central theme. However, this narrative choice poses a problem, as it results in a movie where we see Gawain wrestle through difficulties on his quest and he’s this strange identity-less puppet, escaped from the children’s puppet show. We as audience are set up to be detached from him, which makes it hard to root for his success or even his survival, despite how pretty and sad Dev Patel may look in a dirty-and-distressed state. This could have been solved without removing those identity themes by giving Gawain, if not great deeds, at least some establishment of his character at the start of the film. He doesn’t have to be likable, but he has to be something more than a drinker and brawler with a faint sense of wanting to prove himself. That is just not enough to make us attached to Gawain’s wellbeing and involved in the quality of his decision making. The rest of the movie doesn't quite build Gawain’s character either. We get that he’s uncertain and afraid, yes, but his actions remain inconsistent, his motivations unclear. His main character arch - that he needs to give up the protection of the enchanted green belt, needs to face fear and consequences rather than to rely on the treacherous protection of witchcraft - doesn’t come off the ground because we only learn close to the very end that the belt is a problem to the completion of his quest. That’s no arch, that’s an exhausting flat march and a sudden steep slope right before the finish line.

The second problem ties into the first. Namely, you don’t need a strong emotional tie to the characters if there’s a light tone, an adventure with a side dish of some fun and humor perhaps. This movie, however, is anything but light. It’s dark. It’s grim. It’s cold. It’s wet. There’s exactly zero humor. Above all, it’s slow. So slow. Apart from an emotional connection, you also need a sit-on-the-edge-of-your-seat amount of story tension for this kind of dramatic tone and slow pace to work, and the script just doesn’t build that tension. A shot of Gawain riding through the moor after he leaves his home is just that: the confrontation with the Green Knight is still far away, there’s no looming threat we’re aware of, there’s nothing else to be told or resolved. Together with our emotional detachment it makes for a movie that switches between boring and ridiculously overdramatic, while occasionally looking stunning and taking on deeper questions and parallels. Overall it just makes for a frustrating viewer experience that lacks impact. I was left with a thorough “meh”. Which is a shame, because this movie is very interesting and could have been so good. That clever panning shot showing Gawain as a tied up skeleton should have been devastating. I should have been shouting “No DON”T do that, you IDIOT!” at the screen the moment Gawain scares away his adorable guardian fox. Instead, I couldn’t care less. Come on, Green Knight. Off with his head.

Some final details to note: erotic movie scenes are normally already awkward, but the scenes in this movie take the usual akwardness next level. At least it’s handled consistently - whether straight or homoerotic, it’s basically all a dissapointment. (That cum shot has scarred my brain forever). Which has its own merit, I guess, but does make for an odd contrast to the camera’s loving, even somewhat objectiving depiction of Dev Patel and the way about every character tenderly touches his face. I’m left wondering what the point was of this choice. It tells something about Gawain’s failure to meet chivalry standards, maybe.

The scenes which show witchcraft was used to make the Green Knight appear were rather cliché and I don’t think they added anything, as the Christian morality and consequences of relying on witchcraft are already addressed in the theme of the enchanted green belt. Also, it’s frustrating to keep seeing scratched-in runes used as literal magic. As far as our limited knowledge goes, runes were a whole writing system, magical only in the sense that writing something down can have a power of its own. Please, movie makers, think of something original.

Also, torches are terrible for indoor lighting. They burn out quickly and are horribly sooty, so it’s lanterns or candles you want indoors. But the use of the pentacle shown as a common talisman for protection rather than a specific symbol for evil or magic was nice. I’m not equipped to comment much on the choice of costumes and they didn't try to be accurate to a specific historic period and place anyway, but would have loved to see more men in long robes like the beautiful ones they gave king Arthur. Somehow, medieval themed movies only seem to go for the pants and knee-length tunic style for men, while long dress-like garments were in fact very common. Gawain’s beautifully patterned yellow mantle was the brightest point of the entire movie.

#the green knight #Dev Patel #movie #film #review #medieval #history #medieval literature #chivalry #arthur legend #movie critique

15 notes · View notes

zira-blackwell · 3 years ago

Text

Check and Mate + [Penwell feat. Belle]

In which Zira successfully steals the first cobblestone and grows closer to her goal...[takes place: August 29]

@arthur-of-camelot, @labellerose-acheron

[tw -- graphic threats of violence]

BELLE: One would think that maybe having the King of Britons ‘round for a spot of tea was intimidating, but Belle was used to entertaining such characters of legend. After all, she was married to the King of the Underworld. And she’d dined with the Great Prince of Enchantra Forest. Had worked for the Queen of Swynake’s Fairy Hollow.

Besides, she quite liked Arthur. He was not quite as brash as some legends made him out to be. In reality, he was rather quiet, contemplative and thoughtful. She had her knight-memories, of course, of a young man who had been slightly more boisterous, but she found she liked this settled down second-life version of Arthur. The two of them got on quite well, especially considering the brash nature of a few of their comrades in arms. Yes, she was including Merida in this assessment.

They were meeting today to put the final touches on the trip to Elfhame. Belle’s notebook that she kept specially for this was out on the table and the teapot had cooled, the two of them already on their second cup each. The house was quiet. Hades and Toulouse had the children for the day, to give Belle the proper focus to plot the way she needed to.

And she was rather satisfied with the plan, overall. It was risky. There were a million ways that it could go wrong, but they’d done as much as they could. Overplanning would just get them in their heads about it.

“I don’t trust this fae prince, but I believe he at least intends to get us there and back in one piece. Other than that, the plan is solid. Don’t you think?” she asked, looking over at Arthur.

ARTHUR: The trip to Elfhame was one that Arthur had briefly considered taking part in himself. He wanted to, and thought that he should, seeing as he had lost Excalibur to someone after having tracked it down. But then he thought better of it. Largely because he was the sheriff of this town, and Arthur couldn’t leave the town defenseless if Zira did anything. He didn’t trust her not to do something.

But he did want to help as much as he could with the planning and with making sure that his knights had the best chance possible to retrieve Excalibur. If he couldn’t be there himself, he would do his best to support them here.

Arthur took a small sip of his tea, considering the notebook once more. “I do believe it’s the best plan that we have.” Did he think there were a lot of things that could go wrong? Yes, but there was only so much that they could plan for. The rest was out of their hands.

“I don’t trust him either, and it would be wise to keep a watchful eye on him, but I think he knows not bringing you back would have consequences. Tiana and I will be here and alert. If he were to return without any of you...it would not end well for him.”

BELLE: Belle nodded thoughtfully, smiling a little at the protective edge to Arthur’s voice. She thought it was nice and Bedivere recognized it too. There was an affection there that wasn’t hers, but she couldn’t deny. It was such an odd feeling. She wasn’t the kind of person to be coddled, but Arthur had a way of saying things that just sounded…warm. Not patronizing.

And while Belle was secure in the knowledge that Hades would raze Elfhame to the ground if she didn’t come back in one piece, it was nice to know there were others who felt the same way. Belle wasn’t the biggest team player, but she could admit to its advantages.

“I think he’s aware,” Belle told Arthur with a little nod. “He’s given his word to bring us all back and the fae are bound by their word. I think I covered all the loopholes, but even if I haven’t, from what I understand we only need him to get to Elfhame, not back again.” She smirked, a little light of mischief in her eye.

“Besides, I—“

There was a knock at the door.

Normally, an unexpected knock at the Acheron’s door was always cause for slight concern. Even Shuck, who had been contently lying on the floor near them was on his feet, a growl rumbling in his throat.

Belle was unperturbed. “Oh, I should get that,” she said, even though she had no idea who it was. She smiled at Arthur and then stood, moving to the door. Shuck walked ahead of her, his massive body blocking the doorway.

“Shuck, move,” she huffed and pulled the door open without looking.

“Ah, hello, Dr. Blackwell,” she said breezily.

“Hello, Mrs. Acheron.”

ARTHUR: “As long as we’ve got the basics covered it should be alright. And as I said, there are a few of us staying back so he would be held accountable.” Arthur believed that it would be alright. And he trusted his knights to have a good head on their shoulders. Belle going when he couldn’t helped him feel better as well. He knew that unlike some of the others, she usually had a pretty sound logic and wouldn’t just jump right into something.

He startled a little at the knock on the door, glancing over at Belle. Had she been expecting someone else? They hadn’t discussed that.

And then Arthur heard the familiar voice and he was on his feet in an instant, stepping behind Belle ready to back her up however he could. He didn’t have a sword on him, which felt like the worst mistake of his life, even if it was odd to go around with a sword strapped to your waist in this day and age. “Zira...what are you doing here?”

BELLE: Belle knew that she should be alarmed.

Actually, she was alarmed. She could feel her heart beating, but she also realized that she wasn’t in control. Her hand was on the doorknob and it had turned without her say so. It didn’t make any sense. Only that she knew she was somehow enchanted. Belle knew what that felt like. She had had magic used against her plenty of times.

She opened her mouth to say this to Arthur, to warn him, but nothing came out.

Instead, she could only look at him incredulously for a moment before turning back to Zira, who was smiling pleasantly at them.

“Hullo, Arthur. I would love to stay and chat, but as you are aware, I’m very busy these days.” Her gaze cut back to Belle. “Would you be a doll and fetch me what I’ve come for?”

“Of course,” Belle said, her brain supplying: cobblestone. She gave Arthur another horrified look before she found her feet moving of their own accord toward the stairs a few steps away.

ARTHUR: This shouldn’t have been happening.

How was Zira doing that? She hadn’t stepped inside or gone anywhere. Why was Belle doing exactly what Zira had said? It was like...well it was as if she was being controlled.

Arthur immediately stepped in between Belle and the stairs, an arm coming up to block her way to them. “And you expect that to work, Zira? Just have her walk over and bring it to you? Do you think that I would allow that?” Arthur asked, eyebrows furrowed as he steeled himself up.

He didn’t know what Zira was trying to pull, but he refused to allow her to get away with the cobblestone. The knights had found it and fully intended to keep it safe from her. “I suggest you leave.”

BELLE: Belle let out a little sigh of relief as Arthur stepped in front of her. She wasn’t in control of her actions. She knew that much, hopefully he realized it too and didn’t think Belle was betraying him. Belle was many things: not a very good team player, small and slight and not a very good fighter, but she also wasn’t someone who would betray someone. Not unless they betrayed her first. And Arthur hadn’t ever done that. In this life or the last.

But, she couldn’t speak.

“Hm, Mrs. Acheron, would you be a dear and inform Arthur of what I told you?” Zira said from the door.

“If anyone tries to stop me, I should slit my throat,” Belle repeated automatically. She blinked after she said it and turned to look at Zira, eyes wide with horror.

Zira just smiled. “Good girl, now run along.”

Belle looked again at Arthur and then reluctantly, but without her control, stepped around him and headed up the stairs. Her heart pounding. All she could think was she was glad the children weren’t home.

“I didn’t think I’d have to tell you to stay out of my way, Arthur, but apparently I was wrong,” she heard Zira comment with a sigh as Belle ascended the stairs.

ARTHUR: He couldn’t help but glare at Zira, though he reluctantly stepped out of Belle’s way. He couldn’t allow harm to come to her, though Zira’s methods were low. Despicable really to use someone in this way.

And once again, he wished he had Excalibur with him, that he could use it and swing at Zira and stop her evil right then and there.

Alas, he did not, and he couldn’t allow Belle to come to harm’s way. They would have to accept this loss. As infuriating as it was. “Really? You should know better than to expect me to just roll right over and let you take anything you want.”

Arthur stepped a little closer to Zira. “You might win today, but you will not win with this ridiculous scheme of yours. I will defeat you.”

ZIRA: The problem with being so moral and chivalrous meant you were so incredibly predictable. You could never gain the high ground because you weren’t willing to do the things that needed to be done. It was why Arthur was losing. He could not bring himself to use people the way that Zira did. He wanted to make friends with his minions. He cared about them. If their situations were reversed, Zira would let Belle open her neck and bleed out all over her new rug.

(There might be only the slightest twinge of regret in a mother recognizing a mother, but children lost their mothers every day.)

Zira had known that this would work. Had been so confident that she’d waited until Arthur was here to call on Belle’s compulsion. Nuka had done such a wonderful job with it, she would need to remind herself to thank him when the time came.

The floor creaked above them and Zira glanced up before looking back at Arthur.

“But isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? Rolling over and letting me take exactly what I want?” She stepped closer until she was right on the threshold, though she did not want to let him know she was magically bound to stay outside the house.

“You do not want to lose anyone and that is the difference between us: no one else matters as much as breaking the charter. I will leave a river of blood so deep I will wash this town into nothing more than a memory and stain the earth so nothing else can ever grow here.”

ARTHUR: He had only ever loathed one person as much as he loathed Zira in this moment. And that was Mordred, the person responsible for his death. Zira...she had a thirst for blood that was revolting and horrific, and she didn’t care who she would go through to get what she wanted.

“No. I’m not. Like I said, you win this time now, but you will not win the war. I will figure out how you did this.” And he would safeguard his knights so that something like this couldn’t happen again. He would make sure of it.

He took a step back from her, a cool smile spread across his face. “You will try. But you will fail. I look forward to you seething with frustration when all your little fantasies turn to dust.”

Arthur couldn’t help but glance back, worrying about Belle and how she was doing. He wished that he could do something to stop what was happening. He hated how powerless he felt at this moment. They would have to do better.

ZIRA: Arthur was so cute. He reminded her of a badger trying to defend itself from a lion. Admirable, but ultimately foolish. She supposed she could appreciate his tenacity and the belief in his cause. Even in the face of failure, he tried to keep his pride. At least he would not be boring to kill. In fact, he’d probably make it rather fun, dying like a martyr.

The top of the steps creaked and Belle appeared, descending the stairs. Zira smiled at her, denying Arthur a proper answer to his challenge. The beautiful, tragic woman slipped between them and dropped the stone into Zira’s hands, who curled her fingers over it.

“Thank you, darling.”

“You won’t win,” Belle snapped, her eyes burning with tears.

“Yes,” Zira’s eyes flicked toward Arthur. “Your king said the same thing.” She let out a put on sigh, especially considering vampires didn’t breathe, as she put the cobblestone in her bag.

“I look forward to seeing you try and stop me. Ta ta.”

And with that, she turned and sauntered down the walkway. Going a few steps before speeding up and disappearing into the dusk.

ARTHUR: As Zira turned away and left, Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Okay. So they’d lost this one. He wasn’t going to let that happen again. They could make this right. He was determined to make it right again.

But for the moment, he turned and stepped over to Belle, glancing her over carefully. “Are you alright?” He asked. Zira had threatened the woman’s life, and though no harm had come to her as Arthur hadn’t allowed that to happen, he still felt he needed to check in. Even if no physical harm had occurred, her bodily autonomy had been taken from her.

“I’m sorry. What she did...that was...well I know she has to have some form of magic...but I would never have guessed her capable of controlling someone like this.”

BELLE: The moment the stone fell into Zira’s hand, Belle felt her body return to her. She touched her neck, then her chest—feeling her heart beating frantically against her rib cage. She leaned against the stair bannister, but as soon as Arthur turned his gaze on he, she snapped to, like a proper soldier.

The team of Knights was mostly Mundus, as it had been before, and Belle refused to seem weak just because of that. She had dealt with far worse. If anything, she was just annoyed that it had been so easy for Zira. Her hand clenched into a fist around the banister and she took a breath. There was an intention for her to smile at Arthur, but it turned into a grimace.

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse,” Belle reassured him.

“Possessions are worse, let me tell you,” she chuckled dryly, trying to inject a bit of humor. Thinking about it, though, Belle had had her body snatched by her plenty of times. From possession to death to, well, pregnancy to be honest. Though, this didn’t feel like that.

It felt like—

“Oh. Wait—I know what that was. I-I think.” Belle brushed past Arthur as her brain turned back the clock years and years now. To a much more naïve Belle. Her gaze looked toward the door and then the kitchen.

“She didn’t cross the threshold, did she?” Belle asked, turning to her king. “I think she may be a vampire.”

#bdrparthur #bdrpbelle #penwell #zelle #check and mate #heating up y'all!!

9 notes · View notes

musicfeedsmysoul12 · 5 years ago

Text

Princess of Atlantis

Marinette has always been fully aware her father wasn’t fully human- or Tom. Her mom had met Arthur- her bio dad- on a trip to Hawaii. They’d had a whirlwind summer fling that ended with Sabine going back to China for her move to France unaware she was pregnant.

When she discovered she was pregnant she’d contacted Arthur who had gone right to France to explain some things. Learning about the fact there was an entire world underwater? Was… interesting. Learning her daughter may be in danger because of her heritage?

She was not happy.

Marinette was five when her uncle Orm attacked the surface and her father became King of Atlantis. When they’d learned he had a daughter on land they had all decided that she could not be heir given her only Atlantean abilities were breathing underwater.

Marinette, even at age five, had no issue with that. She did not want to rule Atlantis. She wanted to be a fashion designer. She said that to her dad when he’d broken the news.

“I’m going to also redesign your suit.”

“It’s not-“

“It’s ugly daddy.”

She still was a princess though and had to sit in on lessons given to her by Mera, her father’s betrothed/girlfriend. Mera at least was fun.

She learned Atlantean design and etiquette. It was fun and enjoyable and she got to design her new step-mother’s wedding dress and her daddy’s suit for their wedding at age ten which she was thrilled about.

Marinette grew up learning about her heritage from all sides of her family, her dad fIrm on the idea. She spent time in Hawaii with her grandfather, and later her grandmother, and time in Atlantis. She learned her Hawaiian heritage, her Chinese heritage and her Atlantean heritage from a young age.

Children though can be cruel. Especially when afraid. A little girl with crazy wavy hair and the ability to swap between multiple languages is fun, but when a girl whose daddy has power and has taught her she can do no wrong decides she doesn’t like you… no one does.

Marinette grew up being taunted for her differences. She saw how some people side-eyed her and her mother while walking around, how some Atlanteans sneered at her for her mostly human heritage, saw how some of the people on the islands seemed to hesitate around her. She tried to smile through it but…

Well, in the end, it was easier to pretend. She was white-passing enough that all she needed to do was straighten her hair and stop speaking other languages.

Her mother hated it. Her papa- Tom- did too. Her daddy did, her step-momma did. Her grandfather and grandmothers did. Kaldur, the boy who became her daddy’s apprentice and a big brother figure to her, hated it too.

But she couldn’t keep going, couldn’t keep being taunted. So she plastered a smile on her face and pretended. And it worked- Chloe, the bully, backed off and she made some sort of friends. She even became a hero like her daddy and slowly gained actual friends. She got to make her own team like Kaldur, she got a partner she could count on, a mentor to help her out. She was happy.

Or so she thought.

A liar came to school and things went all to hell. She lost everything. Her friends, her comfort she felt in her hero partner being there to help. Her team, her mentor…

She was left holding a box full of power, tears in her eyes and a scream in her throat. She took off to Atlantis where she collapsed and sobbed into her step-momma’s dress and her daddy raged.

It was Kaldur who helped her.

“Fuck them,” Kaldur told her. “They don’t deserve your tears.” He sat with her and wrapped his arms around her. “They weren’t friends. Friends don’t betray you like this. Friends stick with you even when things go to hell.” He kissed her forehead and promised to be there.

And he was. He was there when she herself decided fuck it when she stopped straightening her hair and cut it into an undercut with one side framing her face. When she started wearing eyeliner- he even went and got some help from Nightwing for learning some dramatic ways to make her eyes pop.

Kaldur helped her figure out how to find good people to fight with. Kagami, Luka- they were good fighters, good friends. They had her back. Luka got into fights with his sister about her and never back down. Kagami punched Adrien and told him how little she cared for him seeing how he never backed up his friend.

Marinette started smiling again soon enough.

-0-

“I hope Marinette doesn’t make this difficult,” Lila told Alya, pouting. “I know she has Italian heritage too but I’m fully Italian…”

“Don’t worry girl, we’ll make sure Marinette doesn’t start anything,” Alya promised as they all sat in the classroom about to give their reports on their cultural heritage. The others nodded and all turned to the front just as Marinette walked in. She’d changed- everyone knew it. Gone was the kind girl… sort of. She was still kind, but she stopped looking like she used to her. Her hair was short, she wore dark make-up, and she dressed in loose and comfortable clothing that made her look badass honestly. She also apparently had tattoos but no one had believed it- until today when she came in with no sleeves and showing off her tattoos on her arms.

“Oh god, where did she get those?” asked Juleka in shock. “They’re badass.”

“Maybe they’re gang signs,” Lila said slyly, smirking as everyone began whispering about this new rumour.

“Class,” Ms. Bustier- the woman had moved with them to lycee because Chloe had demanded her favourite teacher be moved with her- began. “Marinette will be going first on her report as she needs to leave for a family thing.”

“What?” Alya asked. “But Lila’s the full Italian! Shouldn’t we learn about the culture from her?” everyone nodded. Marinette stared at them, face blank.

“...Nino, you’ve known me since we were kids. You know Tom’s not my bio dad.” Marinette said and the class froze.

“... Shit, I forgot.” Nino admitted while Marinette rolled her eyes hard.

“I figured. So no, I’m not doing Italian anyway.” She turned and began setting up her powerpoint, ignoring the class. Lila was angry. She had hoped to whine and cry that Marinette had stolen some of her points about her heritage or make some comment about Marinette obviously having stolen her report. Now she had to actually do it. “As everyone knows- and I did do a previous report on it- my mother is Chinese. What few others know is that my bio father is kānaka ʻōiwi, or Native Hawaiian as some know them as.” Marinette continued her report, showing off interesting legends about her father’s people and even speaking of her tattoos. “They were done in the traditional way and it really hurt but I think they’re pretty amazing. I don’t have much- just a few that my dad thought fit me.” Marinette grinned and everyone looked at each other feeling uncomfortable. When her report was done she left with a wave and a very awkward class.

Not that she cared, she was busy focusing on the fact uncle fucking Orm wanted to see her. Orm- as in her weedy uncle who still hated all land walkers. And who looked like a dork and still wouldn’t take her advice about his hair.

Walking up to the living room, she wanted to whine upon seeing him. He was looking annoyed while sitting on the couch.

“What’s going on that I needed to ditch school?” she asked, feeling annoyed at seeing him. She had stopped wanting to do everything for everyone. She’d stopped trying to be a people pleaser. It was annoying and frustrating. Kaldur had taken her to meet Red Robin who was similar to her in that way and they’d both had a nice long bitch out about everything before they’d both decided to stop it. Stop trying to help people who never said thanks, stop trying to please everyone.

She enjoyed the chaos the class had become and loved hearing about how much of a shit show Gotham’s Batfam had become themselves before they actually started trying again.

“We need someone to run Atlantis,” Orm said darkly. She stared at him.

“Oh fuck no. No- nope. Nuh-uh. Aʻole, Méiyǒu. NO.” She shook her head, holding her hands up. “I am literally as far from the throne as I can be given I’m the King’s only kid so far? I mean Kaldur doesn’t count.”

“This is true but your father is needed in space while Mera is still on bedrest as her pregnancy is most difficult currently and Kaldur has no actual relation to the throne.”

“And you can’t rule because technically you were dishonoured,” Marinette added in, gaining a dirty look from her uncle. “Damn… I’m just the face of this, right? Step-momma is still the one giving orders?”

“Of course. Though there is a ball with land walkers you need to attend.” Marinette stopped.

“...Everyone will know who I am then.” Orm shrugged, uncaring.

“Weren’t you planning on revealing yourself anyway?” Marinette frowned but sighed, her shoulders slumping.

“...At least I have a dress already designed and half made for this.”

-0-

Telling Bustier she wouldn’t be in for two weeks was simple enough. Ruling Atlantis- or really acting as a mouthpiece for her step-mother? Simple to. Jumping back to Paris when an Akuma happened? Easy. All of Atlantis knew she was Ladybug- they felt the magic. They knew she was the Guardian as well and mostly ignored that as long as Plagg never came near them. Given she was still hesitating on claiming the ring she was okay.

She didn’t want to take his ring, she wanted her partner back, her best friend. She wanted him to stop flirting and stop not taking things seriously.

“It’s annoying,” she told Kaldur while signing some papers. She and Kaldur were in the room Mera was in, the woman annoyed at the bed rest condition she’d been given for her pregnancy and demanding Marinette sign the papers in her room at least. “I mean- it’s wrong and gross and I should take it back but it feels… wrong. Gross to consider it, you know?”

“That’s the bond of a Ladybug and Chat Noir I believe according to our records,” Mera told her step-daughter.

“Yeah- magic makes things tricky. But he’s really pushing the boundaries.” Kaldur told Marinette who sighed.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell him you’re dating someone,” Mera said. “If he’s a dick still then take the ring.”

Maybe she would. Maybe.

But first, she had the damn ball to deal with.

-0-

“I look terrible in gold Uncle Orm.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Uncle.” Orm glared at his niece as she glared at the gold fabric he’d thrust into her arms to add to her dress. It needed an extra layer, and gold was one of the colours of Atlantis. “I look better in silver.”

“I don’t care. You need to have the colours of Atlantis on you.” Orm told her. She glared at him and then at the fabric.

“At least you got the sheer stuff. It’ll look nice over it hopefully.” She added the cloth and did admit it looked nice.

She still hated gold cloth.

But it went with her tiara as she waited for the announcer to call her, a hand on Kaldur’s arm.

“Relax Marinette- everything is okay,” he told her softly.

“I’m about to reveal to the whole world I’m the Princess of Atlantis.”

“Imagine the looks on your classmates’ faces?”

“...Okay yeah, I feel better now.” Marinette flashed a smile and waited.

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Marinette Curry-Dupain-Cheng of Atlantis, current regent while her father is in space and Lord Kaldur of Atlantis.” the Announcer read out loud. Marinette and Kaldur walked into the room with their heads high.

Cameras flashed and Marinette kept her eyes focused. Her dress showed off her tattoos and muscular arms, the entire thing designed to be able to fight in if needed. She was every inch the warrior princess that Atlantis could boast of.

“Princess!” a man shouted. “Who designed your dress.”

“I did myself,” she told him. “I enjoy fashion design and sewing.”

“Are you the heir?”

“No,” she told that reporter. “Due to the fact I only have a quarter of Atlantean blood I am not the heir but as said I stepped in as regent while my father fights for our galaxy,”

“Are you and Kaldur dating?”

“Definitely not- he’s my elder brother in everything but blood and legality.” She told that one before she was led away by Kaldur and had to play nice for a few hours with politicians.

There was one face she recognized.

“Prince Ali,” she said, curtseying like she’d been taught by Mera.

“Princess Marinette,” the Prince of Achu said, bowing. He looked a bit sad. “I see you aren’t in rehab like Rose is saying Lila is claiming.” Marinette stopped as did Kaldur.

“...What?”

“Apparently that’s the new rumour that Lila Rossi is spreading.”

“...I believe I need to make some calls to various lawyers we have on land,” Kaldur said darkly and strode off to do so. Marinette had her eyes closed and took a deep breath.

“I hate that girl will all my soul,” she finally said after a moment.

“I do as well,” Ali admitted. Marinette looked at him in surprise. “I meet many people, your highness. Sometimes- unless they had made an impression- I forget them. When Rose asked if I knew Lila, I said possibly I’d met her. I did not know the extent of her lies until Rose referenced them and then… it was to late.”

“Not really your highness, you could have said something.” Ali winced.

“I have few friends, Princess Marinette, Rose is one of the few. And like others she expects me to be a perfect Prince which means not… rocking the boat so to speak.” He looked pained saying so, and Marinette frowned.

“Then she’d not a friend Prince Ali. Real friends wouldn’t hold you to expectations and ideals. That’s why I stopped being friends with a fair amount of my class. I think only Juleka and I could be called friendly- and that’s because her brother is one of my best friends.” Ali frowned but looked thoughtful.

After the ball, Marinette went back to Atlantis with a satisfied smile. She had a nice time, and she even swapped numbers with Ali.

Maybe she had a new friend.

-0-

The rest of the time spent in Atlantis was spent texting Ali when bored and ignoring the emails from her classmates who’d realized she’d changed her number. Most were basically begs for her to talk to them, a few saying they were sorry, or asking for an interview. Some accused her of lying or brainwashing Ali (Alya there) while Rose sent a sorry email. Apparently, she’d taken Ali’s message to heart and even Juleka felt bad.

Marinette didn’t give a damn.

When her dad came back and she got to hug him and hit him for leaving the planet- idiot- he had a laugh over the emails.

“Your classmates are ridiculous,” he told her. “What, do they think you’ll dramatically run back to each other, arms wide open?”

“Probably,” she told him. “I just don’t give a damn.”

“Nice.” he ruffled her hair and they chatted about seeing grandma and grandpa in Hawaii over the summer again before Marinette headed back to Paris where some of the Atlanteans who could walk on land were guarding the bakery. And where a lawyer was waiting, plus a personal assistant.

“No,” Marinette whined as her father patted her shoulder. He’d gone with her to explain some things.

“Sorry kid. You’re in the spotlight now- and that means you do need to go to a few galas and balls.” Marinette playfully gagged. Arthur laughed at his daughter again. He was happy she was doing better, that things were okay for her again. He’d worried when she was a shell of herself. Worried when she became Ladybug and worried when that Rossi girl came to the class.

He was happy she was okay.

-0-

Marinette’s new personal assistant was named Stephanie Brown and she was, in fact, Spoiler from Gotham who had agreed to move to Paris to help Marinette out and to be part of her new team of heroes she was putting together. Stephanie was still in school but she was killing it already as a personal assistant.

“Alright, so school, homework, design time then patrol. Maybe steal the ring today?” Stephanie asked as she checked the tablet.

“Maybe. I want to give him one more chance…” Marinette sighed. “But that could be the bond…”

“Hey, up to you but I will follow as the lovely Buzzer to keep an eye on things.” Stephanie grinned as Pollen giggled from the depths of her hair. Marinette nodded as they continued their walk to school, the lawyer following.

Marinette ignored the majority of the students staring at her as she walked to class, only saying hi to Kagami who waved her down to playfully scold her for not telling.

When she got to class, Stephanie broke off and the lawyer was the only one with her as they entered the room.

“GIRL!” Alya stood up. “Why the hell didn’t you ever tell me?” she was insulted her friend had never said anything to Alya.

“Because we’re not friends anymore and I wasn’t sure if I could trust you when we first met. Guess I was right.” she shrugged at Alya who flushed red at that. Lila was staring at Marinette with wide eyes as the girl turned to her. “I heard someone was claiming I was in rehab these past two weeks, plus that my tattoos were gang signs and oh so much more.” The lawyer stepped forward then.

“You’ve been served,” she told Lila who stared at the lawsuit in horror. Marinette ignored the class’s exclamations and demands she not go through with it, instead going to sit at the back again, uncaring of their words.

Adrien was giving her a look but she ignored it, pulling her phone out to text Ali, who’d texted her asking if she wanted to go for lunch. Checking with Stephanie, she agreed.

Still ignoring the class- now with Bustier giving her disappointed looks- she rushed out of the school to where Ali was waiting at lunch. The class followed and stopped, seeing who she was with.

“Ah, Princess Marinette.” Ali bowed and Marinette bowed as well, given she was wearing jeans and not a skirt.

“Prince Ali, it is a pleasure to see you again.” They smiled at each other before both blushed, feeling awkward when they realized they’d been staring.

“You look like a queen,” Ali remarked before his face went even redder and Marinette’s cheeks flamed before she grinned.

“Well I am a princess…” Ali stuttered but then laughed, offering his arm and opening the door to all of the possibilities of the two, while the class watched.

No one really realized the fall out that would occur, with Lila’s mother fired, her lies exposed and her dealings with Hawkmoth revealed. No one knew that a new cat would stalk the night one day, calling himself Prince Noir. No one knew how their lives would change.

Especially not Marinette or Ali.

tagged:

@vixen-uchiha @persephonebutkore @magicalfirebird @starwindmaden @liawinchester67 @doriebell @animegirlweeb @unmaskedagain

#miraculous ladybug #ml au #miraculous ladby x dc #aquaman #prince ali/marinette #salt

2K notes · View notes

emachinescat · 4 years ago

Text

Knock

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 10 - “I’m sorry, I didn’t know”

Summary: It is common knowledge in Camelot that one should never, under any circumstances, enter Sir Owen’s chambers without knocking. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Prince Arthur’s new servant.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Sir Owen (OC)

Words: 4,618

TW: PTSD episode/flashback

Note: Early days for our boys. :)

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, pease consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

Everyone in Camelot knew about Sir Owen, and everyone who had met him loved him. He was an old warrior, a man of honor and valor with a keen sense for battle and a veritable treasure trove of wisdom. He was old and gray now, and limped from the festering aches of old battle wounds, but he always had a smile and time to chat with anyone he met, nobles and servants alike. After he had retired from knighthood, Uther had awarded him quarters in the castle and a life of luxury.

The kind old man received regular visitors to his spacious rooms and always gladly welcomed them. Lady Morgana brought him a vase of flowers every week, new knights would often visit for advice and encouragement, many of the maids would stop for quick chats between chores, and Gaius brought him his medicine for his old battle wounds and nightmares every evening before bed. Once or twice the king himself had been seen visiting his old friend, and he too always departed with a smile.

There was something that every one of Sir Owen’s many admirers and visitors knew, however, and honored without compromise: Never, under any circumstances, should you enter Sir Owen’s chambers without knocking.

More specifically, no one should enter his chambers without loudly and clearly announcing themselves first – a light, polite knock wouldn’t do, especially not now that he had lost all his hearing in one ear, with the other ear quickly following suit. You had to knock loudly and aggressively, and if he still didn’t hear you, then you had to proclaim yourself as loudly as possible when you eased the door open to peek in. Ultimately, the last thing anyone wanted to do was to sneak up on the beloved Sir Owen, because if he was taken off guard, if he thought he was being ambushed, he became a completely different person.

Sir Owen had fought valiantly for Camelot for many decades, and in that time he saw horrors of battle and the worst of humanity. He’d been gravely injured protecting his fellow knights on no less than three occasions, the final of which had forced him to hang up his chainmail for good. And though he was a perfectly pleasant gentleman when he was in his right mind, in those moments of fear and panic – like when he thought he was being snuck up on or ambushed – he shifted back into the fearsome warrior who had felled scores of Camelot’s enemy’s over the years. And though he was old, he was still strong for his age, and crafty, and his confusion only fueled the desperate strength within him.

Sadly, his moments of lucidity had declined rapidly in recent days, and sometimes he struggled to remember who was his enemy and who was his friend during normal, mundane conversations. He only became violent when he was scared or surprised, however, which was what made announcing one’s presence of the utmost importance when calling upon him.

Every servant in Camelot knew this, as did all the knights and nobles who paid him regular visits. Well – all of the servants except for Merlin, Prince Arthur’s new manservant, who had just been ordered by his prince to go to Sir Owens’ chambers to escort the man to the training grounds. Arthur had asked him to oversee the newest recruits on this crisp autumn morning, and to his delight, the old knight, who had been staying in more often than not, had agreed to do just that. Merlin was happy to have a job other than hefting all of Arthur’s heavy equipment to the training grounds on his own (and all in one go, because Arthur was too impatient to allow Merlin to make multiple trips and very clearly cared nothing for Merlin’s well being in the slightest).

Merlin had never met Sir Owen before but knew that he was a bit of a legend around the castle. He’d heard whispers of some of the brave deeds and epic battles the man had fought in Camelot’s first days. He also knew Morgana brought him flowers to brighten up his chambers, and that he was supposed to be a very kind man with great advice and a smile that would brighten every room. Sir Owen sounded a positive delight, and Merlin had jumped at the opportunity to fetch him for Arthur so that he could meet this amazing man for himself. He sounded like a breath of fresh air in the stuffy citadel – but then again, most anyone who wasn't the prince of Camelot could claim that title, in Merlin's book.

Although Merlin had never been good at the niceties of court when dealing with Arthur, he did make it a priority to remember to knock if he were at anyone else’s door – as Gaius had told him on many occasions, if he just barged into the wrong person’s chambers, he could be in trouble so deep that even Gaius couldn’t bail him out. And so, when he reached the old knight’s chamber door, Merlin made a point to reach out his fist and give a few hearty knocks on the door.

No answer.

Merlin waited a short time before knocking again, but again, no one answered. Pressing his ear against intricately carved wood, he thought could hear something from inside of the room – a faint shuffling, as if someone were moving around. The warlock shifted anxiously on his feet, warning bells clanging in his head. If someone was in the room, why didn’t they answer the door? At the very least, why did the person not call out? Merlin could only think of two possibilities: Either the person in the room could not answer, or was not supposed to be there. Either way, something was off, and Merlin had to check and make sure the old man he was meant to fetch was okay.

Merlin tried the door – locked – and, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, directed a pointed stare at the lock, felt the heat of magic swell within him, and heard the rewarding clunk as the door unlocked itself. Quietly, Merlin eased the door open and peered inside, looking for any sign of trouble. “Sir Owen?” His calm, quiet voice contradicted the furious beat of his heart, that instinct that warned him of danger.

No one seemed to be in the room that the wary servant could see, so Merlin inched his way further inside, taking in the elegant but sparse furnishings, the headless training dummy in old old but obviously well-cared for armor, and the weapon rack mounted on the wall that seemed to be missing its occupant. “Sir Owen?” Merlin called again, this time a little louder.

He didn’t even have time to turn when he heard the quiet rush of footsteps from behind. The next thing he knew, Merlin was facedown on the warm woolen rug that spanned much of the stone floor, the breath completely knocked out of him. Pain lanced through his upper back, sparking like lightning between his shoulder blades. Something had hit him – hard – and Merlin’s instincts warned him that whoever it was that had attacked him wasn’t done.

Only sheer force of will allowed the warlock to heave himself over on his back just in time to see Sir Owen himself, with his normally friendly, laugh-lined face twisted into a ferocious mockery of itself, gray hair come loose from its tie, and a hefty longsword, dulled with age but still deadly, brandished in his right hand. Merlin noticed that the sword, and the hand that held it, shook slightly moments before the old man – still in incredible shape for his age, as Merlin’s screaming back proved clearly! – lunged again, this time with the point of the blade and not the flat.

Merlin rolled to the side, lungs still heaving for air after being winded by Owen’s first hit, and the point of the sword cut a frayed line in the rug right where Merlin’s head had been. Struggling to his feet, the disoriented servant tried to appeal to the knight’s sensibilities; he gasped, “Sir Owen! I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Another swing of the sword, and Merlin ducked out of the way in the nick of time. “I did knock!” he insisted.

Sir Owen’s eyes, Merlin noticed, were clouded, and when the man spoke, it became obvious that he was seeing a completely different scene than what was actually going on around him. Somehow, it seemed, he thought he was back on the battlefield, fighting a deadly opponent, instead of cornering a frightened servant who had done nothing to harm him. “I won’t let you do it!” the man roared, and his voice cracked under the pressure of the rage and sorrow. “You killed my men – you take no one else!”

He advanced again, this time slowly, methodically, and Merlin backed away at the same pace, all too aware of the corner he was trapping himself in but afraid to bolt and frighten his confused aggressor into doing something he’d later regret. Raising his hands, Merlin spoke like he was addressing a small animal or a frightened child, “Sir Owen, my name is Merlin. I’m Prince Arthur’s servant. He sent me here to fetch you for the –”

He was cut off as Owen slashed forward with the sword unexpectedly, and this time Merlin wasn’t quite fast enough. Even the dulled edge was enough to slice through Merlin’s shirt and into his upper arm, and fire erupted in the wound. Blood, warm and sticky, oozed from the cut and meandered down his arm. He ignored it, more focused on staying alive.

“Liar! Traitor! Murderer!”

Merlin didn’t want to use magic on Sir Owen – from what he’d heard, the man was a genuinely good person, though something seemed very wrong with him now. On top of that, if he realized that his opponent had used magic after the fact, Merlin would be killed anyway. But the idea of being run through with a dull sword was so unpleasant that Merlin decided to take the risk. He turned to run from the next attack, allowed his eyes to flash gold, and heard his pursuer curse as his weapon somehow tumbled from his hands and skittered across the room. Hopefully, if he remembered this at all, he would put it down to losing his grip.

Now that the sword was out of the picture, Merlin felt a bit safer, but he couldn’t decide if he should try to help Sir Owen himself or run to get someone else instead. His choice was taken away from him, though, because he hesitated a second too long – in the time that Merlin had been debating his next course of action, the keen knight had made up his mind and charged bravely into battle. Sir Owen was the kind of warrior who would continue to fight with his bare hands against an entire heavily armed battalion until the very end. He never gave up, never let a little thing like losing a sword stop him.

And so he charged.

To Merlin, it was like Arthur’s prized steed had barreled straight into him, such was the force with which Sir Owen slammed against him. For the second time in ten minutes, the wind was driven out of him from the force of the blow, and he sprawled, stunned, on the chamber floor, his head rapping painfully against the stone.

Bright lights flickered in his field of vision and he tried desperately to get his body to move, but his arms and legs weren’t listening. He watched as the old knight, fury in his dark eyes, approached him, having abandoned the sword all together now that his enemy lay helpless at his feet. Merlin should have been glad that he wasn’t using the sword, but he had a very unpleasant feeling that Owen did not need a weapon to kill.

Seconds later, his unprotected side exploded in agony as Sir Owen drove his boot forward in a merciless kick. Afraid to use his magic again, forgetting everything but his basest instincts to survive, Merlin curled in on himself, nearly crying out at the pain the movement caused him. Another kick, this one to his back, and Merlin rolled away the best he could, panting in pain. Halfway to his feet, on hands and knees, almost there –

Another kick, this one to his gut, and he gagged, falling forward, face-first onto the floor. Blood welled up in his mouth – he must have bitten his tongue.

Merlin scrabbled for purchase on the cold stone, trying to regain his bearings even as every part of his body rebelled against him. He felt the man’s toe beneath his torso and sucked in a painful breath, but this time, all Owen did was flip him over. Merlin lay on his back, breath wheezing from his chest, and he was sure he had a broken rib, maybe more. Slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world at his disposal, the old man knelt next to his fallen foe and leaned in close. Merlin could smell breakfast on his breath – the stink of aged cheese mingled with the sweetness of fruit – as he man hissed, “You’ll die for this – sorcerer!”

Fear crescendoed, overshadowing the symphony of pain, as Merlin realized that somehow, Sir Owen had figured out what he had done, what he was. Helplessness took hold of the warlock. It didn’t matter if he survived this encounter – which was looking less likely by the second, unless he used his magic again – his life in Camelot was over. Might as well use his magic to escape. The giant lizard was wrong, then. It couldn't be his destiny to serve Arthur and bring magic and peace to Albion. He would be on the run for the rest of his life.

Merlin focused on his magic through the pain and felt it rise within him. It slipped out of his grasp as something latched onto his hair and dragged his head up. Merlin got a single look up close at Sir Owen’s eyes, filled with the kind of suffering no sword could inflict, brimming with regrets and hatred and death, before the man slammed the back of Merlin’s head into the ground. A flash of white light – intense pain, swirling darkness.

Merlin may have blacked out for a few seconds, but it couldn’t have been long, because when he regained a semblance of awareness – he couldn’t move, so much pain, vision blurred, he was going to be sick – Sir Owen had retrieved his sword and had it poised over his helpless victim’s heart. “Rot in hell, sorcerer,” he spat, and Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, partly against the pain, mostly in preparation for death.

A voice sounded from somewhere close by, first annoyed, then panicked: “What the hell is taking so long Merlin? I– what – NO!”

The fear in the last word, unexpected and guttural as it was, was enough to convince Merlin to open his eyes. Through the haze his vision had become, he saw a red and gold blur tackle Sir Owen, heard through ringing ears the sound of a brief struggle and the angry accusation “Sorcerer!” and then there was someone kneeling over him again, and Merlin struggled to sit up, to get away. He managed to turn over just in time to vomit all over Prince Arthur’s clean boots.

To his surprise, the prince didn’t yell or order him to scrub them again, right then and there. Instead, with surprisingly gentle hands, the man eased his servant back onto the ground and began checking him for injuries.

“You idiot,” Arthur said as he probed the back of Merlin’s head, eliciting a cry of pain and frowning at the blood staining his fingertips. He moved on to check Merlin’s ribs (“Three broken, at the very least, but we’ll have Gaius look at you.”) and arm. “It’s fairly shallow,” he said, and Merlin thought he must have been giddy with pain and exertion at this point, because it sounded like the prince was actually relieved. Arthur stood, stepped out of his boots with a grimace, and ordered, “Stay there. I mean it – don’t move. I’ve subdued Sir Owen for the moment, but he needs Gaius.” A deep crevice between his brows, the prince added, “And so do you. You’re a mess.”

Merlin didn’t hear if Arthur said anything else after that. He didn’t even see the prince leave the room. The darkness had claimed him by then, wrapping its welcoming arms of comfort around him and staving off, if only for a little while, the pain and the fear of what was to come.

***

When he awoke, it was in his own bed, in his room, and he was alone. Merlin’s head hurt more than he could ever remember it doing before – even more than the time he and Will had climbed on top of his roof and he’d fallen through the thatch. He’d smacked his head on the kitchen table when he’d landed on it, but the pain he’d been in had been nothing compared to his mother’s wrath. Now, though, it was not an ache or even bursts of sharp pains – it was like a drum, and every beat increased the agony he felt. It was the kind of headache that turned your stomach against you, too, and made the world around you lose its crisp edges and stole your ability to concentrate on even the most simple of tasks. His arm, now bandaged, stung fiercely, and the gnawing ache in his ribs turned into a cacophonous mass of torment any time he thought of moving.

So he didn’t move. He lay there, head pounding, body hurting like he had been run over by a horse, and allowed his mind to wander, though with the headache he had, he really did not have much control over the direction of his thoughts, anyway. In the end, every wandering pathway of his consciousness, every thought and question and memory, all led back to the terrifying realization that Sir Owen had seen his magic – somehow – and had probably already told Arthur and the king. Any moment now, guards would barge into his room and throw him into a cold, dark cell. Or maybe they’d skip the cell all together and toss him on a pyre. They wouldn’t even have to tie him to it. He was too weak to move.

The door opened, and Merlin jumped in a mixture of surprise and terror. Even the small movement caused all of his injuries to flare up and he slumped back, face beaded with sweat, panting in exhaustion and pain, waiting for the inevitable and wondering if he should try to fight back with magic since his secret was already out anyway.

It was good that he didn’t, because it was Arthur who entered, and he was alone, and there was a strange look on his face – if Merlin didn’t know better, he would have said it was somewhere between worried and guilty, with a healthy dose of discomfort sprinkled in for good measure. “Merlin,” the prince said in surprise, and it occurred to Merlin that he hadn’t expected his servant to be awake yet. Arthur stayed in the doorway, uncertainty rolling off of him in waves. “I – Gaius stepped out for a moment, to check up on Sir Owen. He’s been in quite a state, really disoriented and worried that he hurt you badly.”

Merlin frowned, and even that hurt. “Gaius?”

Arthur stared at Merlin like he’d grown another head. “No, you moron. Sir Owen. He feels terrible about what happened.”

Perhaps it was the head injury, but Merlin found himself thoroughly confused. “So… you’re not here to arrest me?” He could hear the slur in his own words and realized that he probably looked as bad as – if not worse than – he sounded. Arthur appeared to be as baffled as Merlin. He finally moved beyond the arch of the door and into the room, awkwardly taking a seat in Merlin’s chair, near the bed.

“Why would I be here to arrest you?” His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What did you do this time?”

“Uh, Sir Owen, he said…” Merlin’s thoughts were as fuzzy as his sight, and he felt that distinctive curdling in his stomach that told him he was going to be decorating Arthur’s shoes again very shortly. Arthur must have seen that tell-tale paling of the face and whitening of the knuckles, because moments later, a bucket had been shoved under his nose and he threw up into it, vaguely surprised that there was anything left to expel. Arthur had produced a cup of water from somewhere, and when Merlin finished, the prince helped him take a sip. The water was bliss, cooling his raw throat and chasing away the sour taste in his mouth.

Nausea under control for the moment, Merlin cleared his throat uncomfortably, not meeting Arthur’s eye after the strangely intimate moment (if he had been looking, he would have seen Arthur studiously avoiding his gaze as well). Merlin picked up where he’d left off, his voice cracked and timid. “Sir Owen called me a sorcerer.” Arthur did look at him now, Merlin felt his eyes, but the warlock didn’t reciprocate. Instead, in a rush, he said, “If he told you that, you have to understand–”

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice held no malice, only concern and a heaviness that the servant did not understand. “You don’t have to explain to me that you’re not a sorcerer. Yes, Sir Owen said something about it when I was pulling him off of you, but I know he was confused.”

Cautiously, Merlin pressed, “How do you know?”

Arthur laughed, a harsh, clipped sound. “Are you saying that you are a sorcerer?”

Merlin’s stomach flipped over on itself. “No,” he lied, not sure why he had even mentioned Sir Owen’s accusation in the first place. He was making himself look more suspicious; it was just hard to control what came out of his mouth – harder than usual, anyway. “I just want to know why you believe me over a respected former knight.” There. That was reasonable, right? Merlin’s head ached, and he just wanted to go back to sleep, but he had to know, had to have some kind of concrete assurance before he could rest.

Arthur sighed. That same weight tugged at the next words he said: “Sir Owen… he was a great knight, and incredibly brave and strong – still is, for that matter–”

“You can say that again,” Merlin muttered, wincing.

Arthur glared at him, daring him to interrupt again, and continued, “But he has seen some horrible things on the field of battle. And if he thinks he’s being attacked, he lashes out. Gaius says that he somehow finds himself back in the middle of a war, fighting off his worst enemies and watching his men die around him. It’s like he’s reliving the worst days of his life. And that’s why he attacked you – he thought you were trying to ambush and kill him.”

“But that doesn’t explain–”

“I’m getting there, Merlin. For someone who looks half-dead, you sure can run your mouth like usual.” Merlin grinned, despite himself. “Oh, don’t look so proud,” Arthur ordered irritably. “It’s incredibly irritating.” But his own mouth had stretched into a half–smile as well.

“Anyway – the last battle, the one that ended his career… A sorcerer who was fighting against Camelot nearly crippled him. He lay there, helpless, and had to watch as the sorcerer killed at least a dozen of his men. One of them was his only son.”

A grim silence settled over master and servant, and a sick pit had formed in Merlin’s stomach. It was the kind of hollowness that could only exist in misery and pain, and he found himself wishing for the nausea to return.

“He thought I was that sorcerer,” Merlin clarified, heart aching for the man that had nearly killed him. “I didn’t know”

“How could you?” Arthur asked. Then he added, his voice taking on more of the guilt that Merlin had thought he’d heard earlier, “And I – well, it’s my fault,” he hedged lamely. “That you got hurt. Because I didn’t even think to warn you to knock before you entered the room. I was so focused on getting to the training field that it didn’t cross my mind that you didn’t know about Sir Owen’s flashbacks, as Gaius calls them.”

Merlin’s eyelids were heavy, and everything hurt, and he could feel sleep calling to him, but he insisted stubbornly, “I did knock.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Wonders never cease. But,” he clarified, “if he doesn’t hear you knocking and doesn’t know you’re coming, then it doesn’t even matter if you did knock. I should have told you to announce yourself, or had someone go with you that knew what to do.”

Somewhere in the other room, a door opened and closed.

“That’ll be Gaius,” said Arthur, standing up. He looked down at his battered servant, hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then said, “Sir Owen sends his apologies, and he hopes to meet you under better circumstances once you’re both feeling up to it.” In a rush, he added, “And, for what it’s worth, I – I’m sorry too.”

Merlin blinked in surprise, knowing how hard it had to have been for Arthur to admit he had made a mistake, let alone apologize for it. And even though the servant truly didn’t think the prince had anything to apologize for (after all, Merlin forgot important things all the time), it was touching, and he could tell that despite his discomfort that Arthur really meant it and needed to know that all was well.

Arthur leaned over, gave Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze – even that sent bolts of agony through Merlin’s body, but the gesture was appreciated, even cherished. “You did… surprisingly well in holding him off until I found you,” he admitted as Gaius’s footsteps were heard ascending the short set of stairs behind him.

“He beat me to a pulp and nearly sliced me in half,” Merlin deadpanned.

“Yes, but you’re still alive, and that in itself is almost impressive,” Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't tell if the prince was serious or not. “Anyway,” he said, backing away and making room for Gaius, who was puttering into the small room balancing a tray of medicines and broth. “I need to get to training. Gaius, make sure he’s back to work the moment he’s well enough, but… also, not a moment before he’s ready.”

Gaius nodded, patted Arthur on the shoulder in thanks, and began to treat his patient. Merlin watched Arthur leave, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest that had nothing to do with the broken ribs. He barely even heard Gaius’s lecture about propriety and taking care of himself and knowing all the facts before he walked in on a situation. His wandering, aching mind was too busy thinking about the prince.

When he’d first come to Camelot, Arthur never would have apologized for anything. Already, amazingly, Merlin was beginning to see a change in the other man, a spark of something that made Merlin the tiniest bit proud to know him. And it may have been the head injury talking, but right now, despite the irritation he so commonly felt toward his new master, the idea of this destiny the dragon had prophesied suddenly didn’t seem too terrible after all.

Maybe Arthur wasn’t so bad, either.

24 notes · View notes

unholyplumpprincess · 4 years ago

Text

Self Care

Commission for @ago-fucks of miragehound/reader with reader getting pampered after working such long nights and being exhausted. They’re spoiled with lots of domestic fluff in the beginning and then lots of orgasms.

Reblogs > Likes. It cost zero dollars to reblog the fics you like :D

Relationship: Mirage/Bloodhound/Reader

Fandom: Apex Legends

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Reader has a vulva, Mirage is trans and words to describe are cunt/clit/pussy, Bloodhound has a penis and words described are dick/cock, Ago’s headcanons and not mine so Bloodhound is written different!, Fluff, sex ofc, but otherwise nothin rough?, collars, mentions of safe words/signals but only cause it’s heALTHY

Words: 5k

___________________

When you were in a relationship with two of the infamous Apex games legends, you learned really quickly that every day would be a new surprise. At least, in the beginning. Now comfortably having been together for a few years, you find yourself immersed in both of them in a familiarity that brings warmth to your chest.

Though their jobs may have been going into a mini battlefield and shooting each other up on a daily basis for the seasons, that didn’t stop you from working at your own job. Art was a difficult field to pursue. From the schooling to the finding a job part. You loved your job, able to chase your passion! Yet, you were still very worked to the bone and found yourself aching from hunching over your desk to work through these character concepts for an upcoming cartoon. Your legs ached with the need to move from their constant folded position and all in all you were just tired.

Thankfully, your partners were ever so careful with you when they were home for the season ends. Bloodhound was always first to lie you out for a massage, kissing over your jaw and neck or down the line of your spine with utter gentleness. Elliott was a good listener, letting you rest your head in his lap while he stroked your hair and you either whined or excitedly showed him the new concepts via your phone. Both were entirely supportive, but also concerned for your wellbeing.

~Rest under the cut~

So, you’d come home today. Tired and murmuring in a quieter voice as you rubbed at your eyes, nursing a migraine. Elliott had suggested a quiet movie, already knowing you’d fall asleep during it even if you tried to whine otherwise. And lo and behold, not thirty minutes into it, you’d fallen asleep on the couch. Head on Elliott’s thigh while he stroked through your hair, and legs thrown over Bloodhound’s lap who was lovingly stroking down your thigh to your knee, then back.

“They need a day of spoiling.” Elliott murmurs, low enough not to wake you but loud enough for Bloodhound to hum in agreement. Elliott traces around your ear, tucking your hair and smiling when you sigh and nose at his thigh in return. “When’s their next day off?”

“Mmh. Tomorrow, I believe.” Bloodhound murmurs in return, stroking up to your hip to gently fix your shirt back into place that had ridden up. Stroking back down your thigh and smiling softly as you squirm a bit. “Let us get them into bed and we can discuss something. I am sure they would like your cooking. If you are up for it.” With that said, they carefully move your legs off their lap, watching you snuggle closer to Elliott. Carefully, they scoop under your body. Powerful arms able to cradle you as they go to tuck you into bed.

When you wake in the morning, your senses are first assaulted by the scent of pancakes cooking downstairs. You grumble a bit, feeling warm arms holding you in bed and a solid body pressed against you. A small turn of your head into their neck proves to be a mini space heater and the scent of pine and cinnamon. You smile, nosing into Bloodhound’s neck and feeling a scar residing there. “Good morning.” You murmur tiredly.

You hear them hum softly, already awake and aware as their fingers trace up under your shirt on your back. Smoothing their warm, calloused hands up your spine then back down. “Breakfast is not ready yet. You still had a few moments of rest,” They start, moving a hand from your back to gently cup your cheek, drawing you from your warm spot so you may make eye contact. Brown eyes so deep they could be black peer back at you, forming half little moons as they narrow in amusement at your sleepy appearance. “Torskildir- you are lovely, my dear.”

You laugh at them instead, sitting up on your shoulder so you could kiss one of their scarred, soft cheeks. “And you, are incredibly sappy in the mornings.” Their smile only deepens at you, dimples forming on their cheeks and wrinkles at the corners of their eyes. Beautiful, you think.

When you two finally do crawl out of bed, with Bloodhound insisting that you dress comfy for today and that they both had plans for you, you obey and only change into lounging clothing. They stay without a mask as you two head downstairs, only to be met by Elliott who has a bit of batter smeared on his cheek but beautiful wild berry and wild violet pancakes made. Freshly picked by Bloodhound this morning. You near about tear up at both your partners’ sweetness, sharing a good morning kiss with Elliott and remarking that he must have tasted the ingredients before fixing them together. Which earns you a cheeky grin and a finger over his lips that Bloodhound rolls their eyes at.

Throughout the day they spoil you in little ways. You all three end up sitting down for a marathon of your favorite movies, complete with blankets and you napping partial ways through them. Attention of your hair being petted and your legs causing you to go into a tired little stupor every now and then. You occasionally peek open your eyes to keep watching, or to turn your head and receive much needed kisses from Elliott, his stubble tickling your face.

When lunch time comes around, you’re not too hungry from a big breakfast so Bloodhound settles on making a little something with fresh herbs and berries. Fresh mint and different flora add an aesthetic touch to the fruit salads that make them even tastier.

You’re spoiled even then, taking berries from Elliott’s fingers and playfully sucking on his thumb’s fingertip when he lingers too long. Relishing as his face turns three shades darker and he averts his gaze with a soft, nervous laugh as he draws his hand from you. Bloodhound, who had been watching from close by, snuggled deep in their parka for the cooler weather, had merely smirked ever so knowingly at you.

They meet Elliott’s eyes who offers a charming half smile as they have a silent conversation together briefly.

Once it reaches dinner time, you’re kicked out of the kitchen much to your whining. Muninn and Arthur are even kicked from the kitchen, but you’re sure it’s just to keep you out of it. Arthur is much more snuggly, bringing you trinkets he finds around the house with little hops and crooning at you if you pick them up and thank him. Muninn lingers near your head, much more interested in preening your hair and watching the movie on the screen that’s playing in black and white with soft jazz coming from it.

Occasionally you get up, hearing the birds hopping after you as an alert to Bloodhound who easily comes sliding out of the kitchen to guide you back to the couch with harmless scolding. Their parka has been long since discarded for the warmer kitchen, now in dark tactical pants that fit them just right and a tight black tunic. You want to run your hands over their scarred, dark haired arms, and you try to but they gently shoo you away with a soft kiss to your nose. “Later, beloved. Be patient.” Is all the promise they give you before heading back to the kitchen.

You curse that their little cottage isn’t an open concept so you could watch them. Left to hear them idly talking with the music playing from Elliott’s speakers. Occasionally you hear giggling and some soft sounds that sound suspiciously like kissing and you can't help but smile every time at the happy noises.

You were so lucky.

When you’re finally allowed into the kitchen, you’re guided to the dining table made by hand from Bloodhound. The whole kitchen is carved by hand as well, now looking like a proper home with little nick nacks from their ravens, Elliott, and yourself on the shelving. Some dishes need to be washed, but otherwise everything is rather picked up already.

You’re already excited to dive in. Elliott happily introducing his glazed porkchops that you like so much and hand mashed potatoes. Once again, another item grown in Bloodhound’s beautiful garden outside, but the meat was from a local butcher. Herbs for seasonings collected from their indoor garden sitting on the nearby windowsill.

Bloodhound, since berries were in season and plentiful, had made a blueberry pie. The cut work was beautifully done lain on top for the crust to be little cut outs of hearts. Elliott proudly exclaims that he helped, only for Bloodhound to make a pointed gesture to the little heart cookie cutter and Elliott having to defend himself. It WAS still helping, he’d whined!

Your laughter makes them both stop to stare at you with absolute adoration in their eyes that you see when you peek open your eyes and flush to your ears at the attention.

Dinner goes nicely. Elliott is a little magician as always, getting up at some point and showing off a magic trick involving making a decoy with himself to pull another decoy out of seemingly nowhere. Fit with both you and Bloodhound clapping for him and watching him bow at the waist all dramatically.

Bloodhound tells stories from their trips for the past week and why your freezer was stocked with a foreign meat. Not to mention their delight in foraging the fresh berries going around. They talk happily of their own garden as well, thanking Elliott for helping them set it up and get dirty today by collecting potatoes for dinner.

The clean up afterwards you’re not even allowed to help. You try collecting dishes like you would on a regular day and you’re shooed away. You at least put up a fit, a little pout and say you’ll just watch. Bloodhound tries to argue, but Elliott gently bumps them with his hip playfully. “Aw, come on, babe. You ain’t gotta deny them EVERYTHING. If they want to watch the show of ‘house spouse extraordinaire’ playing LIVE in person right now, who are we to stop them?” He then laughs a bit at his own joke before flexing his arms upwards, making his shirt rise to show his midriff and the dark patch of hair going up to his navel. You can’t help but shamelessly stare. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to watch THIS play house husband of the year?”

Even Bloodhound is staring at the little bit of flesh exposed. Elliott left standing like that until he finally figures out why no one is laughing or saying anything back when he catches both of your hungry stares. He scoffs out a choked laugh, cheeks warming and holding a hand flat up to the both of you in a gesture as if you two were hungry lions that he needed to ward off. “Alright you predators, you can look later.”

And you would. In depth. Pay close attention, you decide, thinking about looking at way more later. Not that you had any idea they already had plans for you later in the bedroom.

It’s Elliott who winds up leading you to the bedroom as Bloodhound finishes up the rest of the dishes. He guides you softly to bed, the sheets and furs on it tossed this way and that. Thankfully you three had a huge bed that spanned a whole wall of the room, courtesy of Bloodhound’s ability to build who said it was a tragedy that beds did not come big enough for a pack like yours.

Softly, Elliott cups your cheek and thumbs over the soft flesh there as he sits next to you. You smile softly, leaning into his palm and already knowing what he wants. He was always much softer about his wants, almost anxious. “Are you up for fooling around tonight?” He murmurs with such softness, his thumb sliding over your bottom lip where you pucker to press a soft kiss to his thumb pad. You hum in agreement back to him, but he just laughs softly. “Need to hear you say it, baby.”

Your lips quirk up at his soft tone, peeking open your eyes half lidded to peer at him. Catching Bloodhound slipping into the room behind him to come approaching softly. “I’d like to, yes.” You offer full consent, watching when Bloodhound’s lips pull into a charming crooked smile, but their eyes scream primal.

“We want to pamper you.” Elliott continues softly, drawing your attention back to him. You can’t see Bloodhound, but you feel them slip behind your body to set hands on your waist, lips pressing warmly to the nape of your neck. Elliott keeps your attention on him, leaning in until you’re near nose to nose and your breath hitches at the closeness. Your own eyes flicking down to his lips and flicking your tongue out to wet your own. “You deserve it. You’ve been working too hard. You won’t have to lift a finger, baby.” His voice is so gentle, lower and almost a hum as he speaks.

Then his lips pull into a charming grin, eyes narrowing as he nuzzles his nose to yours. “Well. Maybe one finger, just a sec,” He moves as he speaks, pulling from you and making you whine. But, Bloodhound takes this moment to pull you back a bit into their lap, sinking their teeth gently into the crook of your neck from behind. It makes you whine faintly, reaching back to fist their coarse, dark auburn hair. They proceed, open mouthed kisses over the exposed flesh they can have at.

Elliott soon returns after a moment or two out of your sight. He has four different collars in his hands, you can hardly focus on him offering them to you when teeth nip at your ear. “T-the- the blue one.” You manage to get out, reaching out to take the light blue collar, the silver heart buckle making your heart flutter.

Thankfully Bloodhound separates from you long enough for Elliott to put it around your neck with utmost gentleness. Buckling it into place and tucking two fingers underneath to make sure you had enough room. You kiss at his retreating hand, eyes sparkling playfully up at him as he smiles back at you. “Alright, sweetheart. Safe words remembered? I don’t think we have anything too hard planned for you,” He pauses briefly to glance at Bloodhound, who must have shaken their head since Elliott nods back in reply as if reaffirming his words. “But, just in case it gets too much?”

“Red for absolutely stop, yellow for a break, green for keep going.” You reply, forming your hand signals for each. You snap twice on red, make a flat palm upwards for yellow, and thumbs up for green. Simple signals for you all to remember. Bloodhound hums behind you appraisingly, licking over where they’d bitten you before just above your collar and effectively distracting you.

Gently your shirt is tugged on from behind, pulling it up and over your head as Elliott leans in to you to press his soft lips to yours. You moan into the kiss softly as he cups your cheek, your pants’ waistband being toyed with by rough hands behind you. Bloodhound’s skilled hands tuck under the waistband to grope at your sex, palming at it and feeling how slick you already are on their fingertips through your underwear. They growl in your ear approvingly, sending a shock down to your core at the same time Elliott bites your bottom lip to draw a sound from you.

You’re soon being moved again, off Bloodhound’s lap to the middle of the bed where they urge you to undress. Elliott crawls up after you to rest by your head, having taken off his shirt to just be left in his sweatpants. Your eyes flicker up to him, catching the sharp-edged scars under his pecs and feel yourself longing to lick and suck at his nipples. You work the rest of your clothing off, shakily exhaling as you lie still and keep your thighs pressed together almost shyly.

“Always so beautiful, precious one.” Bloodhound murmurs, eyeing you up hungrily as their bare hands stroke softly over your thighs. They’re in their tunic from earlier and tactical pants, dressed down in their opinion. Their nails scrape over your outer thighs, down to tuck under your knees and gently spreading your legs. You allow it, going willingly as your legs part and they fit between your knees. They inhale deeply where they sit on their knees, eyes fluttering as their breath comes back out just as shaky. “As delicious as you are stunning, ástin mín.”

Your face flushes pink as they move to lie on their abdomen, warm hands gently holding open your thighs as they nuzzle between your legs. Your cunt flexes around nothing, even before they part you open and lick their way from hole to clit. You shudder, one hand coming up that is taken immediately by Elliott, the other coming down to fist Bloodhound’s hair as they press open mouthed, hot, sloppy kisses over your clit. Gently suckling and pulling on it as your toes curl into the sheets.

“Yeah, keep making that sound.” Elliott encourages when you let out a soft whine. His free hand not holding yours gently strokes over your cheek, pushing back your head when your head twists to bury yourself against his knee. He admires the way your lips part, idly wondering if you’d put your mouth to use too- but, no, this night was all about you.

He can’t help but let his eyes trail down your frame to Bloodhound, whose eyes are half lidded to peer up at your facial expressions. Their tongue flicks over your clit before they open their mouth obviously to drool over your clit, hot breath fanning over you. Elliott’s lips quirk in a small grin when you whine and squeeze his hand harder, undoubtedly fisting Bloodhound’s hair harder in turn. It only earns you a soft chuckle from Bloodhound who relents and drags their tongue over your u-spot to tease before sealing their lips back over your clit.

Elliott’s hand in your hair strokes back your hair from your forehead when your head twists the other way. Letting go of his hand so you can reach down and grab Bloodhound’s hair in both your hands to try and urge them. Your hips thrust upwards, desperately humping against their mouth as you begin to lose it. You can feel yourself drooling slick, eagerly licked up by the oh so talented tongue treating you.

It’s too good. With Elliott’s gentle praising above you and stroking of your hair, the way Bloodhound’s lips mouth and suck on your clit and pressing relentlessly against you, you can’t take it. You squirm and buck upwards, only to find Bloodhound pulling backwards.

Your eyes snap open, a confused whine from your lips. “I thought I was being pampered!” You cry out, your voice strained and breath panting. Bloodhound laughs at you, they can’t help it, nuzzling at your mound and breathing hot air onto you. You obviously pout, still throbbing and body alight, but they shush you softly.

“C’mon, Hound, don’t tease.” Elliott offers, coming to your rescue. You smile up at him in thanks, relishing in the annoyed huff you hear between your thighs. Bloodhound was always such a tease, but at least they get back to work. Nuzzling you open and fixing their tongue back against you. They’re slower than before, less focused on pleasuring you fully and just circling your clit with the point of their tongue. Motherfucker-

Right when you’re about to grab at their hair harder, they introduce a finger stroking over your hole. When you don’t say anything besides ‘please’ repetitively under your breath, they press it inside. Quickly followed by a second when you prove to be wet enough to take it.

With their fingers now scissoring and tongue focused back on you, it takes you maybe a total of thirty seconds before you’re cumming with a cry. Elliott is quick on you, leaning down to kiss you and swallow your soft cries. Licking into your mouth when you can’t seem to focus and taking advantage of your noises. Two of his fingers slip under your collar, gently tugging upwards and Bloodhound at the same time feels you clench and gush around their fingers more.

Absolutely beautiful.

Bloodhound is careful about moving their face from your legs. Only pausing to come back and press open mouthed, sloppy kisses over your clit or gently licking over you. Their fingers never stop, lazily petting upwards inside of you as their own hips grind against the bed to ease their cock. Elliott isn’t doing too better, parting softly from your kiss to gently suck on your jawline to leave a bruise. Moaning into your skin at your very taste and how wet he is himself.

You’re so unfocused from the dual ends of attention. Hips pressing up briefly every time Bloodhound teases you again and tilting your head to the side to allow Elliott more access.

It takes a few moments to regain yourself, but you turn your head just in time to peck at Elliott’s cheek, murmuring softly. “Want you to sit on my face. Please?” It makes him laugh softly, sitting back on his knees to look down at your pleading eyes, face all flushed.

“You know we’re supposed to be spoiling you, right?” He teases, bopping your nose with his index finger in the way that makes you crinkle your nose. You pout harder, more dramatic and he rolls his eyes, relenting as he wiggles out of his pants and boxers without much of a show. But, you and Bloodhound still stare at the flesh exposed.

Elliott has trimmed body hair, always kept tidy unlike Bloodhound’s fluffy mess you enjoy so much. When his boxers are removed, you can see his own sex glistening and wet, hair darker at the slit of his cunt. His clit is enlarged from T, peeking a good amount from his lower lips and looking red from his arousal. You lick your lips eagerly, spreading your legs open and peeking down at Bloodhound who is already working their pants down to mid-thigh.

Bloodhound’s cock is the thickest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. As thick as your wrist, you think. They’re only about five inches long, but the thickness certainly made them a tight fit. Their hair on their body is never trimmed, kept fluffy and wild much like they are. It’s flushed at the head, their hand giving an obligatory stroke so their foreskin pulls back and reveals the shiny, juicy head that makes you drool.

Elliott and you stare shamelessly, watching as their eyes come up and Bloodhound’s cheeks warm to a rosy red. “Elliott-” Their voice warns, and he whines faintly but goes back to paying you attention instead. You only smile cheekily at Bloodhound until they threaten you with a lick over their sharp teeth and a quirked brow until you relent and spread your legs eagerly for them.

You all settle carefully into place, with you eagerly urging Elliott to straddle your face. One strong thigh on either side of your head and his hands flat against the headboard to grip it, peering down at you as you settle your arms over his thighs. You guide him to let you take more of his weight on, nosing at his large clit so you can lick at his drooling hole to tease him.

You’re quickly taken from your small power trip when you feel rough hands sliding over your thighs to draw them over Bloodhound’s waist. Your breath hitches, quickening as you pant softly over Elliott’s sex. He seems into it at least, petting your hair and cooing softly for you to take your time. But you interrupt with a soft squeak of, “Bloodhound-” As a warning, feeling the head of their cock slide from your clit down to your hole and back.

“Elliott-” They reply back in a soft tone, and you can already feel the face they’re making at the back of his head. Watching Elliott’s eyes focus back into reality as he makes an ‘oh’ with his mouth as if remembering.

“Hey, shh, okay look at me. You’ve taken them plenty of times, it’s not like they’ve grown an inch in the past...week? Week and a half?” Elliott reassures, stroking your hair back as you turn your head to kiss at his thigh. Your body is tensed, but slowly begins to relax the more Bloodhound strokes over you. Collecting more lubrication despite how strained their breath sounds. “Houndie, be slow.” He reminds.

“I always am.” They reassure in reply, soft as they pinch your thigh and make you jump briefly with a huff and a look only Elliott can see. They wait, patient as ever until you whine out ‘green’ with desperation. That’s when you feel their thickness pressing into you, ever so gentle and slow as they stroke over your hips and thighs. Strength held back as they grab onto you softly to work into you, one hand cupping your mound to thumb over your clit and making you squirm.

It’s not that they’re long, it’s just that they’re so fucking thick. Bloodhound’s dick was the fattest one you’d ever seen in your life, always a tight fit even with stretching. Your mouth busies itself, guided back to Elliott’s cunt with a help from his hand and a soft coo from him to get to work. Your mouth goes to his clit this time, suckling and licking over the thick flesh as your nose buries against his mound.

When Bloodhound is fully sheathed inside of you, you can hardly hear the way they growl over Elliott’s thighs acting as terrific ear warmers. That, and the fact Elliott can’t stop talking. Little encouragements spilling from his lips; “Yeah, like the way I taste, baby?” “Fuck you’re so pretty down there.” “Come on, make some noise.” He’s always been the more talkative partner. Unless Bloodhound was in the mood for control.

Your thighs are gripped hard as Bloodhound gently begins to thrust. You can feel the wetness slicking down your ass at this point, your own nails digging into Elliott’s thighs as you whine against him with pleasure. Licking feverishly at his heat as if he was the only thing keeping you sane right now. You’re more eager to give head, unlike Bloodhound who liked to tease. You work him up, peeking your eyes open half way to peer through your lashes just to watch his pretty face contort in pleasure. He bites his bottom lip, head throwing back when you suck particularly hard on his clit just as Bloodhound begins to pick up the pace.

Your thighs flex with pleasure, your noises muffled but still enjoyed next to Elliott. Though, you really make a noise when you feel their hips sharply thrust against you, slamming into your g-spot. Their thumb pressing to your clit and rubbing at it in time with their newly picked up pace, matching their soft snarls and huffing.

You hold desperate to Elliott’s thighs, lips parting and tongue lolling out as he takes your hair tight and begins to hump his hips desperately against your face. He fucks himself onto your tongue, using you like a toy as you’re fucked harder. You can only whine and huff your pleasures, not willing to close your mouth, not when Elliott’s eyebrows are knitted and he’s murmuring such pretty things.

Elliott cums first with a sob and his body locking up. One of your hands finally reaches up when he does cum, cupping his pec and thumbing over his perked nipple just to feel his clit jerk against your mouth as you suck hard on it. He locks up, squirting on your chin before you’re able to part your lips back open and lick eagerly at his hole to swallow whatever he gives you.

He has to move off you when you begin to go a bit cross eyed from holding his weight. Flopping next to you and curling against your side to nuzzle at your neck briefly. Murmuring about a shower that you acknowledge with a hum of agreement. There’s a mild pause of Bloodhound’s hips, just a beat when Elliott rolls out of bed and heads for the bathroom.

“My love-” Bloodhound’s voice is a low growl and your attention is immediately on them instead of Elliott’s fantastic ass. You quickly reach out for them, letting their weight cover you as they lean down, wrapping their arms around you to hold you close. You follow suit, legs wrapping around their waist, just tight enough to be comfortable but loose enough to let them move.

“Close,” You murmur back in a desperate tone near their ear. Nuzzling just underneath it as you flex your inner walls around them just to hear them snarl. They’re losing control, nails sinking into you as they get closer. Their hips begin to move again, humping into you like an animal trying to breed. “Cum inside of me, ba- ah- baby, please-” You whine out for them. Perhaps a low move, considering you knew it was such a big kink for them.

Almost a competition to see who could cum first.

You prevail when they hump into you a few times, swearing under their breath as they cum inside of you. Cock pulsing and jerking inside of you as they slam their hips as close to yours as they can. Only allowing small thrusts, more like grinding their pelvis to yours. You clutch at them, one hand on the back of their neck and clutching at their hair, the other around their back as you hold on.

You cum seconds after, body shaking and eyes shutting. Your breath is shuddery, exhausted.

There’s a quiet after that. Bloodhound waits inside of you for only a moment longer before slowly pulling out, spreading open your lower lips to selfishly watch their cum drip from you.

When they lower back onto their tummy and nose back between your legs, you’re pretty sure you’re in for a long night.

You deserve it.

#Miragehound x reader #Miragehound #Mirage #Bloodhound #Apex legends #Apex lemons #nsft #lemon #commissions #princess writing

21 notes · View notes

supercalvin · 4 years ago

Note

I see your ficlets are open and I wanted to request more superhero!merlin . i didn't know i liked that until i read yours lol. preferably hurt/comfort because i love that too. also I just wanted to say your fics are amazing

I’m going to be honest @elizabethleestorms…I have no idea which superhero AU you mean, because I think I’ve written a couple, but that doesn’t matter, I’m delighted by this prompt. Sorry this took so long, thank you for waiting.

Really tried my hand at #whump and I ended up writing a very long ficlet again.

(Not intentional, I was writing this already before I heard about Chadwick Boseman. RIP to the King.)

Prompts + Ficlets

***

It had started small.

Merlin would use his magic to save an elderly couple from a mugging. A man about to fall onto the train tracks would find himself falling back onto the concrete. He would trip a bloke who was bothering a girl in the streets.

Magic was banned in Camelot and had been for over thirty years, and Merlin had grown up learning to hide his magic. Not even his closet friends knew. But when he started university in Citadel City, Merlin had felt an overwhelming need to use his magic. There were so many problems he could fix and so many people he could help.

So it started small and soon escalated into something a bit more complicated. He started going out at night, slipping on a mask to hide his identity, and saving people from whatever he could find. Most people thanked him and quickly ran off, freaked out by the sorcerer in a mask. But then word got around, gossip and whispers about the sorcerer who would swoop in at just the right moment. People would try to ask him who he was, so Merlin had to learn to teleport so he could get away from them.

Then he started to up his game. He would listen to the police scanners and seek out places he knew criminals loitered. He was becoming a bit of a legend. People had a lot of different names for him, up until a pack of wyverns attacked the city. That was the first time he had been spotted during the day and photographed. His blurry figure was all over the news for a week. It had been a hassle, but it had earned him a proper title. Dragon Lord.

It had been years since he had first started being ‘Dragon Lord.’ He had gotten into a routine. He worked at the police station during the day, gathered intel as a lowly administrative assistant, and then went out at night as ‘Dragon Lord.’ He was exhausted most days, with little sleep to spare, but he wouldn’t change it for the world. He was exercising his magic, helping people. and he had started a rather heated debate on the magic ban in Citadel City.

All was going well for Merlin.

Until his boss, DI Arthur Pendragon found out about his magic.

It had been an accident, of course. The only other person who knew about his magic besides his family was Deputy Lance DuLac, whom Merlin had saved from a fluke griffin attack back in his university days. Merlin had saved Arthur’s ass from a few operations-gone-wrong, but Arthur still didn’t know that his assistant and Dragon Lord were one and the same.

Until the night when Merlin had been out as ‘Dragon Lord’ having heard about an arms deal planned by Cenred Cain, an infamous crime boss. But apparently Arthur and his team had also been keeping an eye on Cenred, because they had stopped the deal before Merlin could interfere.

It was all a bit of blur. The adrenaline in his veins and the magic in the air making his memories fuzzy.

Dragon Lord and Arthur had been cornered as the building was about to come down, and although he was able to create a safety-bubble around them, the backlash burned part of Merlin’s disguise from his body and face. He woke up with a horrible headache and Arthur’s face hovering over him, looking equal parts horrified and furious.

After that night, Arthur hadn’t spoken to him about it. But to be fair, Arthur had not said much to Merlin at all. Arthur had sworn that he wasn’t about to arrest Merlin, but that didn’t mean they were friends. No, Arthur made it clear hat he was done with Merlin.

Merlin figured it was a fair deal. Merlin had saved Arthur’s life and in turn Arthur wouldn’t arrest Merlin for several acts of sorcery. It didn’t mean Merlin wasn’t heartbroken. He wished Arthur would understand that magic wasn’t evil and that Merlin just wanted to do good in the world.

So over the past week Merlin had not gotten much sleep, to say the least. After Arthur had found out, Merlin had trouble sleeping, which was never good because his night-and-day schedule. Then there was the fact that his magic had been exhausted after stopping a building from collapsing on top of him and Arthur. But that had never stopped him from going out. Crime didn’t stop just because Merlin was a bit tired.

So when a bulette attacked downtown Citadel City, Merlin was already off to a bad start. Bulettes were as large as cars and built like tanks with armor plating all over their bodies. They lived underground, and although the bulette was just minding its own business, it was causing buildings to sink into the ground and minor quakes to rock the city. So when Merlin had tried to gently coax it back out of Citadel City, it had only felt the need to defend itself.

Which meant it started attacking people.

Merlin would be the first to admit that he wasn’t at his peak power either. His magic was still tired from the week previous and his fight with Arthur had mentally drained him. He had coped by going out more at night, but that meant he had only accumulated a handful of hours of sleep over the last seven days.

It barely flinched at the enchanted spears Merlin threw at it. Moving the ground beneath it did little to stop it. Burning it only made it angry. His movements were slower, barely dodging it’s attacks. He made rookie mistakes by trying to attack the bulette’s armor in the first place. Normally he would be able to evaluate its attacks and predict its next movements, but his mind was moving too slow.

He was a wreck, to say the least.

Then the bulette used its thickly armored tail to slam Merlin into a nearby lorry, which rocked with the impact. Merlin remembered hearing the crunch of metal, but nothing until he woke up to someone shaking him.

“Dragon Lord, you have to get up! Please! Sir! Please! It’s coming back!” the voice sounded young and very frightened. Merlin opened his eyes to find a young kid, eyes burning gold as the boy tried to wake Merlin’s magic with his own.

Merlin gasped, his entire body aching as soon as he was conscious again. His vision spun in and out for a moment, and he felt overwhelmingly nauseous. Concussion, he thought dimly.

“You have to get out of here,” Merlin grunted as he tried to get up. His ribs were killing him.

The boy shook his head, “You’re hurt…”

Merlin had to hold his breath as he got to hit feet, the pain almost making him black out as his ribs shifted to the new position. He closed his eyes and tried to take deep breathes, although every inhale and exhale felt like a thousand knives.

“Get to safety,” Merlin said, letting his magic wash over him. It wasn’t a spell he used often. It took too much energy and he was already tired as it was, but he was desperate. The kid scrambled back as Merlin began to glow gold, rising above the crumbled asphalt.

Merlin’s vision turned entirely gold and he spotted the bulette’s weak point, right under its front legs, where the armor didn’t cover. With his last enchanted spear, Merlin gored the beast.

Merlin dropped to the ground, his head spinning and his vision going black. He couldn’t pass out in public. It was too dangerous. One last spell, he thought. Fingers crossed that he would make it back safely.

He teleported into his flat, recognized that he had made it successfully, and then he dropped to the floor like someone had cut the strings from a marionette.

Merlin’s whole body hurt. Even when he wasn’t entirely conscious, he was aware of that. The blunt force trauma had certainly broken his ribs and given him a hell of a concussion.

He was aware of someone moving him from the floor, arranging his limbs onto his bed. Then he felt someone open his mouth slip some pills onto his tongue and guide him to drink water, then wiping up his face when he choked on the water and it spilled it over his face.

When he woke again it was to a dull feeling that he recognized as heavy painkillers. He opened his eyes to find Arthur hovering over him, checking his pupils with a flashlight.

“You’re not a doctor,” Merlin mumbled, not coherent enough to fully process what was happening.

“No, but you refused to go to A&E. So here I am.”

“I did?”

Arthur sighed, turning to Merlin’s bedside table where there was a glass of water with a straw.

“Drink. You need fluids. You’ve been out of it for a day.”

Merlin obeyed, his mind too foggy to argue.

Arthur left the room and Merlin was left to stare at the ceiling, watching his vision blur for a few seconds before he drifted off again.

He was a bit more coherent when he woke again, this time to Arthur whispering, “I know it hurts, but I need you to tell me where it hurts.” Arthur pushed down the bed sheet and prodded his ribs, watching Merlin’s reactions carefully.

“Hold still. I’m going to give you some lidocaine, okay?”

Merlin didn’t think he had much of a choice, but if it would stop his ribs from hurting, Merlin wasn’t going to complain. After Arthur injected the lidocaine, he softly ran a hand over Merlin’s numbed ribs. “Better?”

Merlin nodded, although the movement hurt his head. He realized the only light was his desk lamp, and even that minimal light caused him to flinch.

“Why are you doing this?” Merlin asked.

Arthur’s face was in shadow, but Merlin could see the pinched expression anyway.

“It was all over the news, Merlin. The live video of Dragon Lord dropping like a stone. Then you disappeared after looking like you were about to faint. I rushed over to your flat as soon as I could.”

Merlin smacked his lips which were cracked and dry. Arthur lifted the cup of water again, angling the straw to Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin took a drink and then managed to say, “But I thought…Aren’t you angry with me?”

“Of course I am, Merlin.” Arthur snapped, “I’m furious that you would keep this from me. I don’t get it, and I don’t trust you, but…”

“But?” Merlin swallowed thickly, his head pounding.

“But you’ve been saving so many people. And this…” Arthur gestured to Merlin’s body. Merlin looked down, wincing at the movement. He had gathered a fair few amount of ‘battle scars’ over the years. Burns, lacerations, and general bruising came with the job. Currently Merlin’s entire torso was a horrible splotchy mess of black and blue with tinges of green.

“You’re putting your own life on the line for people who would sentence you to a life in prison… I don’t understand it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see right from wrong.”

Merlin gave a weak smile, “I think that’s you saying I was right for once.”

Arthur shook his head, “Merlin…”

“I know,” Merlin sighed, his ribs protesting at the heavy breath despite the lidocaine injections. “I just want to help. I just…My magic has to be for something, Arthur. All this power and I can’t use it to help people?”

Arthur frowned, his hand coming up to gently push back Merlin’s hair from his brow.

“We’ll talk about this later. You’re still too tired. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

Merlin nodded fractionally, his eyes already drifting shut, watching Arthur get up and head for the door.

“Arthur…”

Arthur turned to look at him.

“Thank you.”

Arthur gave a small smile, “You too. Get some rest.”

***

Prompts + Ficlets

#merlin #merlin fic #ficlets #can be read as pre-slash #or just gen #superhero merlin #elizabethleestorms

80 notes · View notes

lady-feste-pendragon · 4 years ago

Note

so we know there’s a bunch of arthurian adaptations out there. what elements (not from any particular source) do u *have to* keep/remove from ur perfect version?

oh lord, tbh nonnie i am not the person to ask this. I’m not a scholar or anything i just have a special interest. I started answering this originally just thinking about screen adaptations but then i realized you’re just talking about adaptations in general and i had to switch gears soooo

okay these are just my tastes/opinions/observations but non-screen adaptations: you can p much do whatever you want and it’ll be good. Personally i’m not too keen on adaptations where arthur is The Bad Guy (tm) somehow. It feels really inauthentic and gimmicky. make your arthur complicated by all means--the older i get the more i Obsess over Complicated Characters--but like, doing a full one eighty and saying ‘in my adaptation arthur is the Villain’ never goes over well. unless you’re seeing this happen later on in a series and it’s part of character development, in which case that’s fascinating as heck

-also for book adaptations, for my tastes, dig into the side stories and don’t be afraid to get absurd, bc the source material is comic books basically. you can still do sweeping serious romantic epics with v little Comedy but you can also do that while keeping and adapting the silliness that goes into some of the source material. and while you can keep the sort of ‘grumpy kay, rash gawain, tragic flawless lance, flighty gwen” -esque sort of stereotypes and execute them well and the story still be Good, there’s also both a Lot of difference source-stereotypes of behavior and motivation to pick from and it’s good to mix it up. also canon is fake and you can do whatever you want if you don’t find anything you like

-Personally i like stories with a good guinevere so My Ideal Story would have guinevere as an active agent in her own life but who is also a Good Queen, or if she’s not a good queen then with good Reasons as to why someone raised as a princess wouldn’t make a good queen in whatever sort of capacity that Good and Queen are defined by in your world. you don’t Have to do the love triangle (please plEASE by my little ace heart consider noT doing the love triangle) but if you do don’t make it shallow!!! also consider: they all have two hands. just sayin i may or may not have developed a taste for poly stories in the last couple of years

-beyond that like as far as books or audio formats or what have you i will literally read p much anything.

-for screen adaptations it gets.......tricky. because so many of them are bad for so many reasons. and caveat i have not seen a lot of them. I mean.....yeah i have seen a Lot of them. but i also follow..................a reasonable number of arthurian blogs and i am Aware that i’ve seen only a tiny fraction of what’s actually available and even Commonly Viewed for people who get reaaaally into the legends with the kind of energy i haven’t had since like. School. (man i wish; in literally everything else i’m happy with my life circumstances in ways i can’t possibly vocalize but as far as motivation goes Take Me Back)

-i’ve just noticed that it’s apparently Extremely Difficult to actually adapt The Arthurian Legends to screen

-so in my humble opinion Stop Trying

-adapt Adaptations. adapt self contained side stories. there’s so much stuff that gets overlooked that makes for An Incredible Story that won’t be made into a movie bc it’s not part of the generic public consciousness of a king arthur story. but don’t try to adapt Arthurian Mythology bc that’s going to blow you way over budget and you’re going to need A Series Of Movies and you won’t get them and it’ll be unsatisfying for everyone involved. So don’t make epics.

-stop trying to be historically accurate or historically ‘edgy’, make more movies about side characters with their own stories, get creative about setting and magic systems!! if you’re going to be original especially, but i can’t stress this enough, adapt adaptations. They’ve already done the work for you.

-i know you want to know about what specific ‘elements’ need to stay the same to be good For Me, but tbh my reading is so Wildly Variable that you can Everything differently and i’ll still give it a shot, but for screen adaptations i really only require three things.

make your cast of characters either small enough that you can really dig into their stories (for side stories) or make them broad enough that you can include side characters that don’t get much screen time often while concentrating on whatever larger story you’re trying to tell

show us that you did your research even if you don’t Use it. that’s why i liked the guy ritchie hot mess so dang much and Still love it and watch it today. there are so many little hidden references and easter eggs you can tell someone on board did Research and was in a high enough position to get those little tidbits in

your arthur Has to be On Point. your arthur has to be Perfect ok. You can slub a lot of stuff but if you’re making a king arthur movie your arthur has to be Flawless. you can get away with this if you’re not focusing on arthur himself but even as a side character he needs to Inspire Something in the viewer. He needs to be Recognizably Arthur via source stuff/adaptation material sure but he also needs to be someone the audience Instantly Likes to the point of almost reverence. You need to either start at the point or get to the point in the narrative where arthur says like three sentences and you Instantly Understand why people would pledge service and loyalty to him. You Need to See Him and you need to Love Him. everything else is adaptable.

#once and future tag #Anonymous

10 notes · View notes

and-damntheconsequences · 5 years ago

Note

tristan and isolde!!!

OH BOY DO I HAVE SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT THEM

This is... going to be long and have a lot of explaining but I do have a fairly interesting (?) backstory for the both of them in my head. Which defies canon almost entirely but I've gone past caring (I'm going to try and justify it anyway). I'm also gonna rant about Arthurian legends in this post because I like the stories. Sorry.

You can skip down to what I think that story is — I'll put the start of that in a bigger font and bold. But here's a bit of backstory first.

So we don't technically have full confirmation of this but the generally accepted idea is that Merlin's world was supposed to evolve into our world, and in the 1500 years he was waiting for Arthur, he saw our, real, history play out. And therefore the literature written about Arthur would exist in Merlin's world too — to him it was just that lost stories of magic got so twisted over time that they "ended up" as the Arthurian Legends we know today. Basically, Merlin would see the Arthurian Legends as really dramatised and completely wrong stories of what actually happened to them all (also he'd be very angry that Lancelots only legacy was that he committed treason with Gwen)

So anyway — Tristan and Isolde. They weren't random names for the show to pick. I don't know what's common knowledge about Arthurian legend so I'm going to assume this isn't, just in case, and also so I can rant about it. They are actually their own story, which was later merged with Arthurian legend with Tristan becoming one of Arthur's round-table knights.

And the story goes something like this:(heavily condensed)

Tristan was a knight of Cornwall, nephew of King Mark of Cornwall. Iseult (or Isolde as she is in the show) was an Irish princess who was skilled in healing. King Mark decided he wanted to marry her, so he sent Tristan to Ireland to retrieve her for him. Tristan did, slaying a dragon along the way as you do, and with the Queens blessing and a gift of a potion from her, they sailed back to Cornwall. Unfortunately there was a bit of a miscommunication and Tristan and Iseult drank the potion on the way. It was a love potion that was meant for Iseult and Mark, and the two fell deeply in love, although they were kind of in love before, this just strengthened it. Iseult married Mark anyway, but had an affair with Tristan because she loved him. Mark found out and sentenced them both to death, but they escaped to the forest of Morrois. Eventually, Mark discovered them, but agreed to pardon them both if Iseult was returned to him, which she then was, and Tristan went to Brittany and married someone else — Iseult of the White Hands (yes this is a different person, they just have the same name for some reason). Then Tristan was injured, and died, and Iseult of Ireland, his first and truest love, died of grief when she saw, and they were buried together.

Now obviously this didn't happen in the show. In the show, they're smugglers, Iseult dies in Tristans arms, and he's not a knight BUT... I think there could have been an element of "truth" as far as Merlin is concerned.

So here's what I think happened to them:

~ Isolde absolutely was nobility in an Irish kingdom that she was from; likely not a princess, but a noble lady of the court or the daughter of a high ranking lord. She had wealth and political importance.

~ She was also magical, and talented at healing magic. No, she doesn't do magic in the show, but why would she in or near Camelot? And I doubt she had much power beyond healing, or any family background of powerful sorcery.

~ Tristan was a knight of Cornwall. I don't know who was actually ruling Cornwall (or Dumnonia as the wider area was) in Arthur's time. It's not mentioned as far as I know, but I don't think it matters. King Mark was said to rule in around the 5th century so that would fit, but he's not mentioned so who knows.

~ They fell in love (through their own free will, not a potion, because that's a bit creepy and gross and I like their relationship) while she was being taken to Dumnonia for some sort of political meeting or negotiations or something on behalf of her Kingdom.

~ Her magic, though weak, was discovered, and the King of Dumnonia, who hated sorcery enough to risk war with it (this is why I don't think she was a princess, too much risk) sentenced her to burn at the stake.

~ Tristan rescued her, giving up his rank as knight to do so, and they escaped into the forest where they were taken in briefly by some druids who agreed to protect them. They stayed with them for a short while, but the druids were massacred by knights. Tristan says in the show that his people were massacred by nobles, so this wasn't a complete lie, but he wouldn't have been willing to tell the whole truth to Arthur or Merlin for fear of them finding out who they were.

~ After the druids were killed, they were forced to run again, and this time they decided to set up as smugglers. From being Cornish, Tristan probably was aware of various piracy and smuggling organisations that they could use (Cornwall is well situated for and has a long history of pirates and smugglers) which allowed that to start up.

~ It was entirely Isolde who convinced Tristan to fight for Arthur. He lost respect for nobles when the knights of Dumnonia attacked and chased them even though Isolde had done nothing wrong. He lost more respect for them when they massacred the druids, who were peaceful people. But Isolde never became that jaded. She always had far more faith in people than he ever did; it was something he loved her for.

~ When they mention settling down, that's not just because they're tired of smuggling — it's them acknowledging that they are free. Enough time has passed that they don't have to live in fear, always looking over their shoulders for anyone who might recognise them.

~ Over time, their story was "twisted" — as far as Merlin would see it. People wrote that their love was magic to make it less real, her own magic was forgotten, people stuck a dragon and a dramatic ending in because that's what you do with stories.

~ After Isolde's death, the knights all held a funeral for her. Tristan told them then the truth of who she was, and at first Arthur was shocked, but he forgave them, and said they would never be considered criminals in Camelot. They had fought beside him and that was more important.

~ Tristan left Camelot shortly after, presumably to go back to smuggling... but Arthur did lower the tax on frankincense and other frequently smuggled goods soon after he left — as an acknowledgement that he had listened to what he'd said.

Okay so my HCs aren't too similar to the original story, but that's the most I think could be true within that setting and without Arthur knowing more about it — especially given that they weren't ever separated and so weren't found in the forest. It also someone contradicts canon, but I'm going to assume that they both would have been willing to lie to Arthur, and Merlin, and probably every smuggler they worked with, to keep their true identities hidden.

Anyways they're amazing characters and I love them.

#merlin #bbc merlin #merthur #tristan and isolde #tristan and iseult #bbcmerlin #merlin emrys #merlin headcanons #merlin headcanon #merlin characters #merlin asks

34 notes · View notes

1001galaxies · 4 years ago

Text

Commentary on Netflix’s Cursed: Episode 2

Edited for language, because I have a few younger/more sensitive readers.

THE MONK SPEAKS. HOT DIGGITY DANG.

Well, DAYUM again. The monk meeting Squirrel is delicious. The LOOK in Daniel's eyes. The staging and lighting. A+

“Born in the dawn.” “To pass in the twilight.” I burst out laughing so hard. The cheesiness. But also. When it's DANIEL SHARMAN SAYING THE FIRST LINE, I mean. I M E A N.

Just watch, that’ll be the new 'may we meet again'.

Squirrel is a discount version of Blue from King Arthur: Legend of the Sword, but he's cute, so that makes up for a lot. And he does have some decent lines so far. “Do you hate them because they're so beautiful and you're so ugly.” “Even your horse is ugly.” “And I love horses.”

But, hang on, his line: “You're so ugly.” *looks at Daniel Sharman* *looks at Squirrel* *looks at Daniel* *blinks* Ah, kids.

Dang, they really do give Nimue every single flippin YA teen girl trope in the world, from both fanfic and traditional fic. Wow. That's impressive, even by my standards.

Joss: “Get up you murdering pig...tie him up...I think we've caught the big killer.” Me: You haven't caught anything, and if you think you have the upper hand with the MONK? Oh honey, you poor deluded fool.

Joss: “Ever been dragged by a horse with a hot coal up his bum?” Monk: “Not that I can recall.” Me: Dang, HIS VOICE. Me: Secondly, there are better ways to motivate horses than that, excuse you.

Monk: “I've got no interest in the boy. He's bait.” Joss: “Bait for what.” Me: Oh yeah, here we go, awriiiiiight. Monk: “For YOU.” *kicks Joss*

Who cares that Daniel is the bad guy, he's the only interesting one. Hot DANG, that roll over the horse. HE'S FIGHTING WITH HIS HANDS BOUND. Gives a new meaning to 'hands tied' Also dang. And WHAT DID I SAY, JOSS. You got owned.

Monk: *kills five or six people with //his hands bound//* Me: Now that's what I'm talkin’ about. Me: Wait, he just killed innocent people. Me: Eh, he’s still the best character so far.

How does Daniel manage to sound sexy saying “go.”

Every SINGLE time we come back to Nimue: Me: okay, booooooring.

Obviously, they’re going with the traditional representation of Bors as a brash lout. Eh. Why.

Can I have Bors played by Tom Hopper, please. He was a good Percival, but I'd like to see him play a surprisingly FUNNY and GENTLE and SMART Bors. Twist the traditional representation.

Ah yes. Cursed: LOOK AT US, WE'RE SO ENLIGHTENED AND SUBVERSIVE AND DIFFERENT that we're going to have the guy save the girl the same way 90% of all fantasy saves occur. Much impressed.

I mean, TELL her, Arthur, yes please. She didn't think, that's the problem. She just reacted with the sword. I get she’s a teen, but come ON, why must every single teenager ever—male or female—react with impulsive emotion. Not every single teen in the world always reacts with emotion first.

Well, this heroine rant is like every other YA fantasy heroine guilt-trip rant I’ve ever seen. I get being sad and emotional and being guilt-stricken because of how events have fallen out, but really on the wording? Really.

Arthur: “And I'm not a cutthroat.” And his head tilt. That's cute. Arthur is genuinely likeable so far, which is /good/. Also nice to see the guy taking care of the girl solicitously for once instead of the other way around. I do appreciate that.

And here we have the OH SO ORIGINAL trope where the heroine was bullied as a child and 'oh you made the village boys pay romantic attention to you with your magic' backstory. REALLY. REALLY NOW. I'm absolutely positive I've got YA fantasy heroine bingo at least twice over by now.

Nimue’s mum: “When you were five years old, you faced a dark god alone in the ironwood and survived.” Bingo again.

Let's play a game called: how many times can this show throw out a Game of Thrones reference/imitation?

IRONWOOD. REALLY? REALLY. Here's the thing. a) Game of Thrones did this already and called it the Godswood, and if you think people aren't going to see what you did there, you 100% have another think coming. and b) THE LAST TIME I CHECKED TRADITIONAL FAE LORE, iron KILLED and/or BURNED fae. But THAT is what you unironically* called your SACRED WOOD THAT PROTECTS YOU???? *Only being 2 episodes in, maybe I'll find out later that it was/is an ironic name, but it suuuuuuure doesn't seem like it so far.

Nimue’s mum: “You are not some fragile maid, you are a warrior..." Me: She's going to say 'and you are strong'. Nimue's mum: "And you are strong." Me: See, this isn't even fun. There's no challenge to this. Also, YA fantasy trope bingo again.

Arthur: "It's a rare blade, I'm not sure I've seen its like." AT LEAST THAT is a decent line. Normally, they say “I've never seen its like” with this awed tone, but he's just factually observing. Cool, cool.

ARTHUR WITH THE SWORD. I'm going to be an Arthurian geek for just a minute and revel in this. I know there's more to this story. Much of it is dead boring. But I'm just going to enjoy this minute because //Arthur with the sword//.

I really did not expect to like this Arthur. He's nothing extraordinary yet, but he's fun. Without being a copycat of BBC's Merlin or King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. He's just a young knight (possibly a prince somewhere along the line??) who is genuinely caring, not super arrogant, and just a DECENT AND FUN GUY. So far.

Arthur: “I've seen a lot of lives wasted fulfilling the dreams of the dead.” YES? FINALLY? SOMEONE SAID IT? I'm here for this. Call out that fantasy trope that is all well and good in some doses but is basically THE FOUNDATION OF EVERY SINGLE YA FANTASY ARC EVER, and it's so annoying. Give us some VARIETY now and then.

Nimue to Arthur: “Spoken like a true mercenary.” No, spoken like the only sensible person in the show so far, Nimue, you twit.

AW YEAH. YOU TELL HER, ARTHUR. She's shrugging off everything you say AFTER ASKING FOR YOUR HELP. Geeeeez. It’s so annoying when people do that.

Arthur: “Get an hour of sleep.” Implied: Everything looks better after sleep + you’ll need your strength. Me, who hates sleep: I feel so attacked right now. ...But he’s right.

Merlin is TOTALLY fantasy Haymitch.

Veiled Lady: “You told us the sword of the first kings was destroyed. You lied.” Okay, so MAYBE Merlin's getting mildly interesting...but are they going to do a good job with it? DOUBTFUL.

Veiled Lady: "This affects all of us, not just you. The fae are on the verge of extinction." Um, THEN WHY EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING NOTHING ABOUT IT? Is this another ‘we can’t bend the rules of heaven for mere earthlings’??

Veiled Lady: “If the church acquires the sword of power, then they will decide who wears the crown. Have you forgotten the words?” Merlin: “Forgotten them? I WROTE THEM.” Me: Okay, that's a good delivery. Merlin: “Whosoever wields the sword of power shall be the one true king.” Me: And a nice mocking accent on that, Oooh yeah, I like. Merlin: “But I'm wiser now. There IS no one true king.” Me: Huh. Now see, that's slightly interesting. Give me more of that.

Pretty sure they told Gustaf to model his Merlin on Starz Camelot's Merlin, “but make him fun and drunken.” He's got that whole Fiennes vibe going on, but also definitely fantasy Haymitch. (Someone else on tumblr said Jack Sparrow, and I could see that one too, thought not as much yet. Where I am, Merlin doesn’t seem super keen on adventuring for the sake of adventuring. He has the bitter past and cynicism of Haymitch right now. Maybe he’ll get more Jack Sparrow-y as this goes on.)

MERLIN HAS NO MAGIC BECAUSE HE GAVE IT TO THE SWORD, okay, that right there is a GOOD element, and chock full of potential. Especially his bitterness. And his insistence that he won't touch the sword again. Are they going to do a good job of using it? Dollars to donuts, NO. Ugh.

Veiled Lady: “I sense fear around the sword. But also great power.” And here we have our Galadriel imitator. Dang, I need TWO more bingo cards.

Veiled Lady: “The sword is finding its way to you, Merlin, but which end of the sword, the point or the pommel, is another question.” Me: *snorts* Cute.

Merlin: "The sword was forged in the fae fires, and to the fae fires it shall return. I shall melt it back to its origins."

Let's play another game called: how many times can this show imitate LOTR?

Veiled Lady: "You are aware the fae forges burned out a thousand years ago?" Yeah, cause Frodo and Sam destroyed Mount Doom, guys, go read your history.

Veiled Lady: “Oh dear.” Veiled Lady: “Tell me you're not planning to steal from him. Without your magic.” Merlin: “I still have my wits and my charm.” Veiled Lady: “I fear you overestimate both.” Ahem, the lady has a point.

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS:

- Arthur is still interesting. That could change super quickly, but so far, I like him.

- The Monk is beautiful, and I'm so here for upcoming stuff I won't talk about, but also for his arc period and more interactions with Squirrel.

- Squirrel is cute, but nothing above the average so far. Still, better than almost anyone else on the show.

- Merlin has the potential to be intriguing, if only they use it.

- Obviously, I'm going to keep watching.

Footnote:

I saw spoilers today about the Monk’s arc, and I'm HERE FOR IT, so here, so beyond here for it, GIVE ME THAT RIGHT THE HECK NOW. IT'S THE ONLY REASON I HAVE ANY EXCITEMENT FOR THIS SHOW RIGHT NOW.

THE WEEPING MONK AS *SPOILER* I. CAN'T. FREAKING. WAIT.

#cursed netflix #this show is cursed all right #cursed with hideous writing #but Daniel is still bringing it #I'm here for the Monk and Arthur and Squirrel #yes this got longer than I intended #par for the course with my writing of any kind

9 notes · View notes

packsbeforesnacks · 5 years ago

Text

Harmony Hall || Mercy & Winn

TIMING: Thursday, July 9th, 2020, Evening LOCATION: The Western Archives (Mercy’s Loft) PARTIES: @cryxmercy & @packsbeforesnacks SUMMARY: Mercy offers an explanation. Winn faces the truth about his lost years. WARNINGS: None

The lighthouse was intimidating, Winn thought, but no more intimidating than meeting someone for the first time… again, apparently. ‘Cause apparently this ‘Mercy’ woman knew him, said he’d lived in White Crest before he remembered livin’ in White Crest. The possibility had never crossed his mind, that there would be — could be — someone with the answers to the riddle of the years that had been taken from him. Winn would need to buy Rio something nice, if this panned out. Boy deserved, like, a fruit basket, bare minimum. Winn made his way up the staircase, twisted up in the lighthouse like a coiled spring, ready to pop out at any time and remind him why he was actually here.

An explanation. Mercy had promised one and Winn wasn’t about to let his only real chance at fixing all of this slip through his fingers. No one — Rio, Darwin, his dad — had been able to turn up any real leads, and there wasn’t a magic Facebook, where Winn could just post until someone said they’d fix his memories. He’d gotten lucky. He knew it. The chance of him findin’ another person with access to mental magic was too big of an ask. Luckily for him, White Crest kept an eye on wishes.

One of the many problems that came with living as long as Mercy had was that inevitably the past would circle back around at some point, either to bite you in the ass, or simply make life more complicated. She wasn’t quite sure which category the current bit of her past fell into. Winn was a good guy — it was why she’d helped him in the first place all those years back -— so perhaps it fell into neither. Perhaps it was simply the right thing to do. Because Mercy had seen first hand what missing memories could do to a person. How confused and lost they could become. Wondering what had happened to them in a span of time they couldn’t remember. It could drive a person mad.

So Mercy didn’t blame Rio for sending Winn her way. Even if she wasn’t sure what she could tell him, other than what the young wolf had asked of her all those years back, and the events that had followed. Perhaps that would be enough. Even if it didn’t bring the memories back. Because Mercy didn’t know how to do that. So she’d made sure the tower would let Winn pass through, that the roses that grew in the field outside wouldn’t harass him. And when she heard footsteps on the spiral stairs, Mercy looked towards the open door of the small flat at the top of the tower. Her tone was warm and easy as she spoke. “You can come in. I don’t bite.”

Winn passed through the open door with more confidence than he felt. He racked his memory, trying to figure out if he’d known her, some time ago, but there wasn’t even the faintest pulse of recollection. He took a seat, movements a bit stiff, as he considered the woman. There wasn’t much he could tell from just her posture and voice; if he had to pick an age— Well, ‘sides bein’ rude, he couldn’t really do that anymore. Living in a lighthouse wasn’t the most unusual thing about this situation, but it was as good a place as any to break the ice. “Sooooo,” he drawled, “you lived in White Crest long?” He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of her knowin’ him. “This lighthouse looks old. Beautiful, though, the roses are lovely.”

A compliment, a well-placed smile. She knew Winn. But that didn’t mean she had liked him, in whatever history they shared together. He scanned the room, looking for another point of conversational topic, but his eyes drifted back to the woman’s. It occurred to him that, well, she might know him by his old name. He should clear up any confusion, introduce himself again. “Um, sorry, right. I’m Winn. Winn Woods. Winner Lycus Woods. Said that on the phone.” He gave a small wave, feeling incredibly awkward. What was it about this woman that put him on-edge? Or was it just that she knew more about him, perhaps, than he did? There were no easy answers, and so, he admitted what she’d probably already guessed: “Do I… know you?”

“About six years,” Mercy said, watching Winn as he took a seat. “Going on seven.” He was wondering about her, she knew. Who she was. Probably even what she was. Mercy hadn’t told him much over the phone. But that was deliberate. This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face. “Thank you. I… acquired it some years back.” She smiled at him, small and knowing. “The roses are just a bonus.” And a damn fine security measure. In case anyone who was unwelcome thought they could just waltz up to her tower.

Mercy’s eyes didn’t leave his face as he looked around. The room was small, but cozy. Full of shelves and books and benign things of interest that she’d brought up from down in the archives. There was evidence of Arthur here and there as well. A chess set she’d dug out of one of the rooms for him. New journals and fountain pens stacked neatly on a nearby table, along with a stack of scrolls and manuscripts still covered in dust. There was also a small bed in one corner, a tiny kitchenette, a small bathroom behind a closed door, and a woodburning stove. It was very liveable, even if Mercy usually stayed elsewhere. Winn’s gaze came back to her eventually, and Mercy waited a moment as he introduced himself.

“You did. Once. My name’s Mercy.” She watched him for a short but weighted moment. “I’m the one that took your memories.”

Well, huh.

Winn wouldn’t pretend there wasn’t a part of him that had been… hoping for this. When Darwin had told him that they weren’t buried, but missing, he had been ready to abandon this entire ‘quest.’ Rio’s message, askin’ to give Winn’s information to one of his allies, had been a Hail Mary, as far as Winn had been concerned. But then, Rio had messaged him back, gave him a number to call. Winn had leapt at the chance.

Once. Maybe… Maybe, even if Winn couldn’t get back his memories, she could tell him about himself. It was another confirmation. When something went missing, there had to be a force behind it. Darwin had given him the information, Mercy had revealed herself as the thief herself. He took a deep breath, in, out, almost like he was preparin’ for Darwin to take another look around his mind. But, really, Winn knew that, if he let himself make assumptions, Winn would be transformed in the middle of this flat. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all him. So, before he’d climbed the tower, he’d ran through scenarios in his head.

And… Well, this hadn’t been the worst. Could be bleedin’ out. Winn locked eyes with Mercy, and said, strong and far more confident than he felt: “Why?”

Mercy often wondered if her long life — or perhaps her nature — had made her some sort of… beacon… for lost and wayward souls. She seemed to cross paths with them more often than not. If that was the case, it was ironic really, since she had no power whatsoever over the souls of mankind. Unlike the Valkyries of her homelands legends.

What she did have was knowledge. Centuries upon centuries of it. But with great knowledge came great power, as they say. And what good was knowledge if it wasn’t shared? At least when it was for the better. So while Mercy had also prepared for the worst, she didn’t pull any punches in answering Winn’s questions. She wasn’t afraid of the young wolf. Never had been. That said, she was very aware of the damage one could do. To her, and to their surroundings. And Mercy was in no mood to deal with an angry shifter tonight. Or at any point in the near future.

Mercy waited on Winn to process what she’d said. She watched for any signs he was going to lash out or react badly. Any tells that his emotions were going to get the better of him, and the wolf would take over to protect him. Or to get revenge for a perceived wrong. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. And Mercy let out her own internal sigh of relief.

Her tone was soft and even as she didn’t hesitate to answer his follow up question. “Because you asked me to.” There was more, obviously, but Mercy wanted to give him time to process the main parts before overloading him with the rest of the details. Of which there were many.

Winn felt like he’d been smacked with a sledgehammer, like the ‘brain freeze’ he’d felt at Darwin’s probing had been only an appetizer for this main course. The memories weren’t stolen. The memories were given. And his mind scrolled and scrolled through scenarios, trying to figure out what could have happened — what he could have done — that would make him do this.

He put his head in his hands, trying to stave off yet another anxiety attack. Winn had been preparing for an answer, even this one, for nearly a month — two, if he counted that first inkling that there was something inside of him. Finally, scrubbing the fresh tears away from his eyes, he met Mercy’s gaze with tired determination. He had to know.

“Tell me more. Please. I can… I can handle it.” Winn tried to give a weak smile, ended up somewhere in grimace, and settled back down into a flat line.

Mercy watched as Winn started to absorb what she was saying. It wasn’t easy to be told things about your past that you couldn’t remember. This wasn’t the first time Mercy had been in such a situation. She had learned, however, that giving too much all at once could send some people over the edge. Others did better receiving things in one big lump. Mercy wasn’t sure which category Winn fell into just yet. He’d survived the giving away of the memories. But that didn’t mean the opposite would be true. When he got himself together and looked up, tears staining his face, Mercy felt her heart ache for him. He was a good kid. It’s why she’d helped him in the first place.

“We met a few years back when you signed up for my self-defense classes. Didn’t take me long to realize you weren’t human. Took you a bit longer to realize the same was true for me.” Mercy explained how they’d come to be friends, and later, how Mercy had come to be a confidant of sorts for Winn. And how eventually Winn came to confide his personal traumas to Mercy. Who had already encouraged him to stand up to what frightened him. To take back control of his life, by not letting the past control his present, or his future. That effort — thanks to Mercy’s Fury nature — doubled when she found out what the hunters had done to him.

“One day you came to me and asked if I knew how to get rid of unwanted memories.” Mercy sat a book — bound in worn leather wrappings — and an ornately carved wooden box on the table between them. She opened the lid of the box, revealing a pair of ravens — carved from obsidian — nestled inside. Each was small enough to hold in one’s hand, and covered in delicately crafted patterns and runes. “This is the how.” She indicated the book and the stone ravens before looking at him evenly. “Are you absolutely certain you wish to know what memories you wanted gone? And why?”

There was a part of Winn that wanted to laugh at Mercy, to tell her that there was no way that she was right. It was a stubborn, temperamental part of himself that he hardly recognized. But, as she spoke, he realized that… well, that what she was sayin’ made sense. Winn had been in a bad way, after he left the pack. That… That was where the memories got fuzzy, where the train stopped because the track had been cut off. He’d always thought the wolf had finally gotten fed up with him, ran on a Full Moon and stayed transformed that way until Winn could get his shit together.

But none of that was true.

“I… kind of hate that you know more about me than I do,” Winn admitted, honestly. “So, I came to you to erase two whole years? That seems,” Winn grabbed one of the stone ravens to inspect it, “excessive.” His head pulsed, his vision blurred. Shit got weird. And painful.

“I’m used to it,” Mercy said of being hated, her voice holding a hint of something that might’ve been weariness. Or perhaps regret. Maybe both. But her expression turned to a true frown as he told her that— “Wait—” Mercy held up a hand, her tone one of shock. “You’re missing two years? Two entire years?” But Winn never got the chance to answer.

He reached for the raven… and collapsed to the floor.

Mercy was instantly on her feet, both out of concern for Winn, and to be ready in case she ended up with a fully shifted, angry werewolf in her flat.

“Please…” Winn heard himself begging Mercy and a robed figure behind her. The room was barely lit, but Winn could make out himself, younger, and speaking in broken sobs. It looked like the loft, but… different, in the pieces he could see. “Mercy, I did something I can’t take back. Ever. I want… I want a second chance. I’m not… I don’t want to be this person. I— I wanted my life back, but not like this. I didn’t— He didn’t—” There was a crackle in the air as he looked up, meeting the eyes of the fury. “I want this. No going back.”

The scene cut out, Winn heard three words in a language he didn’t recognize. Then, there was darkness.

In Winn’s memory, Mercy looked on in sympathy at the young wolf’s pain. The air hummed with static. “If this is your wish, if you believe with all your heart, that this is what’s right for you… that your life can only be better for forgetting, then so be it.”

When the spell had been cast, Mercy had merely been an observer, until the caster had come to the final seals. How fortuitous it was that she was there, and capable of speaking the three runes that activated the spell and set it in motion.

When Winn came back to himself, in the present, he was on the floor of the loft, holding his head in pain, tears streaming down his face, claws and fangs extended and digging tiny cuts into his skull and lip. Fuck. Fuck. His ears rang, his heart was racing.

“... What did I do?” Winn asked, finally, when he had just enough energy to pull himself off the floor. He couldn’t look at Mercy, not now. Not until he knew.

In the present, Mercy had moved to place herself between Winn and the door to the stairs, just in case. She knew he was in pain. She could see the partial shift his body had gone through in response to such huge amounts of stress. Mercy waited, relaxing slightly as moving towards him as he came back to himself. And asked the million dollar question.

Mercy sighed, wondering where the hell to start. Perhaps the cut and dry version would be best.

“You started this… one-man ‘protect the wolves’ mission… tracking down and killing the hunters, and others, that were hurting them… You were ruthless. Vicious even. You grew numb to it. Or so you said. Until one day… you killed a hunter in front of his children.” Mercy squatted down so she could be level with the wolf. “That was when you realized all those people, those hunters, were people too. With families. Children. People who loved them.” Mercy knew all hunters weren’t created the same. But that didn’t mean she thought Winn had been in the wrong for what he’d done. How many lives had he saved by taking the ones he had? Though it wasn’t what Mercy thought that mattered, was it? This was about Winn. “It set something off inside you… and you couldn’t live with what you’d done. You wanted it gone.”

She watched him for a long moment. “You’re not a bad person, Winn. I know bad people. You’re a good person that bad things have happened to.”

“Okay,” Winn said finally, curling in on himself on the floor, taking it all in. Numb, Mercy had said. Well, Winn didn’t feel very numb right now. He felt… he felt awful. And part of it was recovering from the stress of touching the raven, but… It was true. There was no denying it. Mercy had no reason to lie to him, and, fuck, was that what Winn had seen at the carnival? Killing a hunter, apparently the last in a string of killings. Winn had found his answer. Or, part of it. And that answer was awful, ripping into him and carving at his heart. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Winn sat there, just… thinking.

Until: “Wait, then… Why? Why two years?” Winn said, finally looking up and into Mercy’s eyes. “It doesn’t— Tell me I wasn’t… killing people for two years.” Not that it mattered, he supposed, in the grand scheme of things. Just more bodies to the count. Fuck. Fuck.

Mercy waited patiently while Winn processed everything. She was used to this too, after all. It was the story of her life. Waiting and watching… sometimes for months, even years at a time. But when he asked his next question, the only answer Mercy had was, “I don’t know why the spell took two years away. But no. You weren’t. It was… a few months. Maybe.”

“I’m a coward.” Winn sighed, looking up at the ceiling and away from Mercy’s gaze. He’d run away again. He couldn’t stop running away. “And I’m… I don’t know if I’m a bad person, Mercy, but I… I don’t think I can be a good person, if I did that, if I hurt all of those people — and you said, you said others? So, not all of them were hunters? I mean, that… that makes it worse, right?” Would it be better, if it had only been hunters? No. No, Winn didn’t think so. Even without his memories, without his apparent realization, he knew so many hunters now and he knew they were just… people. Fallible and too, too human.

Mercy’s jaw clenched as he called himself a coward. She remembered a moment very like this one, where she’d told him he should take control of his fears, his doubts, his demons… face them and conquer them. She couldn’t help it as the air in the flat started to hum with static. “A coward wouldn’t be sitting here in my tower, asking to remember things he once thought so terrible that he begged to have them removed from his mind forever.”

“The fact that you feel remorse for any of it…” Mercy shook her head, her expression softening slightly. “Bad people don’t feel remorse, Winn.” What did that say about Mercy, and all the people she’d killed over the centuries that she hadn’t thought twice about? The thought was fleeting, and thankfully didn’t settle in Mercy’s head. So she pressed on. “We can’t judge ourselves for the way we deal with trauma. That’s why it’s called trauma. Because it’s a deeply disturbing experience. Something we can rarely control. The only thing we can do… is learn from it. And try to be better in the end.”

Mercy’s words were as much for herself as for Winn, even if she didn’t realize it. But even then, there was nothing more she could say that hadn’t already been said. So again, she waited. Where they went from here was up to Winn.

And try to be better in the end.

Winn pulled himself off of the floor of the flat, scrubbed at his eyes, and looked at Mercy. She was right, even if he couldn’t believe it right now. Had Winn learned from it? When Winn got the memories back, would time have helped? Or would he just be back to that broken man, cryin’ at his friend to take it all away?

No. No, he refused.

Winn had barely finished saying, “I want them back,” though, when he collapsed, again, to the floor, unconscious and still.

#wickedswriting #para #Mercy #Harmony Hall #Chain of Memories #//#reposted because the timing changed #and there's a slightly different ending #:------)

7 notes · View notes

gawaincomic · 5 years ago

Note

🌸 🐍 ☀️ 🐆

Which character would you erase from existence if you could

I’ve really thought about it ever since I saw this question and the truth is: I can’t think of a single one.

I mean: some of the characters in Arthurian legend are horrible jerks, but erasing them... Suppose I propose to erase Uther because he’s a dick. That would mean Arthur is never born. Also, think of it: NO ANTHONY HEAD to delight us with his performance as Uther in BBC Merlin. I’m sorry, I cannot allow that.

A character I almost inevitably loathe is Bors. He’s sanctimonious and tends to hate Guinevere for being an adulteress, and he is part of the Benwicks who slander Gawain. But I would never ever want to do without Bohort in Kaamelott! He’s adorable and one of my favourite characters. No, can’t have that.

I could say, let’s erase Lancelot, that sneaky French addition who stole Gawain’s glory. But not only are there some great Lancelots out there, the love triangle between Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot has become so important to the legend that - oh wait. We could substitute Gawain for Lancelot in this triangle and I’ll bet you anything it wouldn’t ruin the Round Table. Just a suggestion.

No, jokes aside, Lancelot has claimed so much room, it’s too late to erase him. Also, to take the example of Kaamelott again, I don’t have to like him for him to be interesting.

Maybe Erec, though. I don’t feel we would miss out on all that much if Erec were to disappear. Enid might have a happier life, so long as she doesn’t take up with that bloke Geraint. Tristan, I am sad to say, we must keep, because Tristan & Isolde is an opera I cannot do without.

Thoughts on Mordred

Hum. I suspect that someone who calls themselves @mordredoforkney has a LOT more interesting things to say about Mordred than I do XD.

For me personally, or rather for my comic, Mordred is a very difficult character and I am a bit at a loss as to what to do with him. I’ve made some decisions concerning other characters that have removed some of Mordred’s more classic motivations. And now I’m not sure what drives him. Mind you, I may not even make it to the final conflict - I’ll probably die of old age before I get there. My present aim is to make it to Chastelmarveile before I yield up the ghost. Just saying.

I like a good Mordred. If he’s to end Arthur, I want Mordred to have some meat on him, you know? In general, I rather enjoyed Bernard Cornwell’s Arthur trilogy, but one of the things I liked less is that his Mordred wasn’t Arthur’s son. That’s sort of disappointing. I am aware that in older texts, Mordred wasn’t Arthur’s son either, but - eh, I like it when he is.

One of my favourite Mordreds is Rosemary Sutcliff’s in Sword at Sunset. He’s almost Arthur’s evil twin: they look alike, they sound alike, and they have basically the same strengths, but Mordred uses all that to undo Arthur. It’s painful and heartbreaking, but a Mordred done right.

Another take that I really like - and can totally imagine - is Mordred in the Slaine comic The Treasures of Britain. Arthur drives him crazy by being so perfect. Mordred is a normal person with normal flaws and at some point his father just drives him around the bend.

Funniest or best random magic ability

That’s an easy one! The magical abilities in the Mabinogion are brilliant, and the funniest belongs to Cei: his heat ray hands! I keep imagining the other knights asking him to warm them when they’re out campaigning in the cold...

I’m giving second place to Gawain’s half-powers (not Mabinogion, that, of course). He’ll heal magically by supper, but only of the wounds he’s incurred before lunch. Likewise, the fact that he’s solar-powered means that in the afternoon he just falls flat.

As for the best, I guess for myself I wouldn’t mind Gwrhyr Gwalstawd Ieithoedd’s power to speak all languages perfectly XD...

Sword question was answered here

#arthuriana #ask meme #Arthurian legend #mordred #magic #arthurian characters

10 notes · View notes

alyssa-orowane · 5 years ago

Text

Fantasy tropes to avoid (and ideas to reinvent them)

Hello aspiring writers of Tumblr! How is it going?

This is my first post on here and I decided to dedicate it not only to the genre I am writing in, fantasy, but also to a crucial topic, which relates and affects every genre in different ways.

TROPES.

It's lazy to build stories on something that has already been written a million times before. I don't like tropes at all as a reader. If I wanted to read the same stereotyped story all over again I would just stick to the previous book I have read with that same plot, so I would also spare myself the trouble of learning the unpronounceable names of these new stereotyped characters.

On the other hand, as a writer it might be tempting to give in and use tropes. "Why not? After all everybody uses them and I am already SO busy writing the actual chapters of my story."

I tell you what: every time a trope threatens to slide into your story, crush the page and throw it across the room, yelling:

Seriously, though: tropes are just general, undeveloped ideas. That's what you need to do, develop them. In this way only will you ever be able to unleash their hidden potential.

Without further ado, may I present you three of the most common fantasy tropes and hints to reimagine them.

*Keep in mind that this is only my personal view on the subject and you can either agree or disagree with it.

1. The chosen one

This one is the most obvious one and I am also quite sure that you expected to find it on the list. Interesting, Watson: I guess that it makes this article stereotyped too…

Well we all know those characters. Those characters that were meant to be the one. The prophecies had spoken about them long before they were even born. They might as well be the only one capable of using magic or wielding a certain weapon. This character is either the only one who pushes forward the storyline or that one protagonist who does everything except choosing anything actively in the plot. There is no in between. Either way, they only possess notable qualities. Of course there is no trace of flaws. I mean, they are the hero.

Have a side-kick (or co-protagonist) be the chosen one instead

A great idea, if you really want to insert this trope in your story, is to use it to your advantage and surprise the reader with it. Who could ever expect that the protagonist was actually never the chosen one? Or that another character is the chosen one from the start?

To see this trope well recreated I recommend watching the BBC TV series "Merlin" in which a young sorcerer, Merlin himself, must help the future heir to the throne, the prince Arthur Pendragon, to fulfill his destiny and become the greatest king who has ever lived. Arthur has no clue of what has been foretold, nor that he even is at the centre of a prophecy. All of Merlin and Arthur's choices will determine either the glorious success or the tragic failure of the quest; all of this while Merlin hides his powers from Arthur and everyone else as magic is condemned in Camelot.

2. Overused fantasy Races

...which translates mostly into putting Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, dragons and any of the Tolkenian elements and creatures in your own story. Now, don't get me wrong. Tolkien is one of my favourite authors, hence I am always captivated by those fantasy novels that display these Races in their stories. But I don't want to read a copy, I want to read your own masterpiece.

That's exactly why you should:

Redesign the well-known fantasy Races and adapt them to your world and to your theme or just create brand new ones

Personally, I absolutely LOVE to craft new fantasy Races. I believe that it adds depth and realism to the world-building (which does not consist only of geography). Each civilisation brings their culture, their traditions to your story and that's what makes a world truly breathe. In my opinion, the purpose of fantasy is not to focus just on the epic deeds narrated or on endless battles enriched with magic and legends, though those are very important part of this genre and they must be just as equally developed. The reason why I write fantasy is to spread awareness around the vast variety of themes that coexist in our society nowadays, in the first place global warming, the racism that still today people experience, LGBTQ characters which are often unrepresented both in literary fiction and TV. What better genre than fantasy is there to represent diversity and multiculturalism? On these latter points I will never not be thanking and loving the works of Steven Erikson which are part of the high-fantasy series "Malazan Book of the Fallen". Diversity and the brand new variety of intriguing Races are a huge part of what makes Malazan such an awesome fantasy series. I refer to Steven Erikson as the main inspiration of my writing and I recommend you to give a try to his books, if you have the chance. I warn you though, that it is not any light or easy reading.

The other option might be to reinvent the well-known Races. Tolkien himself did not "invent" the Elves of Middle Earth, rather he made a legend of his own after having studied the myths and ballads of ancient civilities. Then he developed their language, their history and their culture as if they were a real existing population. Every single aspect of Tolkien's worldbuilding can be read in his Silmarillion. I think it is a must-read for anyone who is looking forward to reinvent the traditional fantasy Races or just to know more about them.

3. Unfailing magic systems

Magic can be anything you want. That doesn't mean, however, that it should be your escape point: stuff in your story should happen because of your characters, not only because of magic as it is simpler to put it that way. A magic system should be rational and engaging. The reader needs to be able to understand exactly how, when and why does magic work in your world. No, the answer should not be "because it's fantasy."

Set rules, limits and costs to the magic in your world

How do character gain magic abilities? Is magic accessible to everyone or is it elitist? Is it taught in specialised schools or is it something that resonates from within? Are wizards free to practice magic or is it banned? Or maybe are there only specific areas of magic that are prohibited? What is its source? Does magic come from higher beings or are spells more powerful the stronger the mage's will? Does magic need a catalyst (such as a talisman, a weapon etc.) to be casted? If not, do wizard recite spells? Do they need to trace specific symbols? Otherwise is it necessary to make specific hand gestures in order to release their powers? Does it exist only one system for all mages to use or are there multiple kinds? Last but not least, what are magic users in your world called? It's all up to you to decide. Ask questions and let each question lead you to another one. You need to know exactly how your magic system works and so does the reader.

What I love about crafting magic systems is the freedom to establish the boundaries and the natural laws that apply to your world, as magic is a huge part of the story if you're writing fantasy. Well, this could also lead to another question: is your world actually ruled by magic forces or do magic abilities have just a marginal role in the world building?

Remember that magic should not be used as an excuse to fill eventual plot holes in your story. Your magic system should function correctly and it should always stay true to itself. In other words, it must be believable.

And I can hear you thinking "but it‘s magic!"

Then guess what? You need to make the readers believe that magic is real!

First of all, set the rules, the limits and the costs that apply to your system. Having done that, you'll have finished most of the work that concerns the use of magic in your world. Most, not all. If you are a bit of a perfectionist like I am, consider the importance of developing your system furthermore by asking yourself questions, such as the one I have written above.

Rules: decide what makes your system work and what magic can be casted for.

Limits: decide what kind of tasks your magic system cannot perform.

Costs: decide from what kind of source is magic obtained from and, literally, what does it cost to mages to obtain their magic from this source (as Rumpelstiltskin of OUAT wisely says: "all magic comes with a price.")

The most excellent and well-rounded magic systems I have ever come across are the ones created by Brandon Sanderson in this "Mistborn" trilogy: allomancy, feruchemy and hemalurgy. All three magic system permit the magicians to use a wide range of abilities based on the metals they can "burn". Magic originates in the Shards and from Preservation and Ruin, two god-like beings. If you're already interested, I definitely recommend you to check Sanderson's novels out: they are a useful resource of inspiration.

I hope this post has somehow given you the inspiration to go and write right now.  If you have questions about some of the points or requests for the next articles, don't be shy and send me a message! I will try to cover your topic as soon as possible and as best as I can (and I will also tag your profile, if you agree).  Thank you all for your attention. Bisous^^

#books #fantasy #writing #steven erikson #malazan book of the fallen #bbc merlin #mistborn #brandon sanderson #tolkien #silmarillion #fantasy tropes #writing advice #chosen one #magic system #fantasy races

14 notes · View notes