#╰❃╮∙*‣ { Musings } — ❝Death is a mercy and freedom is a gift❞

[sanguine-salvation]

[confession meme]

"I want your salvation. I've seen the truth for so long. But the urge to survive is strong. I'll kick, bite and scream. However I want your gift. I want your kiss of death, angel."

[ Anonymously confess something to my muse. - ACCEPTING ]

"We can't help it, you know, dear zombie. If I may confess something back... even when I was faced with death, even when I stood on that bridge, laid under that knife, when I could have given in and choked on my own blood one way or the other..."

"... I fought back. I shoved Death away like a rabid stupid beast! And she laughed and gave me purpose for my efforts. And here I am. Burdened with truth and the weight of giving freedom I cannot give myself anymore..."

"But the first step is knowing the beauty and inevitability of death. Whether you come to my arms willingly, or I put the animal in you to the test before the slaughter, I promise I will give you freedom when I find you, and I will do it with mercy and care, my poor little zombie. It will be the closest you will ever get to truly being alive."

[esotericbonds]

Dimitri Tag Dump

Dimitri is being from another dimension who is still recovering from centuries of slavery and prostitution. He currently owns and works as a tattoo artist as well as a masked vigilante in his spare time. If you want to learn more scroll down on the image to the left on his bio page: here

[loveoaths]

@fightingdreamcrs / @resolutepath requested: plots please! [hands u muses from fightingdreamcrs or here!]

rubs my hands together. you got it boss.

jashin & shikadai.

there is something dark in the woods, and it knows your name: okay okay okay, LISTEN. i have had a headcanon for awhile now that jashin curses the nara clan after the death of hidan, one of their beloved dark priests and child of the faith. just as shikamaru targeted their child, jashin targets shikadai. their goal is to take him away from his father, be it through indoctrination, madness, or death; but they do not tell shikadai who they are, because they're playing the long game. this plot has the feeling of satan tempting jesus in the desert, of the devil going to down to georgia, of a crossroads demon facing a boy lost at a fork in the road. what i like about this idea is the concept of noble temptation and intellectual corruption.

jashin appeals to the logical part of shikadai's brain, while also slowly teasing out the more emotional parts of him he's never truly been able to express. shikadai is watching boruto, sarada, kawaki, and others face increasingly life-or-death situations; wouldn't he like the power of jashin to defeat his enemies? to protect his family? to save his father? doesn't he wish he could have the best of both worlds, and be a good son and shinobi, while also enjoying the forbidden fruit of life: ryogi, dissension, more freedom? being a noble son is hard. being a shinobi is hard. jashin can provide an outlet for that, or at least introduce the concept of more in a physical way. i'm rambling now, but charlie, just imagine all the nara boys shikadai's age getting sick one month; nothing totally life threatening, but one of them coughs up something black and sickly-sweet smelling, and something about it makes shikadai feel on edge. imagine him being troubled and going on a walk in the nara forest to clear his mind. imagine him noticing how quiet the deer are, how they're all avoiding a small copse where the trees are closer together and the air heavier with wet earth. imagine him smelling that sickly sweet smell again, and watching a young buck stagger unnaturally into the copse. he follows. kneels beside it as it draws its last breath, leaking black ooze from its nose and eyes. out of mercy, shikadai slits its throat to put it out of its misery and closes its eyes, lays it to the ground, and whispers a prayer. only for the stag to raise its head and look at him and say, "HOW SWEET YOUR MERCY, SON OF NARA." just imagine it, charlie. just. imagine.

shizuma & kagura.

we've discussed them so much and i hope we continue discusisng them forever, but i really want to know what would have happened if kagura had not been strong enough to stand up to shizuma during the kirigakure mission. is kagura regretfully the new mizukage with shizuma as both his bodyguard and the muscle to keep him in line?

additionally, what would a role swap look like with them, where kagura is the older one and shizuma is his ( rotten ) fan?

shizuma & shikadai.

i don't have anything specific for them, but i do think they'd be fascinating. shikadai is the stronger strategist by far, but shizuma is cunning the way an animal is, and is unpredictable. i think a scenario where the coup doesn't happen/hasn't happened yet and shizuma is sent to konoha to homestay with the naras would be chaotic in a very fun way. particularly because shikadai could learn a lot about large-scale army mobilizing from shizuma, who, for all his many faults, is a very gifted warrior and general-type. we'd have to figure out what their end goals are, but i think there is a fun nugget in here somewhere.

ryogi & kagura.

ah, the thief and the knight, together again! i love these two. you mentioned ryogi being able to separate kagura from the shinobi life, and i wholeheartedly agree. they could go on a journey together! or, after ryogi escapes konoha's prison, he realizes he at least needs to be as strong as shinobi to defeat them, and winds up in kirigakure learning under kagura. if ryogi has just been rejected by shikadai and kagura has just been heartbroken by the coup attempt, then these two very bitter/heartbroken boys could find some real comfort and community with each other. also, as a liar himself, ryogi could provide insight into shizuma's mind to help kagura grieve and get over his betrayal.

ryogi & shikadai.

we've talked about them so much, but i somehow have never mentioned a future verse where ryogi becomes the Lord of Whirlpools ( new uzushio )??? i imagine these two meeting again many years after their break-up, with shikadai as advisor to the hokage etc and ryogi as the young leader of a new village-state, to be fraught with tension... but also, a lot of growth and opportunities to re-meet each other. additional drama: shikadai is sent to uzushio on a mission to meet the new lord of whirlpools and is totally blindsided when he realizes it's ryogi. however, ryogi is using a fake identity and pretending not to recognize shikadai. shikadai thinks this is another one of ryogi's grifts gone too far, but the truth is there is a much bigger plot underway, and now shikadai has once again gotten himself caught in ryogi's storm.

haku & naruto.

my og otp from way back in the day... these two have a lot to learn from each other. haku has to learn how to see themself as a human being, and naruto needs to see that he is allowing himself to be used as a tool in the shinobi system. however all this learning happens subconciously as they become friends for real after haku relocates to konoha. i like to imagine that haku is one of naruto's early crushes, which gives all of their interactions a fun, rosy tint... lmk what you think. :eyes:

kimimaro & naruto.

okay this is my politics-loving brain talking here, but kimimaro and naruto are both brainwashed. kimimaro is brainwashed into believing orochimaru, and naruto is brainwashed into believing the will of fire. the truth is that both of these ideologies are very dangerous at their roots, and for naruto to reach his true potential as a paradigm-shifter he needs to understand that. these two are both too dumb to know they're brainwashed, but i think they'd see the other one as an idiot and would realize it that way. additionally, seeign how fucked up kimimaro is could lend naruto insight into how sasuke feels, which, no matter how much naruto believes he and sasuke are the same, he just doesn't have. by befriending kimimaro, naruto would be a better ally to and friend for sasuke. this taking place in shippuden would be choice.

tanjiro & haku.

i still need to write up haku's kny verse, but essentially they are from a tribe that found a way to control demons temporarily before they were destroyed by superstitious townsfolk and, potentially, other slayers. tanjiro could learn of this and seek haku out to try and find a way to cure nezuko. meanwhile, haku has their own goals... which i have not come up with yet... but that's a start? i don't care what we do i just want tanjiro. they are my baby now.

tanjiro & kimimaro.

i have zero plots for this but they seem like insane people who deserve to be locked into a room together. tanjiro is so nice and kimimaro is so Not Nice. i want to know if tanjiro can friend no jutsu kimimaro or if he will get beat to death with a bloody femur :)

zenitsu & haku.

same as above tbh except haku is nice to zenitsu while zenitsu is bonkers. alternate idea: haku is a demon? has demon blood? something strange like genya? but befriends genya, who dances between being freaked out to being delighted that someone pretty is giving him the time of day.

zenitsu & shizuma.

just because i'm mean, what if shizuma is a demon who loves the smell of fear, and since zenitsu is scared all the time, zenitsu winds up with a terrifying shark on his heels. this is an odd couple comedy duo waiting to happen.

[nafeary]

Cuddles and Snuggles with the Ikevamp Suitors

Anon asked:

Hello 👋, can I have some really short and maybe flowery scenarios of the Ikevamp suitors cuddling? Just some cute little paragraph (that can turn smutty but doesn’t have to be) I really really like your style of writing, you see. Thank you!!!!

Heya! I love love love requests like these, they really make my day. Considering I didn’t want to give everything the same plot, I figured I’d just allow my creative freedom to run rampage.

I’m sorry I haven’t been posting much, but school is keeping me pretty busy (a week of holidays are coming up tho hehehehe). This has been sitting in my WIPs for an eternity, and I finished the last five bois today (it’s Sunday/Monday midnight by the time I’m scheduling this YEET).

I hope you’ll all manage to find some comfort in this, and I hope you’ll all enjoy (and remember to drink water~)

Also, I don’t care what Cybird says; Theo is 186cm and I do not take criticism on this.

Warnings: implied sexual intercourse (only for Leo tho), otherwise only toothrottingly sweet fluff... maybe angst, too. Blame Aki)

Napoleon Bonaparte

『laying siege to your heart』

Laughter prompted your body to tremor in delight upon seeing the form of your lover snuggling his blanket, spilling into the room in coaction with the afternoon rays streaming in buoyant ribbons. Napoleon lethargically peeked past his lashes, grinning as he grasped your hand to pull you into his awaiting arms.

Your head fit perfectly underneath his chin, your bodies an amalgamation of puzzle pieces enjoying their reunion. You allowed a few teasing quips to spill from your lips, regretting to have done so tout de suite as your body writhed beneath his butterfly kisses tickling your nape. The most darling sounding giggles encompasses your ears, eliciting some of your own as you tried your best to escape his tight embrace.

Eventually, he stilled, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and holding you for what felt like an entire eternity—no ounce of egomania weighed upon you, the fierceness of it brought forth by his sheer adoration for yourself. And even if he were to lay siege for an eternity, you couldn’t see yourself caring if you were pledged with no disparate treatment.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

『moonlight tryst』

If there was one thing you’ve come to cherish, it would be the time of the moon, when it reigned the sky in its eerie glory. You’ve never been able to see the stars’ purity, constellations clearer than ever before. Perchance, the appreciation stemmed from the company the firmament would gift you with, when the other half of your bed was frozen and weeping alongside you in abandonment. Yet, as you mused your loneliness, approaching echoes of heels hitting the tiled floor incited your gaze to leave the stars, instead turning to embrace the sight of your lover coming to join you to your tryst.

Stars melted into fervid streams of gems, pouring upon Wolf’s skin, hair, and eyes, aiding his appearance to leave you blinded beneath its ethereal irradiance. You picked up a ribbon le Comte had gifted you long ago, jesting the embroidered amethysts would gracefully accompany the composer’s own set of eyes; but the juxtaposition left you disenchanted at the blunt and transparent crystals, opting to tie his alabaster strands with it, shivering slightly as you parted a curtain over his nape.

He enfolded your hands with his, hastily trying to get it off. However, his lips were quickly claimed by his muse, pouring every emotion and feeling you could gather into it. You were glad for the minuscule distraction, even more so as his arms fell limp, succumbing to your passion—nay, not without teasing remarks, leaving your pounding heart at the wolf’s mercy, and carrying your cries into the night in concordance with the owls’ song.

Leonardo da Vinci

『the gift of light』

At times, your relationship felt like stumbling through an obsidian forest, the only object not the plunged into abyssal realms a map to show you the right path. The map knew everything, could achieve anything, would create the unimaginable, while you were left impotently relying one its guidance.

Leonardo was aware of these clouds obscuring your emotions, hindering your felicity, and he was unsure whether he should act upon it. Perchance, it would leave you in deeper misery, but he’d take the chance to undress the light in your eyes.

You essentially knew that that was what a relationship with Leonardo da Vinci would result in; after all, no one could possibly match his genius. Natheless, the string pinioning your souls was stubborn, and it would be near impossible for anything to deter you from this love.

As you straddled him, panting in exhaustion with sweat glistening like deep sea pearls across your bodies, he slid his hands past your ears, tugging on the ribbon keeping your hair up. They ran past your bare shoulders, a cascade of bougainvillea shadowing the outside world from seeing your lover’s flushed expression. With his hands still resting on your cheeks, he pulled you toward himself, capturing your lips with raw ardour. A gossamer simper slumbered onto his face just as the sun announced the arrival of dayspring, enkindling the forest in the light of dawn.

Arthur Conan Doyle

『cosy and secluded dancing』

A myriad of candles appeared to dance within the salon, frolicking in the gentle zephyrs through the opened window. The lovers exuded the impression of pure serenity, swaying in each other’s clutches in synchronisation with the flames.

A saxophone urged your feet to tap along the tiled floor, the beat accompanying the agute anecdotes Arthur shared with you. A simper blossomed on your face as the topic of them always managed to include yourself in some way or another; you’d taken notice of this the further you relationship wrote itself. And just like his words filled the paper with ease under the influence of his fountain of delight, so did the words pertaining to your mutual ardour.

As you allowed your lips to meet his nose, perplexity pulled your brows into a furrow—how anyone could just accept all the malicious comments of “mongrel”, “bastard”, and other vile slurs without retaliating in defense was beyond you, especially when a simple action like yours dissolved him into a fumbling mess, his footing faltering to and fro akin to the rustling branches outside. It was nothing but a mystery, but he was your mystery. And you had more than enough time to solve him, buoyantly filling the paper with breathings of your love along the way.

Vincent Van Gogh

『picnic in a flower meadow』

There was nothing but warmth—the ground, the breeze, the sun’s ever so gentle embrace on this bright autumn’s day, creating an atmosphere of absolute serenity.

However, the sun wasn’t the only one to embrace you. You felt your lover’s breathing gently caressing your face, his heartbeat beneath your head the sole sound next to the sunflowers’ ever so tranquil rustling.

Another breeze ruffled his flaxen tufts of hair, eliciting the tiniest of giggles as they brushed against his nose. As his hands rose up to brush your hair, he gifted to with the most brilliant grin, the epitome of an angel walking amongst mortals.

It made you nuzzle closer into his chest, inhaling the wonted scent of paint and dried sunflowers. Opting to enjoy these last moments of your picnic with the artist, your eyes fluttered close to the most ethereal sight on earth.

Theodorus Van Gogh

『unfeigned aftermath of a fight』

Ire was not strange to him, acquaintances till death, for sure. Nevertheless, these kind of manners didn’t appeal to him, but charading as the scapegoat for his brother’s wealth has made him into the devil’s advocate—and old habits hardly perish.

His hands caught the last few droplets of despair running down your chin, stroking your own pair of hands as he held you from behind. A few moments prior, he had shown you his quiet, oftentimes guarded, ardour, carrying these words to your ear. It left you nearly broken, the brush having stumbled across the artwork, red marks littering the void. But as fast as the shade spread, so did the greens and blues, the yellows and whites; if someone knew how to fix these mistakes, it was Theo himself.

In favour of his height, he straightened to place his chin atop your head, allowing you to lean into him. You couldn’t even remember what miscellaneous things you’d been fighting about, rendering your throats hoarse and your hearts wound; alas, as perilous as his clamours were, he never failed to apologise, whispering adorations as sweet as the saccharine treats he enjoyed.

Truly, as painful as some words could be, he always committed to proving you his worth. He just didn’t realize that that was irrelevant; after all, your devotion for him ran deeper than any slash could ever reach.

Dazai Osamu

『tranquil lazing in the garden』

Amidst the most delicate petals and the green leaves, the pond’s reflection of two twirling birds was similar to the lovers leaning against an oak, intertwined branches unable to release their hold.

You were situated between his legs, his broad chest acting as your pillow of comfort. It was a serene kind of purity, the meadow’s song—flora and fauna uniting to create a serenade of peace—coaxing your pair into a state free of despair and ire. That is, until he let his lips flutter down your exposed neck, prompting you to grip the flesh of his thighs a bit tighter.

The butterfly kisses didn’t appear to end anytime soon, not that you payed it much negative mind. A simper danced across both of your faces as a butterfly, with gossamer wings fluttering gently, landed on your lover’s finger, drawing a titter to resound throughout the garden.

He beheld your reach for the lepidopteran creature, the flaxen colours scintillant in your orbs. Perchance this little guy was an omen of genuine ebullience. However, certainty belay onto his thoughts, knowing that you were nothing but a sign of fortune, even to someone as tainted as himself.

Isaac Newton

『snuggles to chase away self doubt』

Unrelentingly, you pushed chocolate into his calloused hands, pledging that the tryto-something—“it’s tryptophan, darling”—would surely lift his solemn mood, clouds of doubt and pressure weighing upon him. He’d been used to the wallowing forlorn, solus; he’d been used to secluding himself apart from any comfort helping hands could give.

But now, now he’d been exposed to a star, more lucent than the North Star could ever dream to be, which shared its balmy rays with him, never imploring for anything in return.

As the slightly bitter treat melted in his mouth, he pulled the almost oneiric appearance of his sweetheart closer to him, your foreheads colliding together to display the sanguine shade of his fiery cheeks. Both of you chortled at his endearing ardency, finding yourself neglecting the light mound rising from the top of your head as you beheld his cherry blossom orbs.

He wasn’t a man of many words, his thoughts the stars he couldn’t fathom into constellations; and while all he could manage were the faintest pleas of gratitude, you knew that that was his crisp layer masking the dispatch of genuineness. Underneath, he was just as sweet and fulfilling as the fruit he so hastily denied. These obstinate and vexing thoughts pulled at the corners of his mouth, but you were swift in your endeavor to diminish them, letting your fingers glissade like zephyrs through the wild locks of salmon and ever so gently massaging him with their tips.

Jean d’Arc

『eskimo kisses and pep talks』

Jean oftentimes felt as if the world was weighing upon his lungs, threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. With his wings clipped and feet bound, all be could was sing in fear and cry for help, knowing he was undeserving of such feat. And yet, you were holding him closer than he’d ever been held before, kissing every scar, every painful remainder of his past, with the force of what could only be described as love.

He’d call himself vile names, thinking nothing much of it, and you’d never grasped what he meant. Moronic? His gentleness spoke of wisdom that many men could only dream of owning. Appalling? You would incessantly reassure him that his arms were your favorite place to while in, and that you wanted to feel his pulse through your veins. Ugly? His eyes met the moon and became almost prismatic as he claimed so, releasing that inhumanly beautiful hue of disenthralled, limitless amethysts, his skin reflecting the pale alabaster rays. How could a person so stunning and breathtaking be ugly? A person so kind and selfless?

Jean scoffed at your sentiment; withal, he allowed himself to succumb to his selfishness, brushing your nose with his own in an anguished assay to express his gratitude. You responded with a glee, succumbing to his endearing affection. He could only yearn for you to be able to withstand the barrel of infinity that he was bound to curse you with.

William Shakespeare

『interruptions ft puck』

You rose to the canorous breathing of your lover, nay, soulmate; that much was apparent judging by the euphoria encompassing your entire being at the sole mention of his name. It perplexed you how you were able to manage waking up to this empyrean sight without your heart granting the artist its last applause.

From his flushed checks, to his bare chest exposed to your own, to his lean arms reaching around yourself to tangle his fingers within your mane, more delicate and loving than the activities of the previous night required—you knew you were borne under a lucky star, whose only affiliation could possibly be be playwright claiming you his, cradling you with nothing but the zephyrs of a quiet twilight downpour.

You noticed a few candles he’d lit, most likely while you still rested, and they carried scents of raspberry sorbet, wafting around you in refreshing sprites. They were made my William himself, akin to the abundance of objects you’d sentimentally ramble about; and yet, he’d obstinately organise the most trivial things, no matter the obstacle of time and place.

Warmth engulfed your heart, your mind and being at how utterly cherished you were within his arms, and a few tears threatened their exeunt, but you suppressed your expression to the best of your ability, not wanting to worry him ignominiously. The fortunate appearance of your favourite character from the playwright’s own little story supported your despair de trop—even if he might not have intended to.

The little bunny hopped onto your lover’s head, staring down at you as if to mark his own territory. However, this attempt only prompted laughter to spill from your lips, and it amplified as William plucked Puck from his hair, placing him in midst of your tangled limps.

Comte de Saint-Germain

『napping in front of his fireplace』

The fireplace was ablaze, each scarlet flame radiating heat as the fumes frolicked in delight. With your legs angled to your lover’s lap and your fingers clutching his dress shirt, you were curled into the man’s side, the sofa cushioning your assay to sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open when you felt the snug quilt slide over your shoulders, meeting brilliant gold whose owner was busy with shielding you from the frigid cold. His hand released the fabric, instead opting to ever so carefully grasp your chin, as if frightened you were a withering rose.

Words of adoring troths danced on your lips, assuring him that you weren’t fragile, that he mustn’t fret upon your disappearance. He could only place a kiss between your brows, aware that silence weighed more than words ever could; his mirth was apparent as he pulled you closer to him, wanting nothing but to transcend time and space for his other half.

Sebastian

『oreos, milk, and ice cream』

There were certain difficulties when your heart belonged to two people, but even more so when it belonged to multiple places—or periods. Nevertheless, being employed to a time-traveling and immortal boss had its certain advantages.

You knew he longed for these items as much as you did, yet only organised them as you uttered these fantasies in a sleepy stupor. Enthusiasm spurring the atmosphere, you scooped the icy vanilla custard into crystalline bowls, improvident about the dampness coating your fingers. Before the fallen spoon could hit the ground, your lover caught it, trapping your back against his chest as he placed it back onto the counter.

His reverberating laughter prompted your own, enjoying the sensation of the flush body enbosoming your own. Arms winding across your chest, further strengthening the protective cocoon, a feather brushed your neck as he kissed with the ilk of cotton fields. You couldn’t halt the goosebumps from waltzing to the rhythm of his teasing, rather opting to stuff an Oreo past his appealing lips.

Tag list: @juminly @kisara-16 @sweetlittlemouse @thesirenwashere @nad-zeta @delicateikemenmemes

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Madness, pt.2

Madness, pt.1

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Sigurd/Blaeja (mentioned, alluded?)

Summary: So, I wrote a sequel to Madness, I really don’t know what to put in this summary. This takes place in the expanse of a few months/year, but hopefully the pace of the time passing is clearish in the story ;)

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Mentions or allusions of death, mentions or allusions of abduction/kidnapping, mentions of (hypothetical) rape, and I don’t really know what else. Does blood kink count? Cause, subtle blood kink.

A/N: First of all I want to thank all of you for the amazing reception to Madness. I am so thankful, and so humbled you guys like my writing and this story. Really, thank you so much for your feedback, your kind words, and your support. Means the world.

Second of all, I’m sorry it took so long to get the sequel out. I wasn’t exactly planning one but ngl, I have fun writing these two, and I hope this doesn’t dissapoint. Love ya! <3

Putting up the act of being dragged a hysterical, frantic mess of a woman all the way from the docks to the King’s dungeons was not that difficult. You had kept the nervous energy within you ever since you accepted getting on that boat, and finding a release to it was…cathartic, in a way.

The King’s bodyguards that kept firm hands on your upper arms as they took you to the prison that will be your home for who-knows how long don’t push or shove you into the cell, making you wonder how many people are truly aware of this ruse.

The moment the door is closed, the moment you are safe behind the iron bars and away from the crown and its reach, you cannot help the laugh -hysterical, hoarse, crazy laugh- that leaves your lips, that breaks its way out of your lungs.

You are free.

You lay on that cell for so long you forget to keep track of the time, but small little laughs leave your lips every once in a while, as you lean on the tips of your feet to look out the small window, into the foreign sky.

Free.

You laugh again, shaking fingers enclosed around the iron bars, and you hear a shuffling sound behind you.

“These people say I’m crazy. I wonder what they’ll have to say for the Princess that laughs at her own imprisonment.” King Ivar states, squaring his shoulders and standing tall on the other side of that cage door.

You smile, “You did it. You promised, and you did it. You got me out of there.”

“I keep my promises,” He states, resolute, before continuing, “Any other woman would be terrified, not delighted, at being on a Viking’s cell.”

You shrug, “Maybe they are right, maybe I am crazy.”

The King considers you in silence, clear eyes piercing as they take you in, and after a few heartbeats, shakes his head minutely.

“No, not crazy.”

____

You have learned more and more of these Norsemen’s language, and in turn you’ve taught King Ivar more of your own -it didn’t surprise you when he ordered you to teach him, saying when he negotiated with Alfred he didn’t want some meddling translator-; and you’ve learned of their traditions, and their Gods, and their honor.

Heartless, Godless, nothing but barbarians; they used to say. But you’ve seen the mothers loving their children like any Christian would, the faithful honoring their strange Gods in their own way.

They know nothing but bloodthirst, they care for nothing, love nothing; that’s what the soldiers used to whisper to terrify the maidens. But these are a people alive like any other, and yes, they are cold and harsh and brutish, but if their King is anything to go by, they are as capable as humanity as any other.

If you believed their tales, which you never truly did, thanks to King Ecbert’s lessons; it would have all still crumbled to dust and lies before your eyes as you grew closer and closer to the man that ‘abducted’ you.

All their tales of cruelty and ruthlessness and bloodthirst, they are more than true, of course; but they forget to tell of the awkward gentleness with which he holds your hand and presses absent kisses to it; they forget to tell of the cautious vulnerability that shines in those pale eyes when the sun sets and it’s just the two of you and your secrets and your promises; they forget to tell of the shuddered breaths over your lips, the eyes that fluttered closed when you lean close enough, that fill you with warmth to your very core.

They forget many things. Hopefully, they forget to tell about you, too.

Let you be forgotten by those people that killed your mother; let you be forgotten by the God that never looked upon your family with none of his mercy; let you be forgotten by the boy you may have cared for but never loved, not like this.

You spent a fortnight -maybe?- in that cell. It didn’t surprise you, a believable claim that you willingly came with King Ivar to Scandinavia would mean the leverage to return you to Wessex would be null. What did surprise you, though, was that you were very often visited, almost every day, by the King.

He is a fascinating man, he was to you since that first moment. He never ceased to be, even now, after months of secrets and pried truths and reluctant vulnerability and him.

Shortly after, you were allowed more performative freedoms, and it didn’t cost you much to put up an act that slowly waned and disappeared that you feared, hated even, the heathens that took you captive.

You’ve seen the ashen faces of those who returned from battle against the Vikings, you’ve heard the tales of the women that trembled at the memory of the raiders, you’ve known of their fame ever since your mother was gifted her uncle’s head by one of these Norsemen.

It is not hard for you to imagine why a woman -a sane woman, maybe- would fear them. And so, the act is not hard, the ruse is not difficult.

And let them think the King broke you, let them think a poor maiden was stolen from her home, let them think you long to return to your home, let them think you feel nothing but cold. In the meantime, you will be free, and safe, and growing to love a King that gives you nothing but warmth.

____

“I want to learn how to fight.” You tell him one evening, as you watch the sun set over the distant waves, and hear the training warriors somewhere near the longhouse.

He hums at your words, lifting your hand and absently pressing a kiss to the back of it before he asks, “Why?”

You offer a shrug and a small smile as you retort dryly, “A Princess, alone and surrounded by savages, she should have some means of defending herself?”

The King offers a side smile at your jest, and it feels like a tiny victory. Always does. It always has, ever since the first time you saw him, you don’t even remember how long ago.

“I could let someone teach you.” He finally drawls out, slowly, meticulously.

You cannot mask your enthusiasm, you realize too late, “Really?”

“For a price.” He clarifies.

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise. What is your price, my King?”

But he shakes his head, “That secret is mine to keep for now,” Lifting his eyes to yours and knowing he won, King Ivar insists, “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes!” You say quickly, surprising even yourself.

“Are you su-…” The King starts, even as some strange softness teases at his expression. You realize that you have startled him, and somehow that makes the excitement bubbling in your chest greater.

“Yes!” You interrupt, biting your lip and offering a sheepish shrug in apology when he glares at you, “I’m sorry, but yes.”

“Sit down, no one is going to train you now.” He chastises, but you know his tells by now. And the gentle tug of his hand on yours to bring you closer again is not even needed for you to understand he wasn’t ready or willing for you to part form his embrace. You concede with a breathed laugh and a smile that you press against his own lips, and rest against his side with a sigh.

“Thank you.” You whisper, so quietly you barely hear yourself.

“Hm. You know, I never convinced myself you aren’t at least a bit crazy.” He muses, with what you know -but he’d deny to his grave- is a soft kiss pressed to the crown of your head.

____

“Fuck!” You gasp out, Ubbe’s sword a hair’s width away from your neck, “Shouldn’t there be…wooden swords, or something?”

“Don’t you trust me?” The Prince asks around a smile. You answer with widened eyes and pushing his sword away from your neck with your own.

“Not when you hold a blade to my neck, my Prince!”

The Viking laughs, genuine and young, and you find yourself smiling back. You both assume your positions again, even if you are certain you are one sneeze away from being gutted.

“Why did you want to learn anyways? Aren’t you West Saxons supposed to sue for peace instead?” Ubbe starts as he guides your arm through a motion to break out of a block.

“I am Mercian, but yes, we do prefer talking.” You answer, focused on following his indications.

“Then why learn to fight?” The Prince insists.

“I want to be able to defend myself.”

King Ivar calls your name from behind you, a greeting and a demand of your attention as he approaches you and his brother. You turn around, and he inserts himself into the conversation you were having with Ubbe,

“Defending yourself also includes not starting fights you cannot win.”

“Ladies don’t start fights.” You shoot back quickly, side smile on your lips.

You hear him snort a laugh and your smile widens.

“But you do,” Ivar says, just as you deviate with your sword Ubbe’s attempt to strike your leg. “For someone so…”

Pushing back against the other son of Ragnar, you interrupt him.

“Don’t say small.” You grit out as you turn around, fight on pause.

“Small,” He supplies anyways, emphatically. He looks maddeningly delighted when you furrow your nose in annoyance, “You surely seem to love starting fights.”

“If by ‘starting’ you mean not letting you get away with-…”

“Get away? You get the last word every time I e-…”

“Brother, Princess,” Ubbe calls out, eyeing you strangely before motioning with his head, “Training.”

You nod, getting your focus back into place, and try getting used to the unfamiliar weight of the shield in your hands as you face the bearded man again.

Ivar’s voice cuts into your thoughts again, and your concentration evaporates along with your patience.

“Why are you standing like he does? You are half his size, you can’t mimic him and expect good results.”

You face him with gritted teeth, “Well, if my teacher did something other than berating me I could-…”

“You asked for my help.”

“I…shut up,” You sentence, turning back to Ubbe and correcting your stance to something you feel grounded and able to move on. The older Prince looks at his brother, considering, and then takes the shield from you. You let go of it with ease, but still question, “My Prince?”

“He’s right. You are small.”

“Thank you.” You sentence dryly, and the other man chuckles in response.

“I mean we can’t have you fight like you would in the front lines. Instead, fight like you would in an ambush.”

You shrug, because you have no idea what he means, and let him guide you through the movements.

____

You know what he’s going to say before you even hear him.

“Again.”

“Everything hurts.” You groan as you sit up from the cold dirt.

“I don’t care,” Ivar is quick to retort, and you have a feeling he can sense you rolling your eyes, because a taunt is quick to follow, “You Saxons may stop when you are in pain, but Vikings don’t. Again.”

Gritting your teeth and letting one or two curses in your native language leave your lips, you stand up and lift the sword. Prince Hvitserk smiles, hands toying with his axe as she studies you for a moment.

For once, you attack first, slashing towards his side, but the wooden hilt of his axe stops the movement. Not hesitating, you pull back and try again, making the Viking take a couple of steps back.

He breaks the block with a twist of his weapon’s hilt, making your sword slide off and your balance weaken. The victory is his as he raises the great axe over his head with a yell, but you lift the sword, stopping him even as you are forced to grab the blade with your free hand to give more strength to the block.

Blood pours from between your fingers and sharp pain follows, but you keep your attention on Hvitserk and wait for the moment you see him decide to push instead of retreat and attacking again. When his strength focuses on his upper body, like he did to you many times before, you place your boot on his inner thigh and kick outwards.

The force of your kick sends you stumbling back, but you catch yourself. The Viking falls down in his back though, and with enthusiasm you hold the tip of your sword over him. Victory.

You allow yourself a small smile, and Hvitserk shoulders his great axe as he stands up, fight over.

“You are getting better, Princess.” He praises gruffly, and you thank him with a nod.

Whatever dignity you tried gaining with the composed gesture is blown by the way you cannot seem to stop the excited pitter-patter of your feet as you walk back to Ivar.

“Did you see?” You ask. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so wide, and you could swear a little bit of your enthusiasm gets to the King, who smiles at you somewhat softly.

“He went easy on you.”

“I know that.” You answer with a roll of your eyes.

“And you are bleeding everywhere.” Ivar points out, signaling with his head to your hand. Reminded of your wound, you bring up your fist but Ivar is quick to catch it in his own hand.

You open your palm to see a cut running down your palm and similar ones -although not as deep- in your fingers. Your eyes follow the trail of a thick drop of blood that slithers down the side of your hand to your wrist.

Apparently, Ivar’s eyes followed the same droplet, for he moves your hand to his mouth and quickly licks off the offending drop.

“Ivar!” You chastise, tugging softly at the braid at the back of his neck, stopping his tongue from continuing trailing maddeningly the skin at your bloodied hand. He laughs, his eyes darkened when he looks up at you, and you cannot deny the rush of heat that look sends through you.

“I like it when you call me that.” He says, side smile still bearing the mark of your blood. You have the errant, traitorous thought to kiss the stain of blood off his lips, and because you can, because there’s no shame in lust or love, you lean down and do exactly that.

The metallic taste of your own blood on his lips makes you wonder if you could convince him to forget there’s a kingdom past your bed if only for a few hours; steal him away so he can think, taste, or feel nothing but you, so you can think, taste, or feel nothing but him.

Instead, trying to gather your wits and keep your voice even, you answer, “It is your name.”

“But you also call me ‘my King’,” He says, hand still holding yours and moving it so that he can see the wound more clearly. You keep your eyes on his profile, and find yourself startled when he suddenly looks up at you, head cocked to the side. Thankfully he doesn’t notice your eyes tracing the shape of his lips, and instead asks, “And you don’t really mean that, do you?”

You huff a laugh, “You are King of Kattegat.”

“But am I your King?” Ivar insists, eyes narrowed.

“I…” You start, stopping yourself when you realize you have no quick answer to give. You are not Viking; but you also have sworn no fealty to no king or kingdom, not since the ruse of your ‘capture’ was started. Still, you give him his answer in a soft voice, “No.”

He seems almost pleased, his smile turning more sincere when he states, “Call me by my name from now on then.”

You agree with a nod, the only answer your lips give is a smile, before you lean to speak by his ear. You will never cease to be delighted at the wonder mixed with desire that darken his eyes whenever you remind him of how much you want him.

Turns out stealing a King is way easier than you thought. You needed only a whisper in his ear and a sway of your hips.

____

“You are getting better,” The King starts that night, and you turn your attention to him with a smile. The people have months ago stopped staring at the crazy Mercian Princess, and the whispers about how happy she looks even as a captive have quietened; and for the first time since your mother died you have felt safe and comfortable. King Ivar continues, “For a Saxon.”

“You could just compliment me, you know.” You offer with a side smile.

The King uses the hand he holds in his -he always does, he always finds a way to be touching you and your hands seems to be a preference of his- to tug you closer where you sit on the bench next to him, and it is with a breathy chuckle that you find yourself pressed against his side.

He considers you for a few moments, before leaning close to your ear and whispering, so low only you can hear,

“You are a maddening woman, you know that?” His fingers intertwine with yours before he continues, “A maddening, infuriating, crazy woman. The most beautiful and fascinating woman I’ve ever met. The woman I…”

His words die, because they always do. Even if they always do, even if he has never admitted anything, even if he has never said he cares for you, or loves you; your heart still skips a beat every time you dare hope he just might.

But because you’ve grown to know him, to understand, you do not feel pain anymore. You let yourself believe he loves you when you feel his hand reaching for you in the dead of night, as if to make sure you are still there; you let yourself believe he loves you when you are the last one to open your eyes after you make love and find his eyes on you, his expression that of wonder and peace, you let yourself believe many things.

And so, you give the answer to the words he hasn’t -can’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t- say,

“I love you.”

As always, as every time you tell him of your love since that first time, Ivar’s expression softens, his shoulders drop, as if you bring relief to a part of him you don’t notice is always on edge.

Because he has his tells, and he knows by now you know of them.

And when you tell him you love him and you are alone in the safety of his -your? You don’t remember sleeping anywhere else- room, his eyes close and his lips pull into the smallest of smiles, soft and content.

And when you tell him you love him in the great hall, like now, he drops the tension in his shoulders and claims your mouth, sealing the words against his own lips as if to prove they are real, they are true.

He has his tells, and they betray that even if he does not dare say the words, he does feel the same.

____

You wake up at an absence in your bed, and missing Ivar’s warmth you sit up. You find him sitting by one of the chairs near a window, his hand by his mouth and a furrow in his brow. His eyes are intent on a map of England he keeps on a nearby table, and you realize what kept him awake without needing to hear a word.

“Word from Winchester?” You ask, getting out from under the furs but only moving to the foot of the bed, where you sit with your legs underneath you.

“Mhm. Alfred demanded proof you are safe, and the letter you sent was enough. But, since you are safe, he asks now that you are returned to him. In exchange for Lindsey.”

“Lindsey? Ivar, that’s-…”

“It’ll allow me to take over half of Mercia, I know” He doesn’t seem thrilled at the idea, even if he showed you, you don’t know how many moons ago, that having free access to that region would give him a great advantage. “And Alfred knows too. He knows what you are worth.”

And so the reminder of what this deal entails -your return- falls on your stomach like a dead weight. Of course, of course show could you forget? A Princess stolen in exchange for a ransom to be paid by those who want her back, a while of freedom bought until the offer is made, and if the offer is enough, you’ll sail back to Alfred and need another way to get away from there. One King walks away with new lands, the other with a bride.

But you remember those days spent in Winchester, before he was King, before Blaeja was Sigurd’s wife, before you were his ‘prisoner’; and you remember him asking what if he didn’t wish to return you to Alfred.

You remember that, and you remember every day since; and so you hope, and taking a deep breath and steeling yourself for the response, you ask,

“What will you do?”

He considers you in silence, with cold, calculating eyes. But with a grunt, he throws something he was holding in his hand and takes his eyes away from yours. You startle, but say nothing. You don’t think there’s much -if anything- you can say.

Tension is written all over his form, and after a few calculated breaths, he meets your eyes again.

“Marry me.”

“What!?” You squeak. He calls you a mad woman then comes up with these ideas.

But Ivar settles with calm, with certainty, in his madness. Like when you’ve seen him plan an attack, you realize he has thought of the alternatives, the outcomes. And, like in strategy, like in chess, he has certainty in what the next move must be.

He stands, using the crutch to move closer to you and sits next to you on the bed. His hand runs through your hair and settles comfortably at the back of your neck.

“I took a Princess from him, but he won’t take a Queen from me.”

“W-What are you saying?”

“They won’t make Queen of Wessex and Mercia a woman that was made wife to a Viking, much less Queen of Kattegat.”

Your heart beats madly in your ears, you feel like one of those trapped rabbits you saw the hunters bring back. You only look back at him with a knot in your stomach and wide eyes.

“And Lindsey?”

“We’ll threaten to send you in pieces if he does not send those papers, if he doesn’t concede. When he does, we’ll announce we’re married. They’ll think I stole you away and forced you, but they won’t be able to take you away, since we’ll be husband and wife.”

“In the eyes of your Gods. It will be nothing but pagan nonsense to the church. They’ll annul it, claim I was raped and so I am still fit to marry Alfred.”

And in the blink of an eye you are back in that hidden room in Winchester’s palace, sneaking thanks to Blaeja and her Prince to meet with the man that promised to steal you away; exchanging ideas and hopes on how to make this work.

“We’ll marry before their God too.”

He says it certainly, with no hesitation. He truly thinks of it all, doesn’t he?

And you wish you could say yes, you wish you could accept and finally seal your future away from England’s hands. You truly do, but…

“No,” You whisper, feeling the tears threaten at your eyes. The moment the simple word leaves your lips, you have another man standing before you. Closed off, with an edge of cruel madness shining in his gaze. “I’ll find another way. I won’t marry you for a business deal.

With a snarl of anger making his nose furrow, his jaw tighten, the King lets you go. You stand on shaky legs and walk a few steps to where he used to sit, eyeing the map of the land that saw you be born.

The land that might see you die, if they give you no choice but to return.

But Ivar calls your name, and interrupts your dark thoughts. It is the uncertainty where before there was strategy, the vulnerability where before there was confidence, the softness where before there was steel; what makes you turn to him with a new kind of tension taking over your body.

“T-Then marry me because I love you.” He whispers, a twitch in his expression speaking of how unmoored he is, how uncomfortable with the confession, with the possibilities it opens before you. With the power it gives you.

It should thrill you, to know you hold power over him. He has held power over you for so long, he has had your love for so long, it is only fair you have his heart in exchange. But the fear you see shining in his pale eyes startles you, softens you, breaks you.

So you step closer, so close he can reach up with one rough hand and set his touch at your waist -he always finds a way to be touching you, he always does- and he does, his eyes following his hand before meeting your own again.

“This is madness.” You whisper, and his lips curve into a smile, because he understands, he knows.

And the answer leaves your lips as easily as your feet jumped into that ship, and you whisper your yes against hungry lips, forgetting there’s a world past the two of you.

____

So, that is it! Hope you liked it, and hope you didn’t mind the lil Persephone’s abduction imagery sprinkled about, I am way too invested in Greek mythology atm for it not to show in most of what I write lol.

Btw, Lindsey is a region in the Kingdom of Mercia, here’s a map in case you were curious :)

Would love to know what you think, and thank you so much for reading!

[septic-skele]

UT - You and Me (Against The World)

Summary: If Pap was the sun, then he must be the moon: a ball of scars and craters, whose only shine was a lesser reflection of his brother’s.

“But if you weren’t there to be the moon,” Papyrus answered, so simply, so kindly, “who else would be a light in the darkness?” Sans and Papyrus, in fifty captured seconds.

Comfort

“This is not at all an admission of helplessness, surrender or defeat…but if there is anything I haven’t yet tried, brother, anything at all that might help you, I need you to tell me.”

Kiss

The human’s lipstick had formed a decidedly unpleasant texture on his teeth, Papyrus mused with a shudder as he grabbed his toothbrush to scrub away the evidence.

Soft

Sans rarely ever raised his voice, but then he didn’t need to; a low growl could be far more threatening than a shout.

Pain

“Nngh…Almost there, I think,” Sans hissed, struggling to stay loose and relaxed as Papyrus gingerly manipulated the deformed joint of his shoulder back toward its socket.

Potatoes

“Not once have I seen a potato subspecies that grows on couches,” Papyrus admitted, “so I’m afraid I cannot speak for any resemblance between them and Sans!”

Rain

“I seem to recall a well-prepared skeleton advising his lazy brother to wear sneakers on their outing today,” Papyrus snarked as Sans’ sodden slippers squished and squelched with each step.

Chocolate

Chocolate sauce was chocolate sauce and spaghetti was spaghetti, both good things independently, so…Sans could assume Papyrus had made them better together, right?

Happiness

Papyrus had genuinely laughed at what was admittedly his worst material, and that was more than enough to lift the corners of Sans’ wan smile.

Telephone

Sans had thirty-four frantic texts, a full voicemail box, and no memory of the last three days to offer as an excuse.

Ears

Papyrus couldn’t help but marvel at Frisk’s dedication to being so cool; they had put new holes in their ears not for better hearing, but simply to decorate with tiny pieces of treasure!

Name

“I’m just Sans—well, ‘Comic Sans’ if you want to be particular about it—but if you really need a surname,” Sans began, mischief sparking in his eyes, “it’s, uh, Lewis. C.S. Lewis, heheh.”

Sensual

Finally Papyrus could understand why Sans so loved spending time in bed; these new silk sheets seemed to float around his bones, gently shushing him to relax and rest.

Sex

“Turns out the humans have a label for everything,” Sans remarked with a wry grin as he spun the striped button pinned to his coat. “I’m what they call an ace in the hole.”

Touch

For reasons he couldn’t quite justify, Papyrus flinched when Frisk wrapped their arms around his neck.

Death

“I’ll see you soon, Tori,” he mumbled as he brushed his hand over the memorial’s stone base, “because if I know anything about that kid, they’re not gonna let you stay down forever.”

Weakness

All of Sans’ strength had been spent in the shower; his juddering legs and the cold embrace of the bathroom floor dictated that dressing would have to wait.

Tears

“I’m always alright,” Papyrus whispered, though he made no effort to dry his streaked cheekbones.

Speed

Papyrus doggedly insisted that the sign had said ninety miles per hour—until he recalled a particular prescription for glasses that still needed filling.

Hero

“It’s not my job to be nice or helpful or cool,” Sans announced flatly. “It’s my job to give judgment, no matter how much it might hurt.”

Freedom

“Not all humans are like Frisk, Papyrus; some of them would rather sweep us off the street than crack a smile at us.”

Life

In response to Sans’ apathetic “What do you want?”—Papyrus poured his soul into a scream: “I want you to treat your life like it matters!”

Jealousy

“Undyne is always away with Alphys and the human Frisk is busy with their plethora of school friends; I don’t know who my ‘besties’ are anymore!”

Hands

“My glove is the wrapping and my hand is the present; I’m just waiting for the day someone special wants to take it!”

Taste

Spongy in the middle, crisp around the edges, swathed with butter and spices that melted in the mouth…If only Papyrus could drag the garlic bread out of the cookbook picture and onto the plate.

Devotion

“Long live the King,” Sans murmured as he pried the crown from his exhausted brother’s head and tucked his cloak closer around him for the night.

Sickness

It was unsettling to see Pap so limp and lethargic, snoring on and off between miserable sniffs and the few coughs his abused throat could muster.

Melody

For once Papyrus regretted that he wasn’t a stealthier skeleton; he would have liked to hear Sans sing another bar or two before he jumped at his presence.

Star

Mettaton had been acknowledging everyone in the first several rows, but surely the celebrity had glanced at Papyrus a few seconds longer than the rest!

Home

Their Surface house felt like a resort—airy, open, relaxing to some degree, but Sans still had the nagging urge to keep his bags and boxes packed.

Market

“Sans, I have no intention of purchasing seventeen boxes of Twinkies!”

Hair

“Oh, so I’m not allowed any Twinkies to repackage as ‘dessert dogs’ for my booming business, but you’re allowed four different brands of shampoo for hair you don’t even have.”

Confusion

“These puzzles I’ve submitted are sure to be a much greater challenge for this week’s column, don’t you think?” he questioned smugly as his brother stared at the sheet of incomprehensible twists, turns, and teasers.

Innocence

“Doesn’t ‘hanky panky’ mean that you are ‘hankering for a pancake’?” Papyrus demanded as Sans choked on his coffee.

Fear

“I think, uh, I’d rather take the stairs, be proactive like you’re always telling me,” Sans decided, recoiling from the cramped, groaning walls of the elevator.

Sky

The pure blue expanse made Sans’ head swim with its enormity, stretching further than his eye sockets could ever see.

Lightning/Thunder

Papyrus couldn’t help but wonder if that terrifying noise was the sun, roiling and roaring at the dark clouds for blotting out its rightful place.

Forever

“Why do you always leave me behind?” Sans wanted to say, instead forcing a smile and wave as Papyrus strode toward his terminal.

Technology

Papyrus’ first college semester, Sans kept his phone charged and at full volume more consistently than he had in the last five years.

Blood

“Stay awake for me, Sans, just keep your eyes on me!” Papyrus begged, because if he didn’t keep their eyelights locked he would have to watch the pool of red grow.

Hell

Sans’ HP hung by a decimal point, slipping, and Undyne wrestled her arms around Papyrus’ shoulders to keep him back as he screamed.

Safe

“It’s thanks to you that I’m still here, bro; I won’t go anywhere if you don’t.”

Bonds

“We skeletons have a soul sense for such things; I can feel my brother’s aura of bad jokes, dirty socks and disappointment in this room.”

Gift

“It was on sale!” Papyrus lied, brightly and effortlessly, because he hated to see Sans look so guilty for receiving a good thing.

Smile

Sans chuckled fondly as he admired the worn, creased photos, tracing a finger over his baby brother’s beaming face.

Child

Papyrus wouldn’t mind having a little one to raise someday—someone to look up to him for his greatness and guidance, the way he had once looked up to Sans.

Waves

Seafoam swirled gently around his ankles, beckoning him closer, deeper, against his better judgment; if there was a choice to sink or swim, Sans would sink every time.

Moon

If Pap was the sun, then he must be the moon: a ball of scars and craters, whose only shine was a lesser reflection of his brother’s.

Hope

“But if you weren’t there to be the moon,” Papyrus answered, so simply, so kindly, “who else would be a light in the darkness?”

Heaven

Most gods Sans heard about were not gods of mercy, but he would keep looking; he would find the one who gave eternal peace as a gift, not as something to bargain for.

Completion

As his wavering steps gave out and the twirling lights softly faded, Sans closed his eyes and breathed, soundless, “Finally.”

[sir-huffman]

Huffman | ★★★★★ | Geo Sword | Healer/DPS | Vaticinatio Dei

[ Photo Credit: Qistina Khalidah ]

“The currencies that flow through this land are my flesh and blood. For thus did I become the guarantor of the people's hard work, wisdom, and future. This is the trust I have placed in them. Betray it, and you taint my blood.” -- Prithiva Topaz Gemstone

Thank you for all of you who have voted and aided me in the concept of Huffman receiving a vision, despite being only a few days old and still feeling Huffman out as a muse. Basically, this is Huffman should he receive a vision (when a catastrophe hits Mondstadt and he ends up dying protecting the city). --

Story Teaser - Delphi : the Ancient Capitol Deep in the depths of the world there is a place that holds a mountain of hidden secrets lost and forgotten in the world. It is where those who seek power, knowledge, and wisdom go when their heavenly gods refuse to answer. So will you venture into the depths, witness unspeakable terrors? Or will you still pray to those gods who promise you an eternal bliss?

Character Demo - Huffman : At Your Service “Good evening traveler, Sir Huffman of the Knights of Favonius at your service. Please, grant me the honor of being at your side to ensure the safety of your journey.”

Collected Miscellany - Huffman : a Knight of Favonius The Knights of Favonius are but the militaristic power who governs and protects Mondstadt. Although most of them consist of ordinary people who pray to a god that has left them in the name of freedom, the knights are there to protect the Moon City in their times of need. But seldom do those knights who give their whole body to a thankless world achieve the recognition of the people...or even the gods...It is only in the moment of death does Huffman achieve this glory:

(read more at your own discretion as it’s long)

Vera’s Melancholy: A book Huffman could be seen reading during his down time. An adventurous fantasy tale that takes place in the starry sky above. It’s a whimsical tale, one that even features his own name in it (how funny), and one that he holds dear to his heart. If only he knew the answer at the end...what would Vera’s answer be to a man who had explored the entire universe just to save her?

Ah...if only he knew...for he is still waiting for that answer

Vision: For a young boy full of youth, the idea of gaining a vision is always a dream to the people of Teyvat. But how to gain one is but a mystery to all, even those who have received such a gift. So as the days go on and years to by, what is a young man to do when he realizes he will never receive such glory?

So here he is, a knight who dedicates everything to his city. He has no desire but to be of help, of aid, which is never enough for the gods. Until the moment his vision appeared...under a catastrophe, where he had nothing but his own body to protect those in need. Where only those of visions were on the front lines and he...a man (a visionless man) who could not help but give a beckon of ordinary hope...will die.

But the world is a mysterious place and the truth of the matter is that not everyone is blessed in the same way. So as your body starts to crumble and return to the soil you were made out of, the gods have finally shown some mercy. Take this power dear forgotten god my good knight, for you...I place my trust in you to take part and help us reshape our future.

Normal Attack: Favonius Bladework - the Basics

Performs 5 consecutive strikes. Charged Attack: Consumes a certain amount of Stamina to unleash 2 rapid sword strikes. Plunging Attack: Plunges from mid-air to strike the ground below, damaging opponents along the path and dealing AoE DMG upon impact.

Elemental Skill: Ichor - Blood of Gods

Summons a cloud shield of dust that coats his blade in Geo energy as well as dealing GEO DMG to surrounding opponents. The shield’s DMG Absorption scales based on Huffman’s HP.

On hit, Huffman’s Normal and Charged Attacks regenerate HP for your own party members and nearby teammates.

Healing scales based on Huffman’s ATK.

Elemental Burst: Patrocinium Veritatis (Protection of the Truth)

Summoning a glowing golden bow, his sword splits into three silver arrows (charged with geo energy) and shot into the air to rain down multiple arrows, hitting all entities (friends and foes) around Huffman. Allies within range are healed while enemies take AoE GEO damage over time.

HP regained is based on Huffman’s ATK

During this time, Huffman fights with a bow

Passive Talents:

1st Passive: A Knight’s Honor When Huffman is in the party but not on the field, this ability triggers automatically when your active character’s HP falls below 30%. Creates a shield for your active character that lasts for 20s and absorbs DMG equal to 300% of Huffman’s ATK. The shield has a 150% DMG Absorption effectiveness against all Elemental and Physical DMG. This effect can only occur once every 60s.

2nd Passive: At Your Service When your active character gains an Elemental Orb/Particle, regain HP based on Huffman’s Max HP.

3rd Passive: Blessing for Safe Travels Displays the location of nearby enemies (elite enemies) in Mondstadt on the mini-map.

Constellation: Vaticinatio Dei (the Devastation | God of Prophecy)

Mona (About Huffman): Huffman? That guard that walks around Angel’s Share all day? He’s just like any other guard. Hmph. You do have weird tastes in people, but I’ll go ahead and take a look. Hm...again? I can’t see anything...it’s...it’s just white...wait...it’s bright. Wait...no...I...my eyes. Okay...okay! I won’t look again!

Prophecies of Fortune Increases Huffman’s Energy Recharge by 15%

Blessings of Protection Grants nearby characters on the field a Cloud Shield of Dust when Ichor - Blood of Gods is activated

Drinks from Mímisbrunnr Increases the level of Ichor - Blood of Gods by 3. Maximum upgrade level is 15.

Blessings of Artemis Within the radius of Patrocinium Veritatis, bow character’s charge time for aimed shots is reduced by 60%.

Radiance of Sunlight Increases the level of Patrocinium Veritatis by 3. Maximum upgrade level is 15.

Hector’s Avenger Within the Field created by Patrocinium Veritatis, character’s CRIT Rate is increased to 100%. If character’s CRIT Rate is over 100%, then CRIT DMG is increased by 50%

[orsino-the-enchanter]

Excercises In Futility

...or an one-shot featuring the musings of a mage who keeps going because of necessity. Characters: First Enchanter Orsino ,mentions of Uldred Pairings: none Genre: angst, existential philosophy

Deep within the Gallows’ guts, in a small tower looming over the miserable expanse of irons and ironies that is the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, the First Enchanter is dreaming. 

A pale wrist carved in hieroglyphs made with surgical precision is dangling off the bed; a crimson trail the only sign of life that trickles down and adorns long fingers. It drips from the signet ring into a pool onto the wooden floor underneath; like a liquid hourglass always giving by taking. The ominous metallic red mist of magic coming out of it and thickening the air was testimony to that; yet the crackling from the hearth, the rain cascading down the barred narrow window  and the enchanter’s steady breathing made the whole scenery seem deceptively serene. Perhaps it was. When one’s home is a prison, does it make it any less of a home? Does it make it any less of a prison?

Inside the First Enchanter’s mind, however, serenity was a foreign concept. In a sense, that was the only true freedom any mage was allowed, and he would make use of it, even though he had no choice on the matter. How did that Chant go, again? “To you, my second-born, I grant this gift: In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming, and never satisfied.” In the First Enchanter’s case, that flame burned in sleep as intensely as in his wake. Perhaps even more so. 

That was his rare gift -his curse: relentless consciousness and self-awareness, always and forever until he was dead, comatose, knocked out or made Tranquil; whatever came first. No more dreams, then. Orsino had once read that everyone’s existence is tied in a field; and free will is the illusion that either the field is never-ending or the rope is. He, of all people could not argue with that.

 However, determinism did not need to be blind. To say "yes" to necessity and change the inevitable into something done of their own free will? That is perhaps the only humane way to deliverance. A pitiable way, yes, but there is no other.

“And what of revolt? The proud, quixotic reaction of mankind to conquer Necessity and make external laws conform to the internal laws of the soul, to deny all that is and create a new world according to the laws of one's own heart, which are contrary to the inhuman laws of nature--to create a new world which is purer, better and more moral than the one that exists?” The flame within the First Enchanter’s bosom would ask, defiantly. 

Well, what of it. Mages do not get to have existential agonies; they do not get to exist, period. Pain is every mage’s lot, like his only friend used to say back in Kinloch, and the First Enchanter had concluded that it is in fact despair which births revolt. Not the gentle, spiritual kind of despair but the vile, brutal kind that leads an injured animal to attack its tormentor. There is no room for poetry; not yet, at least. Only for survival.

Was it not despair that made this particular gift to emerge in the first place? The First Enchanter still remembered the last night of peaceful sleep he had, many years ago; he could still taste the bitterness of guilt that night etched. If only he had woken up, rushed to Maud’s side, broken into the closet, prevented the inevitable... But he did not. He slept peacefully; were he not hopelessly young he would have known it was the quiet before the storm.

And the storm did come.  Chaos. Anger. Pain. Agony.  Then, an all-consuming Void. And finally, the Dreams came.

He was young and naive. He paid for both sins equally in one single night: the gray in his hair took the youth away and the gift of the Somniar took away the naivity. The pain took away all that was left. And still, the First Enchnter thought it was fair. Although everything else was not. 

“Why do young people die?” The Flame inside him screamed. “Everything that happens in this world is unjust, unjust, unjust! I won't be a party to it! I, the knife-eared worm, the mage slug, I! Why must the young die and the old wrecks like me go on living? What kind of justice is this? I shall never, never forgive the Maker for that, the day I die, if He has the cheek to appear in front of me, and if He is really and truly the Maker, He'll be ashamed! Yes, yes, He'll be ashamed to show himself to me, the mage-slug!"

Death had no mercy. Everyone knew that much. Wht not many knew was that in the Gallows, Despair, the Mother of Gifts was Death’s biggest ally. Slowly and tirelessly it ate through the living like mould, leaving but empty vessels for Death to claim, and it infuriated the First Enchanter. Especially because the young were most vulnerable to it.

“Why are you helping us?” a teenager had asked him earlier that day. There was nothing but hatred in his eyes -the kind of hatred and bitterness only a teenager is capable of. He had been brought to the Gallows mere days ago. “We are all lost causes, mistakes of nature only meant to cause destruction and ruin. You call it a gift, but I killed my own parents with it. My mother scolded me for not tidying up my room and it was all it took. You are an idiot to believe that there is any hope or redemption after that.” 

The First Enchanter knew; of course he did. This was not the first such case that fell under his care -yet, somehow, the boy’s words, the look in his eyes, somehow scratched a wound that had never healed. His own brow furrowed and he fixed the insolent youth with an icy, stern glare as he felt his blood boil in anger. “Ever heard of Entropy?” he said, and the boy looked at him as if he had suddenly transformed into a monster. “I have seen such cases. People who drain life merely by their touch; make steel erode, turn forests into wastelands. And when there is nothing to absorb, the force turns to absorb themselves. I have seen little girls slowly melting away like candlewax, infants who looked like elders, children playing around covered in man-made exosceletons to prevent anyone from coming to contact with them; wearing their own sarcophagi while still living. Call me foolish, if you will. I am helping because regardless of what they are like; what you are like, you deserve better. You deserve life.”

And tonight, the First Enchanter would make sure of it.

It was forbidden, and, until revently unheard of, but he and Uldred had developed this sort of magic together; a fine combination of a Somniar’s ability to shape dreams and blood magic’s fueling of energy. However the chance to test the spell in such a great scale hadn’t risen until now. Shaping the dreamworlds of hundreds at the same time: nconceivable, invaluable. However, putting the spell into practice revealed one drawback: great amounts of energy were required to control so many minds and blood -an excellent resource as it were- was not in limitless supply. The First Enchanter thought it was a small price to pay, regardless.

Dreaming was getting increasingly harder now and the crimson mist in the room had turned into thick fog, blurring out shapes and angles. The hearth had burned out long ago, yet the trickling of blood on the floor continued -albeit in a much slower pace. There was not much more left to give. However, the First Enchanter was content. From now on, his nights of disquiet would be put into good use; what was sacrificing himself every night so that his people could finally sleep at peace? Giving up what was already lost to provide comfort; efforts in vain, excercises in futility today, tomorrow, ad infinitum for the sake of his people; was that not the heavy duty of a First Enchanter?

The first ray of dawn made it past the barred window of the tower, and illuminated a faint, sad smile upon his lips. The Gallows started to wake up. And Orsino’s mortal coil finally gave in, magic fading and the warm, unfamiliar comfort of unconsciousness embracing him at last. 

((soundtrack))

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Tagging @tryvyalsynnes for all the WIP Wednesdays you tagged me in and i failed to deliver. I hope this compensates for it.

[thesetales-archive4]

what song do you associate with each muse?

okay so this took me forever lol, and i didn’t do it for ardyn, hannibal or blaine bc i ended up getting tired of looking for songs, but... here you go. i also put the parts of the lyrics to each song that i associate with each muse underneath the cut, for those who might be interested in why i picked the songs i picked. anyways, here goes:

ARTHUR FLECK:  smile - jimmy duranteJOHN DOE:  down with the sickness - disturbedJACE HUNTER:  monster you made me - pop evilJOHN WINCHESTER:  hurt - johnny cashNEGAN:  hail to the king - avenged sevenfoldEDWARD NYGMA:  numb - the cover version by jonathan youngJAMES GORDON:  healing begins - tenth avenue northHARLEY QUINN:  i’m gonna show you crazy - bebe rexhaSEAN MACGUIRE:  my old man - zac brown bandARTHUR MORGAN:  running gun - marty robbinsDAMON SALVATORE:  whiskey fever - dorothy   

ARTHUR FLECK:  smile - jimmy durante

smile though your heart is aching, smile even though it's breakingwhen there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by. if you smile through your fear and sorrow. smile, and maybe tomorrow you'll see the sun come shining through, for you. light up your face with gladness, hide every trace of sadness, although a tear may be ever so near. that's the time you must keep on trying. smile, what's the use of crying? you'll find that life is still worth while, if you just smile.

JOHN DOE:  down with the sickness - disturbed

it seems what's left of my human side is  slowly changing in me (will you give in to me?) looking at my own reflection, when suddenly it changes, violently it changes. there is no turning back now, you'vewoken up the demon in me. 

get up, come on get down with the sickness, open up your hate, andlet it flow into me. get up, come on get down with the sickness. madness is the gift, that has been given to me. 

i can see inside you, the sickness is rising, don't try to deny what you feel (will you give in to me?) it seems that all that was good has died, and is decaying in me.

JACE HUNTER:  monster you made me - pop evil

take a good look at me now, do you still recognize me? am i so different inside? this world is trying to change me. and i admit i don't want to change with it, and i admit i can't go on like this anymoreerase this monster i've become. forgive me for all the damage done. it's not over, say it's not over. i'm begging for mercy, i’monly the monster you made me.i'm better alone now. see i'm torn from my mistakes. and i stop believing that i could ever make things change. how much can i take, when i know that it hurts you? how long can i wait, when icant go on like this anymore?because who i am isn't who i used to be. and i'm not invincible,i'm not indestructible. i'm only human. can't you see the beauty in me?take a good look at me now, can't you see i've changed?

JOHN WINCHESTER:  hurt - johnny cash

i hurt myself today, to see if i still feeli focus on the pain, the only thing that's realthe needle tears a hole, the old familiar stingtry to kill it all away, but i remember everything

what have i become, my sweetest friendeveryone i know, goes away in the endand you could have it all, my empire of dirti will let you down, i will make you hurt

NEGAN:  hail to the king - a7x

watch your tongue or have it cut from your head. save your life by keeping whispers unsaid. children roam the streets now orphans of war. bodies hanging in the streets to adore. royal flames will carve a path in chaos, bringing daylight to the night. death is riding in to town with armor. they come to take all your rights.

hail to the king, hail to the one. kneel to the crown, stand in the sun. hail to the king.

blood is spilled while holding keys to the throne. born again but it’s too late to atone. no mercy from the edge of the blade. dare escape and learn the price to be paid. let the water flow in shades of red now. arrows black out all the light. death is riding in to town with armor. they come to grant you your rights.

there's a taste of fear, when the henchmen call. iron fist to tame them iron fist to claim it all

EDWARD NYGMA:  numb - linkin park cover by jonathan young

i'm tired of being what you want me to be, feeling so faithless, lost under the surface. don't know what you're expecting of meput under the pressure of walking in your shoes. every step that i take is another mistake to you

i've become so numb, i can't feel you there. become so tired, so much more aware, i'm becoming this. all i want to do, is be more like me and be less like you

can't you see that you're smothering me. holding too tightly, afraid to lose control? 'cause everything that you thought i would be has fallen apart right in front of you. every step that I take is another mistake to you. and every second I waste is more than I can take

and i know i may end up failing too. but i know you were just like me with someone disappointed in you

JAMES GORDON:  healing begins - tenth avenue north.

so you thought you had to keep this up. all the work that you doso we think that you're good. and you can't believe it's not enough.all the walls you built up are just glass on the outside

so let 'em fall down. there's freedom waiting in the sound, when you let your walls fall to the ground, we're here now

this is where the healing begins, oh this is where the healing starts.when you come to where you're broken, within the light meets the dark.

afraid to let your secrets out. everything that you hide can comecrashing through the door now. but too scared to face all your fear, so you hide, but you find that the shame won't disappear

sparks will fly as grace collides with the dark inside of us. so please don't fight this coming light. the light meets the dark.

HARLEY QUINN:  i’m gonna show you crazy - bebe rexha

there's a war inside my head, sometimes i wish that i was dead.i'm broken, so i called this therapist and she said, "girl, you can't be fixed, just take this"i'm tired of trying to be normal, i'm always over-thinking. i'm driving myself crazy. so what if i'm fucking crazy?

and i don't need your quick fix. i don't want your prescriptions. just'cause you say i'm crazy, so what if i'm fucking crazy? yeah, i’m gonna show youloco, maniac, sick bitch, psychopath, yeah, i'm gonna show you, i’mgonna show you. yeah, i'm gonna show you mental out my brain, bat shit, go insane, yeah, i'm gonna show you

i've been searching city streets trying to find the missing piece like you said. and i searched hard only to find there's not a single thing that's wrong with my mind.

SEAN MACGUIRE:  my old man - zac brown band

he was a giant when i was just a kid. i was always tryingto do everything he did. i can still remember every lesson he taught me, growing up learning how to be like my old man

he was a lion, we were our father's pride, but i was defiant, when he made me walk the line. he knew how to lift me up, and when to let me fall. looking back, he always had a planmy old man, my old man

feel the callous on his hands and dusty overalls. my old man, now i finally understand i have a lot  to learn from my old man.

my old man, i know one day we'll meet again, as he's looking down. my old man, i hope he's proud of who i ami'm trying to fill the boot of my old man. my old man

ARTHUR MORGAN:  running gun - marty robbins

i rode out of kansas city, going, south to mexico. i was, running dodging danger, left the girl that i loved so. far behind lay kansas city and the past that i had earned. twenty notches on my six gun marked the lessons i had learned. 

many times i sold my fast gun for a place to lay my head. till the nights began to haunt me by the men that i lay dead. couldn't stand it any longer with the life that i'd begun, so I, said good-bye to jeannie and became a running gun. i rode into amarillo as the sun sank in the west, my thoughts in kansas city and the girl that i love best. as i smiled and kissed her gently and then turned around to go, said i'd send for her to meet me when i reached old mexico. i had barely left the saddle and my foot just touched the ground, when a cold voice from the shadows told me not to turn around.said he knew about my fast gun, knew the price paid by the law. challenged by a bounty hunter, so i turned around to draw. 

i knew someday i'd meet him for his hand like lightning flashed, my own gun stayed in leather as his bullet tore it's path. as my strength was slowly fading, i could see him walk away, and i knew that where i lie today, he too must lie some day. now my strength is slowly fading and my eyes are growing dim, and my thoughts return to jeannie and the home that we had planned. oh please tell her won't you mister that she's still the only one, but a woman's love is wasted when she loves a running gun.

DAMON SALVATORE:  whiskey fever - dorothy

woah mama don't you leave me alone, no tellin' what i'll do on my own. woah mama there's a pit in my soul, so deep i gotta fill it up now, fill it up now, fill it up now.whiskey whiskey whiskey fever, you're my evil, you're my evilwhiskey whiskey whiskey fever, you're my evil, you're my evil love

woah mama can't you say that i'm wrong, bad habits been busting my bones. hell mama’s gonna swallow me whole, god knows i gotta fill it up now, fill it up now, fill it up now.

[thememoriesofaqueen]

The Things We Do - Part 4

Masterlist (x)

A/N: Thanks to all of your messages, because of them I had a really high muse         to write ♥  I enjoy going through your feedback, it really helps me to decide         of including or excluding things.                English is not my first language      → I do not own anything of the TVD - Universe and I’m not affiliated or                   associated with the writers etc. this is only a headcanon.

Summary: Coming face to face after their seperation, Katherine has a lot to say to Elijah.

Pairing: Kalijah ( Katherine / Elijah )

Setting: post TVD 4x23, no cured Katherine.

TW: none

Word Count: 3.120

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„What exactly did Elena say to you?“ 

she repeated his words in her mind. Once, twice, even a third time. Yes, what did sweet, lovely Elena say? Should she tell him how she made fun of her? How she had to bring her down to the gutter?

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

she said, her voice almost emotionless.

She didn’t know what game he was playing. He clearly didn’t come all the way from what she assumed was New Orleans, to talk about Elena. No, he had a plan, a motivation. If he wanted to talk, he could have called her, not that she intended to pick up, but he could have tried it.

Instead he comes here out of the blue and started to ask questions. He was playing her and she was tired of it.

“You came to me for a reason. You’re not someone who just does spontaneous things, you had this whole thing planned. So what is it? Are you into torture now? Do you want me to beg for it? Should I get on my knees to beg for mercy and a quick ending?”

she spat the words out, but with a steady voice.

He didn’t made any move yet, nevertheless his ultimate proximity made her nervous, her heart still beat too fast.

She was convinced he came to end her, because he hated lose ends as much as she did. Why would he want her to be alive anyway? He probably thought of her as a danger, as someone who knew too much about his family. She knew what happens when he is betrayed and she knew that he thinks she has lied to him, that she has used him. He had all the reasons to do it but didn’t made a move.

Did he enjoy this? Did he enjoyed seeing her like this? He knows she is afraid, even though she tried to hide it. She’s sure there are things which cannot be hidden. Especially with a heartbeat as loud as hers at the moment.

“I did not come to end you!”

his voice louder than the last time, stressing every word, admitting of no contradiction.

“Then why did you come? You didn’t bother about me before”

perhaps she grew more confident now that he said he didn’t meant to kill her. Even though she didn’t trust his words. No, he can’t be trusted anymore.

He seems to consider is words, as he didn’t answered her directly. Wonderful. He was searching for nice words.

“Rebekah - ”

he sighed, taking a few steps back. He looked conflicted as to what to say to her, so she just rose an eyebrow and waited for him to go on.

“She mentioned your attack on Elena and the disappearance of the cure. I wanted to make sure you’re not going to cause any ... irritations”

So that was it. He thought she could be a problem to the all mighty Mikaelson family. He thought she had stolen the cure and planed on making a move against them. Not that they wouldn’t deserve it, but she knows she wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have the cure.”

she made a pause, after almost hissing those words at him.

“Seriously, how dumb do you think I am? Do you really think I would be so stupid to come after Klaus to shove the cure down his throat? Do you think I have a death wish? He’d gladly rip me apart before I have the slightest chance of touching him!”

her eyes were now glaring at him. But her rant wasn’t over. The fear she felt before has turned into furor. She was still afraid of dying, but if he really plan on killing her, she wouldn’t stand a chance against him, so she can use the little time she had as well.

“So what would you have done if I had the cure, hm? I know what you do to the people who dare to attack your precious family. You would kill me, have me killed or you’d have me wrapped up as a nice gift for Klaus. So don’t dare to ask me why I believe you would do such things to me. I am nothing to you!”

she snarled, knowing it was true. He didn’t care about her.

Apparently Elijah didn’t expect such an outburst, he was trying to search for words.

“ I have not- I hoped the assumption wouldn’t be proven as true! I wouldn’t have wanted to kill- “

“Oh stop it, Elijah. Stop lying.”

she almost shouted now

“You have no reason to not do it. I don’t know what game you are playing, why you’re so keen of letting me wait for my death, but at least stop lying”

her voice was still angry, but more quietly now. The calmer and firmer she remained, the cutting were her words.

“Do not accuse me of lying, Katherine! I’m not going to end you. Stop accusing me of things I don’t wish to do!”

he sounded angered, perhaps even threatening, not only because he called her ‘Katherine’, but she didn’t care. Why should she? It didn’t matter anymore. Her fate was sealed if he really decided to hurt her.

“And why should I believe you, why should I trust you?”

she shot him a blank stare, her face completly emotionless.

“Because I cared for you. How do you expect me to kill someone I cared for?”

he tried to explain himself, but she just waved his words aside.

“You cared for me?”

a tired laugh escaped her lips.

“You cared for me? When? Half a millennium ago? You cared for my human self, not ever for me as I’m now.”

“Do you think I lied to you? I cared for you! I fell in love with you! But regardless of my intentions towards you, you fooled me. How can I trust you when I always have to ask myself if you tell me the truth?”

he pointed at her, his voice still calm but he couldn’t trick her. She knew he was angered.

It’s funny how he still thinks she fooled him. After everything that she has done for him. She snorted, eying him pugnaciously.

“I have never fooled you. I trusted you. You call yourself so honorable, a man of his word. But did you keep your word? No!”

he wanted to say something, but she cut him off.

“You promised me to speak to Klaus, to give him the cure as my compensation for my freedom. You promised me! We had a deal. I get the cure and you get me my freedom. I did my part. I haven’t tried to work around you. It wasn’t me who betrayed the other one - it was you. Because even when I gave you the cure without asking anything in return, even then, you did nothing but mistrust me. You didn’t even had the decency to work things out, you didn’t even considered staying with me.”

her voice dripped with disapproval. A storm has been awakened within her, all the rage and furor she felt, all the grief and betrayal. A storm which was too strong to fight it.

He did this to her. All her actions, everything she has done in the past weeks was not only because of Elena, but also because of him, because of Elijah Mikaelson. Because he chose to believe an emotionless vampire who would love nothing more than to destroy the little happiness she had.

It was his fault. He left her, leaving her without anything so that the others could mock her for being abandoned. He denied her her freedom as well as Klaus did. It should be her who’s feeling used. It was her who invested into their relationship, who got over herself and let her guards down.

She tried so hard to make their relationship work, she fought with her own demons. Just to discover she wasn’t worth it? That she doesn’t deserve happiness no matter how hard she tried?

“Do you know what it felt like? I was so close of being happy, so close of having a normal life.”

she spat her words out through gritted teeth and glared at him. All the rage she felt was going to turn on him now, her eyes claring at him like she wanted to kill him.

“I did everything in my power to make our relationship work. Usually I don’t trust anyone but me and I don’t let love come in the way. Nevertheless I did it for you. I gave up my key to freedom for you, for us. Looks like it meant nothing to you!”

Just because he choose to believe Elena, just because he choose to break their deal, she had to go on the run again. It was because of him that she made a deal with Bonnie to gain another form of freedom. True immortality. And what happened? She got stabbed and got almost half of her face burned by Elena. In the end Bonnie lied to her as everyone else, denying her the promised immortality.

“But you, self-righteous as you are, still believed I was just using you. I have never used you for the purpose of survival. I have loved you, I have trusted you!”

her words were cutting and loud, letting out all the rage she held.

She wanted to throw something at him, she wanted to scream at him! But she wouldn't let her emotion get so far as to completely losing control. She was far too proud for losing control over a person, not a man, a person, who doesn’t even deserve one more moment with her.

“Have you realized how absurd your accusation are? It would have been foolish to play an Original, it would have been dumb! You already chased me and tried to get me killed once, do you honestly think I would risk to anger you? To repeat history? As I said before, i don’t have a death wish! There was no need for me of betraying you! We had a deal and that’s it, everything which came after, all the feelings I held for you were real and had nothing to to with the deal.”

Did he ever even realized what he has done? How he could even think about her this way? He should have known better.

“But what can I expect? You wanted to know what Elena said to me?”

she asked, her voice now calmer than ever. The storm inside her slowly faded away.

“»What good would you be to anyone? You're the definition of damaged goods. No wonder Elijah left you.« And do you know what? She’s probably right. You chased after a person who doesn’t exist anymore. You were in love with Katerina, the person I was hundreds of years ago. She was the one you are in love with, but you never loved me. The person I’m today is nothing but a heartless monster, a broken toy no one wants. I'm good for being messed around with but for nothing more. Why should someone want to love a monster? Someone who became a killer in order to survive? Why should anyone want to let me have happiness? Why should anyone care about me?”

her eyes filled with tears, she wasn't even trying to hold them back.

“I’ve trusted you, Elijah. I thought I could have a life with you. I felt safe with you. I was weary of running, I wanted to rest, to be happy. But what did you do? You threw me away like garbage. You betrayed me. How should I ever trust you again? You didn’t give me a chance. You’ve judged me before I even had the opportunity to explain myself!”

She saw his expression changing during her talk. At first he was angry, but the more she said, the more he frowned. It almost looked like he realized something.

“I didn’t think of you as a broken toy. I don’t think you’re damaged goods. I - I never intended to hurt you, Katerina. I shouldn’t have-  You’re not- I beg your pardon”

his voice was soft and filled with regret when he rung for words. He slowly approached her, raising his hand as if he wanted to touch her cheeks. But he stopped, withdrawing his hand.

She swallowed, not bearing his proximity. Moments ago she was afraid of him, she feared he came to end her but now she only felt loneliness.

She wiped her tears away and turned around. Walking away from him, towards a large window where she looked outside, watching the grey sky for a view minutes. The room was silent.

“It doesn’t matter, Elijah. You’ve made your choice. You didn’t choose me and you probably never will. It was an illusion to think you’d love me. It’s an illusion to think anyone ever could”

her words were a whisper and only now did she turn around, sadness in her eyes.

“Is that truely what you think of yourself? That you can not be loved?”

he asked, swallowing. He looked pained. He didn’t look like a predator anymore. No, she wasn’t afraid of him right now.

“You’re an adorable, an amazing woman, Katerina, and no one’s going to change that.”

“I don’t care about ‘no one’, I cared about what you were thinking of me! But you, inerrant as you are, chose Elena. You chose to believe the person who despises me, who’d love to see me going down. Tell me why. Tell me what she said to you to turn you against me. If you really have loved me, if you really cared for me, why was it so easy to turn against me? To believe Elena? Why shouldn’t I think I don’t deserve love or any happiness. Convince me to change my mind!”

she almost demanded it. She’s been wondering for weeks what she has said to him, what her doppelganger had done. She wanted to know, not that she’s needing one more cause to rip her ugly heart out.

Watching him carefully now, she narrowed her eyes. Oh yes, she wanted to satisfy her curiosity. What can she tell him to make him doubt her? Elijah seemed to consider his words, breaking eye contact with her for a moment.

“You killed Jeremy Gilbert”

he said with a neutral tone in his voice.

“There was no need of killing him. You should know what it is like to lose family. But you didn’t care, you just didn’t care.”

She snorted contemptuously.

“You weren’t there, Elijah. How can you judge if you don’t know the situation? My mission was to get the cure. A hunter of the five was after it, your sister was after it, not to mention the Mystic Falls clique. I’ve been on the island for days to figure out where Silas was and how to get the cure. It was cold and wet and I had to sleep in a cave. I had no patience anymore, I wanted to go home! Besides that, Jeremy would have been dead anyway, if it weren’t for me the hunter would have killed him. Using Jeremy was collateral damage as there was no way of getting the cure before I get myself killed.”

if she could have prevented it, she would have done it. It would have been better to operate unnoticed. Without letting anyone know that it was her who had the cure.

“You still lied to me about it”

“Did I? You only asked about if our mission was successful and I answered truthfully. How can I lie to you when you’re not asking?”

she crossed her arms in front of her chest, not believing he dumped her solely for Elena and Jeremy.

“That was everything she said to you? That was everything which was needed to turn you against me? Was my trust and love so worthless?”

she asked, not believing it. How can he choose them over her? The sadness was gone now, changing into anger. Her mood was very twisted today, it was energy-sapping.

Elijah looked like he wasn’t telling everything, there had to be more behind it. She waited but nothing came. Anger and hurt filled her because he still couldn’t manage to be honest with her.

“That’s it? That’s everything which is needed to lose your trust? How dare you to defend them! Not only what they did to me, but what they did to you too! Did it every occur to you, that she might enjoy spreading lies, trying to distract you from what she has done?”

“I don’t understand? I had no reason to doubt Elena.”

she mentally rolled her eyes at his statement. How was he able to just ignore the things Elena did? Why was he always defending her, praising her? She was exhausted, tired, but she had to tell him. She wanted him to know the truth. She had to bite back a devilish smirk about what she’s going to tell him.

“Of course you don’t. Yeah, why should you ever doubt Elena and Jeremy? What do you think is needed in order to complete the hunter’s mark? A hunter has to prove himself as a true hunter. And how could a hunter do that? By killing vampires. But now you would want to ask how many vampires are needed to complete the mark. Hm, what about a lot? It’s nearly impossible to find that much vampires in such a short span of time. So the only solution to complete the mark within a short time is to go to a place with many vampires .... or to kill an Original.”

she waited to let her words think in. She wanted to hurt him, to know what betrayal feels like. He thought he could trust sweet Elena, but oh how wrong he was. She wanted him to know what kind of monster Elena was, she wanted to let him know that he chose wrong. She wanted him to suffer, to realize what mistake he made.

“How do you think Kol has died? It weren’t the Salvatores who did this to him. It was Elena and company who tricked and trapped him, who staked him. They’ve killed your brother without batting an eye. They didn’t care about how many vampires have to die if they kill him. They didn’t care about his, your, family, they didn’t care that he’ll be probably missed.”

She noticed his reaction, the way his eyes widend. He didn’t know. Sucks being lied to, after all it was Elena who wasn’t being honest with him.

______________________________________________________________

A/N: That’s a wrap on chapter 4. If you liked it, leave a ♥ or a message please. What did you think of it? Do you think Katherine’s revelation regarding Kol will change Elijah’s point of view? Do you think he’ll fight for her and realize his mistake? If he does so, would he eventually succeed?

I’m also wondering if you would like to read everything or a few parts through Elijah’s perspective? What would like to know?

I’m probably not able to write chapter 5 until July, so please be patient. I’ll probably still stick around to read your feedback and answer to your thoughts.

I’m also thinking about writing more Kalijah, not only this story. It’s depending on how much time and muse I have.

[echowantshervoiceback]

Elefterios Zacharopoulos - actor, filmmaker, feminist, friend.

I once wrote a song called ‘Tea’, which is about letting go, and recognising the fact that time is always flowing forward, and can never be returned to, or retained, except in memory. I often suffer by lingering too long in my memories of moments that were precious to me. I guess you could call me hypersensitive, and this helps me write my songs, especially when I’m feeling overwhelmed with some emotion, mingled with hope. There is always hope when you write; when you create, contrary to some claims that pain inspires more than happiness. Despair, happiness: these grand emotions: they are never clear. There are always a myriad nuances to them. So to say one is inspired merely by one or the other, is not, in my humble opinion, accurate, because when, for example, I am experiencing a lot of pain, despair, minus hope, I can’t write anything. To quote one of my favourite writers, Tony Morrison, “When there is pain, there are no words. All pain is the same.” When it slightly lifts and I have hope, then I can write something, and that something frees me. The same reasoning applies to feelings of happiness. When feeling ecstatic, I can’t write, I want to live that ecstasy instead, and I often do. When I’m remembering that moment retrospectively on the other hand, and I’m feeling more content, I can write about it. Writing happens in a space that is more neutral, and emotions in their extremities, are always lodged within our memories. When we write, when we create, it’s important I guess, to remember just how something felt. The particularities of each moment are subjective to the individual and inspiring because of their specific importance to them.  Right now I’m grieving the loss of a friend I’ve known for some time. People often come into our lives out of the literal blue, and they give us gifts, with their laughter, their kindnesses, their own talents and capacity to love. Elefterios, whose name is Greek for Freedom, came out of the literal blue into my own life, and proposed we work together. We filmed a music video in the streets of Paris  for a French song called, ‘Laisse Moi’, I had written at the time. He filmed me on his phone. He did a great job. We became fast friends. The video was edited by Tarik El Alaoui, and Dominique De Coster, an actor and one of Elefterios’ close friends, acted in it with me. We had plans to work on more music videos and a film together. He wanted to give me challenging roles in his shorts and his feature film. He called me his muse, and said that I made him feel like Giannis Cassavetes when he had first seen Gina Rowlands. He called me his “music lady”. This year when we met, he looked pale, frail and tired. He knew there was something wrong but he’d not yet been diagnosed with cancer. He was waiting for blood test results. Sitting in a quiet Parisian coffee shop on a rainy day, sipping our tea, we talked about the future, and all the things he still wanted to achieve. He had all these great ideas, a script, but not enough funds. There was determination in his voice, regardless, and no matter the physical pain he was clearly going through. He gave me a charm that last time we met: a Greek “Komboloi” or what we call “worry beads” in Greece and Cyprus, used to calm  the mind when experiencing difficult times. He must have known deep down that he didn’t have long to live; it had been his way of saying goodbye to me, and it was so sad, and so sweet.  This strong, beautiful, vivacious man, with a booming laughter and a huge heart, truly loved women. His short films were about women. He wanted women to be safe everywhere. He drew attention to the violence against women. His short film 911-Pizza is still winning awards, internationally. Elefterios paid homage to his name by defending freedom in his work. He did good for society. He did good with his art. He was too good to die so soon. But what can we take from this? Ironically, death shocks us into life again. We realise that time is so short; irretrievable; valuable, and losses make us grateful for what we still have; and we are propelled once more into thinking of how best to breathe life into moments of truth, with our creativity and our love for each other.  We spoke a couple of weeks before he passed away. He never managed to listen to my final messages. They never got to him on time. Time. The only thing we can’t have back. I wrote that in ‘Tea’ years ago, after the loss of a relationship and the realisation that I must let go, and move forward, no matter how much it hurts. Losing people is something we never get used to. It comes in waves. I can only imagine how much pain Elefterios’ family and even closest friends are now going through. My heart goes out to them.  I am grateful for the brief but real moments I spent with this charismatic man. My memories will soon urge me to write a song for him. I guess it’s the only gift I could give him back.  Writing is life. Life is love. “Love is so short and forgetting is so long”, as Pablo Neruda wrote. But there is a joy in remembering, in writing it down, in singing it.  Elef I hope you’re out there, somewhere, smiling down on us, and feeling peace. I’m letting you go, figuratively, but you will stay in my memory, in the beads that you gave me and I carry in my pocket, and the lessons you taught me. Merci mon cher ami. Your music lady, muse.

[foreverlilaclies]

Moving Forward

AU oneshot for the show and comic. Negan's on parole or something.

Birthday gift for @thebestnegananonthereis

Being a prisoner had its benefits. Not many, barely anything worth noting, but still...it gave Negan time to think. It gave him the opportunity to see life from the perspective of the enemy. It gave Negan time to realize that he may have been wrong in the end. That his way wasn't working and would never work and that Rick had been right. Carl's death had left a dark smudge behind, one that Negan could never wipe away. Especially with the words he had thrown at the kid's father right after. It truly shamed him when he thought of it. Using the future serial killer's death against the person who had wanted to keep him safe...it hadn't been right and it hadn't been true.

The loss of Lucille had been difficult, but it gave Negan time to reflect. What he had become and what his Lucille would think of him. Rick treated Negan better as a prisoner than Negan would have treated Rick. He wouldn't sugarcoat it and claim he would have shown Rick mercy if he had come out victorious. Negan knew who he was and he knew despite thinking Rick was a fine piece of ass, he would have made sure Rick would never stand against him again.

It just went to show who the better man really was.

In time, Negan drew back his talons, stopped baring his teeth and Rick began to grow...not kinder per say, but more understanding. More human and less victor. Rick had allowed Negan to have at least an hour outside a week. Usually, he would follow Rick to the gardens and help him there. It was the only place he didn't have to worry about judgmental eyes following his every move. Rick was quiet, didn't goad or push at Negan, simply going to task and Negan honestly did not want to make things harder for him. Not anymore.

Negan looked forward to that hour, always looking out the barred window to check the weather and waiting excitedly for Rick to walk down those stairs. It became obvious very quickly that it wasn't the hour of freedom Negan was craving. It was the hour being side by side with Rick. Rick would help him with planting, patient as he helped the man look over the vegetables that were ready to harvest.

"That one ain't any good, Negan. Look at those brown spots."

"Those carrots ain't ready yet. Let's give them another week."

Negan could listen to Rick explain vegetable care for the rest of his life. He wasn't to proud to say he hadn't daydreamed about it. Him, lounged out on some fancy ass chaise, dressed in some flimsy ass shirt while Rick waltzed around him, carrot in hand, listing off carrot facts in that drawl of his.

"Carrots are 88 percent water..."

"You can leave carrots in the ground during the winter..."

He'd run the carrot up Negan's chest, while Negan listened like the good student he was. Of course those dreams quickly turned into something a bit more...Negan and well, usually it ended with Negan plowing Rick with a carrot or something. A whole different kind of harvest...he could dream.

Eventually, he began to crave more. It was fitting. He was Negan. He always wanted more. He wanted to show Rick that he was changing, that he could be trusted. He didn't care what anyone else in the community thought. Just Rick. It had always been just Rick.

Negan was offered a chance when the walkers managed to get through the wall. It had been a fuck ton of luck that it had been sunny that day and Rick and him had been busy in the gardens. The hour had already passed, but Rick had begun to push a bit more, allowing Negan to linger. Judith was spending the week at Hilltop, allowing Rick to get more done around the community. Negan had been to his elbows in dirt when the shouting began. Rick looked up from his end, brows furrowing. He slowly stood, nodding to Tara to watch over Negan.

"I'll be back." He murmured, laying his gloves down in the dirt and walking towards the gate. Tara strode towards Negan, watching Rick walk off with her head cocked.

"Sounds like fighting." She mused, sounding uncertain. Negan wiped his hands on his pants, quiet and listening as Rick disappeared around the corner. In a split second, there was chaos. A section of the wall collapsed and there was a wild panic as walkers began to pour in. People were running, some grabbing weapons and others looking for shelter. Tara aimed her gun at the nearest walker and shot it down before Rosita grabbed her and yanked her back. Everyone was scrambling, desperate to get to safety. Negan was moving towards the chaos, however, eyes searching wildly for Rick. It took him a moment to spot the familiar mop of curls in the crowd. He used the shoved in his hand to decapitate a walker lumbering towards him.

"Rick!" He shouted, stalking closer. Rick fell back, caught between several walkers. He was surrounded and rotten fingers were reaching for him, curling around his arm as those mouths began to descend on Rick's shoulder. Negan took the shovel and jammed it own into the walkers soft skull with as much force as h could, listening with satisfaction as it squelched against the dirt. Rick turned towards him and Negan lunged forward, grabbing Rick's hand and dragging him along. Three walkers shambled after them and Negan ran faster, grip tightening on Rick who shot at the nearest walker. There was the garden shed nearby and Negan all but threw Rick in before slamming the door shut behind him. He shoved the shovel under the door handle, jamming it shut and backed towards where Rick was.

Their breaths mingled as they waited for the walkers to pass by. Negan hadn't realized how tightly he was holding onto Rick shoulders until his arm started to ache. He released Rick slowly, reluctant to let go. He needed to check him over. That suddenly became the most important thing to Negan. He needed to be sure there were no bites. He ignored Rick's struggles and assurances, hands running up his arms and down his sides, looking and feeling for any mark, heart hammering.

"Nega-Negan, I'm fine!" Rick grasped at Negan's wrist, halting his search. Negan's fingers curled over Rick's hand, dark eyes fixed on his flushed face, searching him over.

"You sure?" He asked, voice barely a rasp. Rick nodded, releasing his grip on Negan's wrists, staring at him in confusion. Negan avoided his eyes, slumping against the opposite wall, listening as the walkers outside snapped their jaws, pawing uselessly against the door.

"Why would you help me, Negan?" Rick asked, leaning his head against the wall. Negan released a low breath, wiping at his face and smudging the dirt and sweat. He didn't answer for a long moment, staring down at his dirty nails. How could he possibly explain that the instant he saw the walker's mouth brush close to Rick's shoulder he had panicked. How the very thought of Rick being bitten and dying made Negan plan his own death. There was no Negan without Rick. Negan couldn't find the words to say this.

"I wanted to be better." He said instead and Rick looked at him curiously, cheek bruised and eyes so fucking blue. Negan continued to stare at his dirty fingernails. "I don't want to be that guy, anymore. I couldn't just let you..." He couldn't even bring himself to say the words. Rick and dying had no place in his vocabulary. "Never thought it would get this bad. At the Sanctuary...I just wanted to save everyone. I know. I'm not making fucking excuses. I know what I did was fucked up, Rick." Negan couldn't meet Rick's eyes. "You helped me see that...you helped me see another way. That's why I sat in your cell. That's why I saved your fucking life." Rick stared at him, brows furrowed and expression suspicious. Negan lowered his eyes. "I couldn't just watch you die."

"Thank you." Rick murmured, watching Negan closely. "You didn-"

"Shit, c'mon Rick," Negan groaned. "Course I had to save you. Couldn't just let you d...couldn't just...not." He trailed off. Rick rose a brow, head still leaning back against the wall as he looked at Negan.

"I still appreciate it, Negan." He drawled, shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Look," Negan breathed through his nose sharply. "There's something I needed to tell you."

"Now's a good time as any." Rick indicated to the shed, the groaning of the walkers fading slightly. Negan shifted, wiping his sweaty palms on his knees.

"It's about Carl." He watched Rick close his eyes, but he pressed on; The words falling from his mouth. Rick was anticipating more abuse and accusations. Negan only wanted to put them to rest. "When I said it was your fault-"

"Negan-" Negan kept talking, ignoring Rick's interjection, fighting the urge to reach for Rick.

"I'm sorry, Rick. It wasn't true and it wasn't fucking right of me to say that shit to you." Negan muttered. Rick blinked at him. There was a ghost in his eyes, something that would never go away with the loss of his son. He nodded at Negan, saying nothing. "Wish things could have gone different...wish I could have been different." Negan's voice was solemn. He tried to apologize, to explain himself, but he couldn't get the words out. Rick's lips curved up into a slight smile, blue eyes bright.

"It's not too late Negan," He murmured. "You made mistakes in the past...did horrible thangs, but life goes on. You can still grow." Negan stared at him, expression torn between incredulity and exasperation.

"I think I'm stuck like this, Rick." He argued and Rick slowly stood, hand using the wall as support. He moved and to Negan's surprise, sat down beside him.

"If you were stuck like you were Negan, you wouldn't be out here. I never would have let you out if I didn't think you were changin'. You're becomin' a better man, Negan. I see it everyday, even if you can't yet." Negan's cheeks heated up at the unexpected compliment. Rick's shoulder was nearly brushing Negan's and he fought the urge to lean against him. Instead he tilted his head so he could get a better look at Rick.

"You sound like the apocalypse version of Mr. Rogers." He teased and Rick laughed softly, tongue running over dry lips. His hand rested beside Negan's, his knuckles bruised.

"I think he was onto something." Rick replied, smiling at Negan. "Life doesn't gotta be so hard and angry. There's still room for life and growth. We still have tomorrow." Rick's voice was so assured, it made Negan's chest warm. He reached for Rick's hand, curling his long fingers over Rick's smaller ones and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. They peered out the window, the walkers were gone and a strip of sunlight reflected off over the dust in the air. After a moment, Rick squeezed back and in that second, all felt right with the world.

[swan2swan]

The issue of bloodlines and their burdens is not limited solely to Star Wars. Another story that tackles the issue perhaps even better than the Original Six (and a heck of a lot better than the Sequel Trilogy) is Avatar: the Last Airbender.

I know you’re all thinking of the same character, but we’ll get to him in a bit, because first, we need to study our Original Three protagonists, starting with Aang.

1. Aang is the Last Airbender, but he’s not some Air Nomad Prince; we still have never met his parents, and their legacy is irrelevant because of the monastic order he was raised in, but his heritage is one far more significant than blood: he is the Avatar. He is a reincarnation gifted with the ability to push past the boundaries of those already deemed exceptional. He can bend all four elements, he can enter the Spirit World at will, and he is capable of communicating with his past lives for advice and counsel. This is power people would kill for...and the theme of his story is coming to grips with it. Throughout his story, he rejects it, embraces it, runs from it, succumbs to it, and finally finds a way to balance it with himself. He decides that he is both the Avatar and the Last Airbender, the protector of all four nations and the one responsible for preserving the culture of Air. During all of this, he also balances himself with his titles, retaining his connection to his friends and his love for his family. We learn in the next series that it was a struggle up until the day the died, but he managed to do it...this is what makes him an Epic Hero. From the day he was born, he was destined to save the world, but he did it his way, and never allowed his responsibilities to erase his identity, or his personal attachments to let the world fail. He trusted in those around him and was able to save the world by sharing the burden.

2. Said burden, of course, falls on the shoulders of Katara and Sokka--or rather, into their willing hands. They are, amusingly enough, royalty themselves: Sokka is the son and heir to the chief, and Katara (like Luke) is the last practitioner of a power she inherited from her deceased parent (of course, Kya wasn’t ruling the Fire Nation, but we’ll get to that later). What does this royal lineage get them?

Absolutely nothing. When the Fire Nation ship rolls in and the soldiers storm their village, Zuko doesn’t go around saying “I need to speak to the chief!” and then sit down in a tent with Sokka for a diplomatic discussion: he has the villagers all lined up and bullied  without regard for rank or status. It’s highly doubtful that Hakoda even had any royalty in his bloodline--he was probably just a big, strong man with a smart head on his shoulders who a lot of other villagers decided “hey, let’s follow him and listen to him and let him protect us,” and that’s how he became the chief. With some good strong genes and excellent parenting, he was able to raise his children to be strong, too...and that sums up what those two have going for them. The Northern Water Tribe doesn’t let Katara train because she’s a fellow princess; she fights and claws her way to the top (and then is trained anyway because Necklace Ex Machina, but the fact that it’s a Northern Water Tribe tradition and her grandmother’s migration are all well-done plot points makes it work), and her superpowered healing abilities are also something she masters with a lot of hard work...okay, so Katara’s a little OP, but she works hard, and she’s an example of someone who comes from nothing becoming a superhero.

Sokka, on the other hand, waltzes right into the first derelict island village he finds and says “Wassup, ladies, I’m the most powerful warrior among my people, feel free to ogle!” and is promptly trussed up and tossed to the floor...where he then returns to beg for forgiveness and training, because he learned that his rank, privilege, and power don’t mean a thing in the real world, and if he’s going to survive, he needs to be willing to humble himself and learn. And learn he does--studying hunting strategies, making traps, shadowing guerillas, infiltrating cities, protecting princesses, doing chin-touches, strumming guitars, faking diseases...all until he goes to train with a master swordsman, who does little more than help him to produce a weapon, because by this point Sokka’s seen so much action and drama that he’s a full-fledged warrior. Sokka’s journey is one of a boy earning his position as the heir to his father’s seat: he’s left with almost nothing, but keeps learning and adapting until he’s strong and clever enough to rescue his father from prison. Sokka began with the responsibility of having to inherit his father’s position, and he earned it. 

3. Toph and Suki, the other members of Team Avatar, are also special, but neither of them really has responsibilities; Toph is wealthy and privileged, but her privilege is a cage, and she chooses to reject it to pursue her own goals. She trains Aang, she fights for freedom, and eventually opens a school and forms a security group...and then dumps all that on her daughters and runs away to a swamp, but that is yet another essay. Suki, on the other hand, is very similar to Hakoda: she’s in charge of a bunch of fighting women on some shanty island off the coast of the Nowhere Peninsula, a place so worthless it was the final tidbit on some ancient conqueror’s wishlist, and then it just broke from the land and moved away so it didn’t have to be involved with any drama. Suki runs the gym there. That’s literally what she does. She’s a part-time fitness instructor, part-time policewoman, and eventually she decides that she’s going to go off and help police other parts of the world, because what the heck else is she going to do with her life? Then she hijacks an airship and rescues other heroes during the apocalypse or something. The point is, Toph and Suki could have both stayed home and done nothing the whole time if they’d wanted, but they chose to do more.

4. All right, now it’s time for the one you’ve all been waiting for: Azula! Oh, sorry, were you expecting Zuko? Nah, we’re starting with his sister. Because she is everything Lucasfilm wants a bloodline legacy to embody: wealthy and privileged, proud of her genes and her talents, taught by the best, raised to be the best, and completely ruthless and uncaring...even cruel. It’s Azula who delivers one of the greatest speeches in the show, the speech that sounds like it belongs anywhere besides a Nickelodeon Cartoon: “I can see your whole history in your eyes. You’ve always had to struggle, and claw, and connive your way to power. But true power? The divine right to rule? Is something you’re born with.” The creepiest thing about the speech is that it uproots the classic literary promise of “Anyone can be a hero!” while still maintaining the theme of the show. It can be argued that Azula is right. She’s a main character, one with her own design and color palette, with more than two outfits to her name; the world isn’t going to be saved by Chong the Nomad or the hapless cabbage merchant, and it’s not going to be destroyed by one of the Rough Rhinos or Fire Nation Soldier 13. She coldly delivers a smackdown and leaves not only the lesser villains, but the audience questioning everything: are there those born to lead, and those born to serve? The grim answer the show provides...is yes.

5. This is where Zuko comes in. Prince Zuko. Royalty. Strength. Discipl...disciplin...dis...hehehe...”Discipline”. Zuko. HA. *ahem* No, but really, when we meet Zuko, he’s a fantastic villain. He has a giant metal ship, glittering armor, rippling black hair...and a menacing, terrifying scar. Fire comes from his fingertips, he seethes with rage, and he is Prince Zuko of the mighty Fire Nation: all of the world will tremble at his coming. But for a moment, a soft moment, we see his armor hidden by a cloak in the middle of the night, as he quietly seethes to his uncle about finding the Avatar and restoring his honor, and we hear him muse about his father to Aang, and see hints of a person beneath that.

Everything becomes clear in the third episode. Prince Zuko’s ship, which dwarfed Sokka’s village, sits timidly in the shadow of a line of much larger vessels. Commander Zhao towers above Zuko and wears much fancier armor, and then outplays Zuko in a mindgame. We see suddenly that Zuko’s status as a prince is all but worthless...his own father has rejected him. The scar on his face is not some amazing battle scar, but a mark of shame from a duel he lost--a duel we later learn was lost to his own father. Zuko triumphs in a fresh duel, showing honor and restraint, and a glimmer of kindness and mercy...but he continues to try and defeat the Avatar throughout his journey. Time and again, we see Zuko, this privileged prince, try to overcome the heroes...and he loses it all. He barely escapes being collected by his smarter, deadlier sister, and spends a whole season on the run, forced to conceal his true identity from everyone he meets out of fear and shame. He bears witness to the crimes his people have committed: broken villages, scarred legs, starving refugees. He’s given a choice, then, to stay among them...or to betray them all and return home. In his fear and impatience, he chooses the latter: he rejects goodness and chooses the privilege and power. He returns home, he is a hero, he has his father’s respect, his girlfriend’s love, everything he ever wanted...and this is a story that could not be told if he were anyone else. 

Because then he realizes that this isn’t making him happy--he, too, has responsibilities. So he throws it all away, and marches to his father and tells him, straight-out, that he cannot live in safety and comfort while the rest of the world cowers in terror. He won’t turn a blind eye to the suffering of others. He leaves, flying off, and risks death time and time again, until finally he fights to win back the crown...and almost loses it to save the life of one of those peasants he’d tormented back in another life. Then, he stands tall and takes his place on the throne, and vows to use his privilege and power to better the world...and we see that he does. How? Because he’s royalty. The story is not about how “a good person can make a difference”, but that “people who can make a difference need to be taught how to be good”. Azula boasted about the “divine right to rule” giving power...yet Zuko’s mind was swayed by a peasant girl with a scarred leg, a boy who decided to fight soldiers with a knife, and a young rebel who couldn’t stand the sight of starving refugees. The core of power can be swayed by many who work together...and that’s the point of the show. Everyone has power. It’s how you use it that matters.

[gospelmusic]

Catholic Daily Reading + Reflection: 8 November 2020 - The Church Waits For Her Spouse

Readings at Mass for Sunday November 8, 2020

Thirty- Second Sunday of the Year Vestment: Green Today’s Rosary: The Glorious Mystery Death Anniversary: KANU: Most Revd Patrick Sheehan, OSA., 8 November 2012 Theme of the Sunday: The Church Waits for Her Spouse. The first Christians used to often say, “The Lord is coming!” and they were always ready to receive him. The theme of vigilance links together the three readings today. The second reading describes expectation and vigilance in the community of Thessalonica. The gospel continues the theme in a parable about vigilance. The first reading can be taken as a commentary on the gospel. The gospel teaches us that “those (virgins) who prepare themselves for the coming of the Lord are wise,” while the first reading says that our most precious gift is the wisdom that comes from God. Entrance Antiphon Let my prayer come into your presence. Incline your ear to my cry for help, O Lord. Collect Almighty and merciful God, graciously keep from us all adversity, so that, unhindered in mind and body alike, we may pursue in freedom of heart the things that are yours. Through our Lord. ..

FIRST READING

Wisdom is found by those who seek her. A reading from the Book of Wisdom (Wisdom 6: 12-16) Wisdom is radiant and unfading, and she is easily discerned by those who love her, and is found by those who seek her. She hastens to make herself known to those who desire her. He who rises early to seek her will have no difficulty, for he will find her sitting at his gates. To fix one’s thought on her is perfect understanding, and he who is vigilant on her account will soon be free from care, because she goes about seeking those worthy of her, and she graciously appears to them in their paths, and meets them in every thought. The word of the Lord. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

RESPONSORIAL PSALM Psalm 63:2.3-4.5-6.7-8 (R.cf.2b)

R. For you my soul is thirsting, O Lord, my God. O God, you are my God; at dawn I seek you; for you my soul is thirsting. For you my flesh is pining, Like a dry, weary land without water. R. I have come before you in the sanctuary, To behold your strength and your glory. Your loving mercy is better than life: My lips will speak your praise. R. I will bless you all my life: in your name I will lift up my hands. My soul shall be filled as with a banquet: With joyful lips, my mouth shall praise you. R. When I remember you upon my bed, I muse on you through the watches of the night. For you have been my strength: In the shadow of your wings I rejoice. R.

SECOND READING

God will bring with him through Jesus those who have fallen asleep. A reading from the first letter of Saint Paul to the Thessalonians (1 Thessalonians 4:13-18) (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); We would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, shall not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first; then we who are alive, who are left, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air; and so shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words. The word of the Lord.

ALLELUIA Matthew 24:42a.44

Alleluia. Watch, therefore, and be ready; the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect. Alleluia.

GOSPEL

Behold, the bridegroom. Come out to meet him. A reading from the holy Gospel according to Matthew (Matthew 25:1 -13) At that time: Jesus told his disciples this parable: “The kingdom of heaven shall be compared to ten maidens who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. For when the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, they all slumbered and slept. But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ “Then all those maidens rose and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ “But the wise replied, ‘Perhaps there will not be enough for us and for you; go rather to the dealers and buy for yourselves.’ “And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the marriage feast; and the door was shut. Afterward the other maidens came also, saying, ‘Lord, lord, open to us. ’ But he replied, ‘Truly, I say to you, I do not know you. ’ “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); The Gospel of the Lord.

PRAYER OF THE FAITHFUL

The Bridegroom is here! PRIEST: My brothers and sisters, as we wait for Christ’s second coming in glory, let us pray to God our Father that we may be always watchful, and keep our eyes fixed on the Lord. READER: For the Church, the Bride of Christ, pause that she may always be clothed in the beauty of God’s grace as she sets aside everything else except her unending vigil for the Lord’s coming. pause Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. For scientists who work to alleviate human suffering, (pause) that they may have the patience to continue their scientific work, however demanding and unrewarding it may be, and never lose sight of their vocation, as they strive to eradicate disease and human misery. (pause) Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. For those who are bereaved, (pause) that their waiting to be reunited with their loved ones may be based on their belief in the resurrection, and may they not grieve, as those who have no hope. (pause) Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. For a greater understanding of our faith, (pause) that we may keep the lamp of faith alight, by which we recognize Christ in our world, and thus discover what is truly important in life. (pause) Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. PRIEST: We make our private petitions in silence to God, our loving Father. Father, we pray that we may always be found watching, so that we will not miss your Son in our lives. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Today's Reflection

Christians believe in the resurrection of the dead. This is the hope we have through the resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord. St Paul in I Thess. 4:13-18 is very consoling. He offers us the hope not to mourn our departed relatives/friends like those who have no hope. There is no holidays or break in our spiritual life so we have to be alert always. It is a continuous striving. We have to watch therefore, for we ���do not know the day or the hour in which the son of man will come”. We should be like the wise virgins in today’s parable carrying along with us always the oil, which symbolizes righteousness and good deeds. Our decision to follow Christ and to live according to his commandments should not be procrastinated. It is not the goodness of others that will save us on the last day but our own goodness/good deeds.

Personal Devotional

"Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth, " 2 Timothy 2:15 - Thank God for the gift of this day - Pray for mercy for the times you have sought self-glorification in charitable deeds. - Ask for the grace of the Lord to give freely so that you can receive freely

Let Us Pray

Thanks be to you, my Lord Jesus Christ, for all the benefits which you have given me, for all the pains and insults which you have borne for me. O most merciful Redeemer, friend and brother, may I know you more clearly, love you more dearly, and follow you more nearly, day by day. Amen.

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[daughter-of-the-prophet]

Morrigan (Tv Tropes “Origins”)

Absolute Cleavage: Combined nicely with Sideboob.

Abusive Parents: Being raised by Flemeth definitely qualifies. Particularly heartbreaking is the story of how as a young girl she stole a golden mirror, as she had never been given beautiful gifts, only practical ones. She ran back to the Wilds with it held tightly in her hands for fear she would drop it, only for Flemeth to find out and smash it against a wall.

Ambiguous Disorder: Likely due to her upbringing, she displays several signs consistent with Antisocial Personality Disorder.

Animal Motifs: Being a Shapeshifter, this is to be expected.

Shale comments that Morrigan resembles a bird, particularly the way she gazes at people.

And, as noted below, she does have a rather magpie-ish interest in jewelry.

Some have compared her attitude to that of a cat.

Sten knows a viper when he sees one.

Ascend to a Higher Plane of Existence: She passes through an Eluvian to a place that is neither Thedas nor the Fade. It is impossible to know at this time if this is simply another dimension or another Plane of Existence.

Bad Powers, Bad People: The most ruthless and unpleasant of the companions, she starts off with spells tilted toward destroying things and screwing with people’s minds.

Because You Were Nice to Me: Ilona is the first friend Morrigan has ever had in her entire life.

Berserk Button: Morrigan greatly values freedom and hates it when people are imprisoned, such as Sten. Those who willingly submit to imprisonment - such as the Circle of Magi - earn even more of her contempt. Also, as a Vain Sorceress, she has another fear:

        Morrigan: "You… do not truly think I look as my mother does, do you?“ 

        Alistair: "Have you really been thinking about that all this time?”           Morrigan: "I am simply curious.“           Alistair: "And not insecure in the slightest, I’m sure.”

        Morrigan: "I think I look nothing like her.“           Alistair: "I don’t know. Give it a few hundred years and it’ll be a spot-on match.”

        Morrigan: "I said that I look nothing like her!“

        Alistair: “All right. Got it. Totally different. I see that now”

Black Widow/Death by Sex: She tends to respond to men hitting on her with threats of this sort. Like mother, like daughter.

Broken Bird: Has the detached, cynical personality, the troubled backstory, and the dark Gothic look. This is further reinforced by the mirror story, as well as some of her other dialogue, which suggests that Morrigan is secretly desperate for a connection with the outside world, but she doesn’t know how to go about it after years of Flemeth’s abusive upbringing.

Dark Action Girl: Combined with a Lady of Black Magic.

Dark is Not Evil: Subverted. When Ilona first encounters her, Morrigan muses about whether she’ll immediately assume she’s evil because she’s one of the (legendarily evil) Witches of the Wilds. Once she’s spent a little time on the team, though, she turns out to have a very nasty Darwinist streak and in the end, it turns out that she’s been assigned to help the Wardens solely to perform a dark ritual and capture the soul of the Archdemon for purposes unknown. She gets a little closer to playing this trope straight in the ending of Witch Hunt, given that she’s apparently had enough time to defrost a little further.

Interestingly enough, Morrigan is one of the more innocent and naive characters, having only ventured out of the wilds a few times and never truly interacting with anyone other than Flemeth. Moreover, her beliefs are a result of Flemeth conditioning her to think and act in this way as it is strongly hinted that this would make it easier for Flemeth to take Morrigan’s body.

Deadpan Snarker: She doesn’t get along Alistair really well. Thus their banter is highly snarky.

Defrosting Ice Queen: Throughout the story, Morrigan starts to consider Ilona as a friend to the point where she sees her as the sister she’s never had.

Depending on the Artist: Her facial structure tends to vary between official depictions. Compare this in-game screenshot with these two illustrations. She looks like an older version of her Origins self in Inquisition, which makes perfect sense since ten years have passed.

Deus Sex Machina: Though not used to titillate the audience, for once.

Disappeared Dad: Her biological father is unknown but is heavily implied to have been of Chasind origin, reinforced by the fact that more than one character has pointed out that she resembles a Chasind. Given Flemeth's penchant for killing her lovers, it's unlikely he survived the encounter.

Druid: A bit of a Deconstruction of the type. While not fond of cities, she doesn't go on about it. Though she's clearly a Social Darwinist, she doesn't go out of her way to try to get anyone killed but Flemeth, and that only after she realizes that Flemeth's working on killing her. She's clearly modeled after the D&D druids but doesn't care for such notions as balance.

Eerie Pale-Skinned Brunette: The first half of which is odd, considering she has spent most of her life outdoors.

Even Evil Has Standards: Morrigan immediately expresses disgust that Sten has been caged like an animal in Lothering to serve as darkspawn chow by the "mercy" of the Chantry. Though he did kill innocent people, the story makes it clear that being captured by the darkspawn is one of the most horrible fates imaginable that nobody deserves.

Even Evil Has Loved Ones: Morrigan is not exactly one of the good guys, but while she and Flemeth argue and snipe at each other, it's clear she cares for her mother very much.

Evil Cannot Comprehend Good: The very idea of acting altruistically seems to be both alien and offensive to her for most of her time in the group, presumably due to Flemeth's teachings.

Evil Counterpart: Could be considered this to Wynne.

Femme Fatale:

She has a two-part dialogue with Sten in which they speak about the Qunari act.

Multiple instances where she talks about women only needing to bat their eyelashes to get men to do what they want.

The Friend Nobody Likes: And vice versa. The only people who get along with her to any degree are Zevran, Brutus, and Ilona.

Graceful Ladies Like Purple: She's a Lady of Black Magic who mostly wears purple and black. Violet is often emphasized with her in official artist's depictions, as well as occasionally being the color of her magic.

Hates Being Touched: Well, at least when it comes to simple greetings. Morrigan's just not a handshake person; she doesn't in the least understand the need for it.

Hollywood Atheist: Not so much in the reasons for her non-belief, which are fairly realistic, but in that her atheism goes along with being selfish, misanthropic, and actively contemptuous of religious people.

Hot Witch: Lampshaded, not that it's all that unusual for the setting.

Impossibly Cool Clothes: The blouse of her 'robes' are loose and draping from the shoulders and down the front, yet has a laced cinch at the back. It's possible but difficult to make and impractical to wear. Especially implausible as most of what she knew about humans came from observation, but there are no role models shown for her design.

The Robes of Possession (which presumably belong to Flemeth) share the same design.

Ineffectual Loner: Morrigan’s not a “people” person. In camp, her tent is placed away from all the others, and she has her own private campfire where only Ilona bothers to visit her.

Insufferable Genius: According to Alistair, who tries to use a Chantry-related question to mock her for it.

Jerkass: Almost all the time. As noted above, the only people who seem to get along with her are Zevran, Brutus, and Ilona.

Lady of Black Magic: Well-spoken, cunning, and evil, she has a look of wild elegance and favors very destructive spells.

Licked by the Dog: By Brutus, of course. In Witch Hunt, she’s actually rather pleased at how happy he is to see her.

Love Redeems: Morrigan’s personality during her appearance in Dragon Age: Inquisition was likely the result of Ilona befriending her. She behaves with much more warmth and compassion.

Magic Pants: Whenever Morrigan strips down to her underwear for any reason, she's always wearing a white bra and panties, even though she clearly doesn't wear a bra with her standard outfit.

Her original concept art, on the other hand, depicts her wearing a bra underneath her robes.

Meaningful Name: The Morrigan was a shapeshifting Celtic deity of war and death, but she averts the trope since the lead writer said that Morrigan is named after a character of a friend of his and all similarities with the Celtic goddess are coincidental, as they are with Morgan le Fay.

.Seems the outfit designers didn't get that memo. The crow feathers on her shoulder are symbolic of the other Morrigan.

In-universe, she seems to be named after a legendary Avvar warlord famed for her powers of seduction as well as her skills as a fighter. Given what Flemeth sent her to do, this was probably an intentional reference on her part.

Nature Hero: An unconventional Evil Counterpart of the standard version. Instead of a kindly Friend to All Living Things, she lacks compassion for anything barring a scant few exceptions, embraces social Darwinism, and doesn't hesitate to resort to murder if someone gets in her way. She's Nature Is Not Nice personified.

No Social Skills: She is largely tactless and ignorant of/annoyed by social mores; she considers shaking hands an offensive breach of her personal space, for example. This is because she was raised in the wilds, largely forbidden to interact with outside world.

No Sympathy: A big part of her character. Morrigan just doesn’t do empathy. She may surprise the audience every now and then, however - once befriended, she genuinely cares about Ilona and her feelings, expressing sympathy over the death of Ilona’s mother and having girl talks with her.

No, You: Notably in one of her conversations with Alistair:

     Alistair: "So let's talk about your mother, for a moment..."

     Morrigan: "I'd rather talk about your mother."  

     Alistair: "But there's nothing to talk ab— And besides, isn't your mother a scary witch who lives in the middle of a forest? Much more interesting."  

     Morrigan: "To you, perhaps. You would find the moss growing upon a stone interesting."

Not Good with People: She freely admits that due to her time in the Korcari Wilds, she's better at understanding animals than people.

Not So Different: To Flemeth.

Oblivious Guilt Slinging: Ilona unknowingly invokes this in Morrigan after befriending her. It doesn't stop Morrigan from following through with her true objectives, but it's clear that she feels guilty about it.  However, when she finally reveals her true intentions to Ilona, instead of getting angry at her, Ilona understands and holds no hard feelings towards her. 

Odd Friendship: Any friendship she forms, given her complete lack of social skills. It's especially notable with Ilona.

Only Friend: Morrigan admits that Ilona is the first friend she's ever had and that she views her almost as a sister.

Pet the Dog: She apologizes to Ilona for her jerkass tendencies and admits that she appreciates her friendship.

In Witch Hunt, she practically does this literally. When Ilona finally catches up to her, both Morrigan and Brutus are quite happy to see each other and she even cracks a rare smile.

At the Lothering Chantry, when Ilona asks the revered mother for her blessing, Morrigan respectfully kneel along with the rest of the party. Contrast this with her usual dismissive attitude towards the Chantry and religious belief in general.

When Ilona admits that her mother was killed during an attack on her family’s castle, Morrigan responds with genuine sympathy for her loss.

Pre-Climax Climax: With Alistair in order to conceive a child to complete a dark ritual that would prevent either him or Ilona from dying after slaying the Archdemon.

Raised as a Host: After finding Flemeth’s grimoire she becomes convinced this was her mother’s intent for her and asks Ilona to kill Flemeth for her.

Raven Hair, Ivory Skin: She has pale skin and black hair, and a few characters often comment that she’s very beautiful.

Sequel Hook: You just know the child she conceives with Alistair at the end is going to show up again. And of course, he does — in Inquisition.

Sideboob

The Smart Guy

Social Darwinist: Flemeth raised her to be a pretty severe example of this. As a result, Morrigan believes that people who can’t solve their own problems without help are worth less than nothing. It actually explains many of Morrigan’s more Stupid Evil tendencies. Perhaps the best example is in the “Broken Circle” quest, where she insists Ilona should leave the Mages to their fate, claiming that their current plight is their own fault, for a) agreeing to be caged in the Tower in the first place and b) not being strong enough to stop Uldred before things got out of hand.

Stalker with a Test Tube: Her real reason for joining the party is that she needs to become pregnant by a Grey Warden in order to complete a dark ritual.

The Starscream:  To Flemeth, albeit out of self-defense rather than ambition.

Stupid Evil: Often falls into this. She seems to take the position that helping others is universally wrong, even if such aid is explicitly rendered solely on the condition of later repayment (and even if the person being helped is absolutely critical to stopping the Blight).

The Tease: Towards Sten and even occasionally Alistair.

Token Evil Teammate: Morrigan actively disapproves of acting selflessly and helping others.

Too Many Belts: Her outfit features a skirt that appears to be made out of rags and strips of cloth stitched together with belts.

Took a Level in Kindness: Takes one over the course of the story after Ilona befriends her. Similarly, despite her constant irritation at Brutus, she broadly smiles upon seeing him again at the end of Witch Hunt.

This follows her into Inquisition, where Morrigan comes across as warmer and more compassionate most likely because of Ilona befriending her.

Troll: A large portion of her conversations with other companions is this, particularly with Sten.

      Sten: "Paarshara! Why do you pester me?“ 

     Morrigan: "Because ‘tis amusing, that is why”

Tsundere: Oh yes. Type A, mostly tsuntsun, but Ilona’s kindness brings out the deredere (as much as she is capable of, anyway).

She eventually apologizes for her behavior in a very roundabout Tsundere-ish manner.

Tykebomb: One of many raised by Flemeth. Unusually, she ends up defusing herself to a certain extent, planning Flemeth’s death the moment she realizes her end use; it’s not until Witch Hunt that she finally slips her leash altogether, though. Temporarily, anyway.

Vain Sorceress: She’s a magpie when it comes to jewelry.

Verbal Tic: Almost all of her dialogue is spoken in a sing-song rhythmic style, which is not that noticeable at first but becomes far more apparent the more characters talks to her. She also has a noticeable fondness for the word “'tis,” and she uses the “over” instead of “too,” as in “overlong and "overmuch”.

Voluntary Shapeshifting: Her specialization.

[1ovefoo1]

The Journals Of Nabokov's Lolita If She Had Become A Writer

Losing portions of your identity already in childhood  Custom Made Jewellery At the quit of each pilgrimage in my youth, there has been a line that was always a painful revel in for me in my cognizance developing up and with time its depth and disillusionment increases. It has taught me that handiest knowingness and completeness can start with the route of self-cognizance. And now that partnership, reconciliation and compassion on this nonetheless divided society on this continent that we stay in forces us to grow together and see each other in a greater actual and correct mild. It is a manner of seeing people in groups who stay in poverty, the clarity of warfare, the monotony of routine and who are starved of art, poetry, and literature. It is a manner of locating themselves poised in an exhilaratingly smooth international, but they only hear the lonely sounds of weeping and it has turn out to be like a system. Its mystique strengthens our soul.

All children are quite.

We can choose to see the panorama we live in as a wasteland or a paradise however what do the most inclined residents of this planet see it as? We can not clear up the escalating issues of today without imagining and visualising the quit outcomes of answers. Even writing comes with its own mythological totem pole and so we have to create new pictures of our lifestyles and background via our tales, the wealth of our collective life reports. There are still feelings of worry and vulnerability that usually tests us, the philosophy of guy, the anatomy of melancholia, our multiple identities, cutting-edge man and it is a powerful dynamic for any author and poet to stay in nowadays. Life mirrors artwork and art imitates lifestyles in comic, dramatic and alluring ways. What is humanity? It is the frail human bones of the human circumstance, it's miles you and I and it's miles all our tales. The web page is most effective a dead landscape until you fill it up with phrases and language creating a centre of hobby. At heart are we still war youngsters?

I lift the stainless transfer of the intellectual ropes and the chains (it's an improvement). It is a most effective a track of depression from my youth revel in that took me to darkish locations and noticed me cross the strains of society, the borders of rivers of mild that traversed the palimpsest of the red columns of my heart. This transfer felt like a magical component. I went from status at the brink, to freedom (with all of the components of the gadget, a mantle, and all the futile parts of fairytales, making imprints of circles inside the sky above a typhoon, raging insomnia). Something modifications whilst we grow older. People feel alone in unique methods as they lay down in darkness, slide into a pose again and again; concentrate to me, pay attention.

Will I go away you guessing at the intensity in the back of my words? Will you embody me after I fall, my art, this mighty vessel and a poet in her gilded cage, travelling onwards into oblivion? I gesture to the moon and stars and back once more, like a memory pinned down in a stream. A mother's poised flesh, a neck, phrases which can be flying like bats job my memory of how quick love turns to hate. Pale in alluring pix of smoke and mirrors and the coronary heart grows bitter and bloodless like a lake, which is whilst melancholy and insanity collapses in on itself and all hell tends to interrupt free. The residence is falling, falling down round me, just like the melody that comes from fingers on a guitar or a flame that has a negative fine to it, greater disconnected and fragile. Dazzling is the shock of trauma when you're in the center of it.

Don't positioned it collectively for my sake. I melted wherein my skin touched the pores and skin of water. Under I was more human, bolder yet nevertheless misplaced and cheated. My coronary heart felt like snow, I may want to sense arteries turning white. What changed into as soon as a purple catalyst bleeding in hushed tones is now Braille, wet and bittersweet, reminding me that there have been nevertheless guns at every growing of the solar. Don't positioned it collectively for my sake. Whether I wanted them to be there or now not, whether or not I desired to awaken or not. It is simplest my mirrored image this is lifeless inside the water.

Don't put it collectively for my sake.

Writers are often voyagers with smooth perceptions, clarity of imaginative and prescient whilst faced with the parallel global, factors of the darkest elements of humanity. Good morning, middle of the night. We maintain each other up with the rites of public scrutiny; inform ourselves complaint could be the death people (what does that imply to the most green). I want to drown. I want that experience. The revel in of being pressured to sacrifice that loveliness of the haunting recreation of connecting truths to the politician who's at the middle of you. No half of-lifestyles lived for me. Give me a guide for being fragile, so I can disable and correct all the data effects on those bloodless strains. Let me magazine them. Read the entirety Africa and you'll triumph due to the fact seeing that youth you've got been an apt pupil pouring your know-how right into a distillate, standing at the edge. If it turned into bleak, left you with the present of elation at and reminiscence of the ghost of potatoes and meat in your plate. If you feel darkness in moments of being, in case you feel the loss of your ego, it diminishing and that the simplest ownership you'll go away this global with is your bodily frame, then this is a adventure you must remain dependable to its cumulative development. When I do not consume, once I do not sleep there is an intelligence this is frozen stable, given substance in the madness. There's a motive for the whole lot underneath the solar. Emancipation always leads to verbal exchange although it is on the opposite facet of the sector.

The query I ask myself most often in recent times is, what are different writers wondering, analyzing right here, what do their soul's appear to be, what's the most poetic/emotive issue to come from their historical past and what's the most sacred issue to them and about the facts they're giving me thru their literary global? We're sitting on tens of millions of years of creation right here; art, earth, sky, diamonds, rage, literature, imaginative and prescient, feminism, summer, writers, writers, writers writing. There's a writer born each second. Most of all we want each different. Good morning, midnight, hour of blue. I locate in that also lifestyles quiet the writer's soul longs for, the silence that is like a horrible scar before it marks itself as refuge, it manages itself as an severe feeling of joy, a looking ritual, a spiritual rite, an brilliant country of calm in that identity of all identities that is created without borderlines, joints where there may be constantly a motivating space for beautiful gaining knowledge of.

I frequently wonder on the circle of relatives and historical past, the self-evaluation of African writers and assume to myself that the voices, male and girl will fuse in a sacred settlement and their storytelling on the way to emerge, will emerge (with a word that has turn out to be second-nature to me) as a collective. We will prosper, go that established threshold together, converting, seizing the spinning internet of history, turning into penning confessors of the intimate, commune with the virgin delivery of interpretation with the anonymous, the creative fable, gift and the innovative impulse falling into whole infinity. Should we be calling ourselves simply simple and simple writers? Which is the most real? Why ought to we label ourselves? A domestic of writers is a profound network, like mind will often meet like mind. A community of writers is a home anyplace you discover yourself in the international.

Our self-possessed technology writing for the maximum component out of defiance is making the motive the declaration, the platform 'the waves'. If our muse is wrapped in stone, then so has been deception, identity concept, social and political remark for, if our soul is the ghost of our spirit then what we've learnt have to both be shielded or go underground. That's the undisclosed beauty of and the brutal violence in mortal thinking that we're continually in deliver of. This journey is an historical one, savage and lonely. The pattern of the pensive mechanism connected to the clarity of mild is ambitious in the imaginative and prescient of literary introduction and pen-and-watercolour creativeness as it's miles to the dark facet. The underpinning alchemy the experimental constructs inside the absence of margins and destruction is giving us the clue to the exit, an entreaty to immortality.

Youth has taught me the key to sacrifice. Of where writers of shade will build empires of gold wherein nobody can contact us. I write due to the fact I am advised to and due to the fact it is the sum elements of my pilgrimage. It is a music of despair from early life revel in, a hiding location, wherein I sense on my own in different methods, in which I communicate with my palms, a distillate in a barren region of rumours of darkness and tough laughter. If I am no longer writing, then I am no longer living, my thoughts isn't always loose, a clown now not realising his aim fantastically. It is merely a view of lifestyles via a lens where I occasionally experience at the mercy of the inhabitants, a stranger of their unusual international, sick from living the photograph of urban burnout. The avenue of restoration is tough, toughs you out from inner-out.

Beneath us, the floor is us writers' usually making examinations, searching the unicorn, the flight, the thread, the coincidence of the kaleidoscope drowning in us and the lifestyles of kismet, dream of pace, sweetness within the stomach. So we come to be the solar, the stars that shine perfectly and countless, the footprint, the intact channel, the feathered plumes of love. We come to be greater humane with the useful resource of the sight of our  eyes, the frightened, occasionally lunatic imaginative and prescient in our thoughts's eye. What is the situation? We are the state of affairs. What is the warfare? We are the battle and both are internal, each have terrifying factors, both burn and as we comply with that light because it bounces off phenomena, we shop it or abandon it. We're Masai-dreaming-philosophical-mode, symptoms of vertigo showing thru, turning people into gadgets but that is what writers do - we count on, we put together for it, the lacking link, the alibi, and the ultimate of the human freedoms, to pick your mindset between history and reliving it.

The lifestyles of a female author isn't always liberating till she forgoes touch with identification and ego, until it comes all the way down to battle traces drawn among boundary and voice. Until she gives the complete of herself to similarly look at, training, studies and her lifestyles, her being and soul is governed via that. Until that could be a image of what domestic way to her. I do not talk for this generation, the student, the wife and the mother who is additionally a author. People have their personal reality and language continues to be a ordinary tongue for me. Truth is as though we plant ourselves in a river and so we come to be enmeshed with the aid of it to the factor in which we can't tell wherein we meet it and wherein we, our live, heat human frame ends.

To me, I fear voyeurs, on foot around with my lifestyles history inner their heads after which there may be me, ever so willing to give it up at a second's notice without any hesitation in any respect. What is inaccurate with me? What finally defeated me, all of that anger bottled up, fizzing internal of me? Was it the holocaust in formative years that exploded in my face just like the freezing cold in wintry weather, while I played inside the dirt, performed at 'being mother' or turned into it the struggle veteran internal of my harm, rage and brutality, the poet's internal-out atypical sensitivity, the black canine of despair, that coveted prize of recovery, pushing by using like a pulse, that accompanied spells of mental contamination that got here in children.

On the wings of a poet writing approximately a prayer for desire: Nothing about teenagers diminishes, approximately dying and culture. It remains a surprise to the device whilst it arrives on the scenario, the scene of the volume of sky assembly a infant caught within the float of time. A typhoon is raging inner my head, deep internal I am a still existence, a parent's reflection glittering. The lifeless does no longer speak of minutiae. They not can bask inside the orange disc of the solar with their infinitely best our bodies, ideal smiles. They have left us to invest in a shroud. Couriered shrouds are as foreign to the inhabitant because the splitting of the atom, populace dynamics and the recuperation of a refugee's spirit on formative years dirt.

The woman writer speaks in code. Women communicate in coloration, in based wavelengths of them, crossing over from idea to speech with poetry written on their walls in their silence, in their honeyed wonderings, their glimpses into the expanding illuminations of flame. If handiest we did now not understand too past due that we are stained from adolescence.

There are men on this world and then there are girls (it doesn't absolutely rely what type they're) and then there may be me, the lady who has by no means completely grown up. There's something of an 'Alice in Wonderland' or the higher half of Peter Pan about me. I am absolutely lovely at the beginning it appears.

Vulnerable, I actually have depth, there is a poignant sadness in my eyes but I stay inherently pure. Arrogance and pleasure can in no way quite project close to the lack of confidence of a kids, the gamine. There is nothing about the word sex object that can be traced back to me. If I am stained by something it's miles lipstick and coconut oil on my palms (for my hair). In the hair salon women stand round me braiding my hair exclaiming the prowess in their men, consuming hake from the deli on the corner save, doing my nails. I already sense a fraud as if nature is ganging up on me. This isn't me. This isn't who I am or need to be. But do I want to be 'Alice' forever. One day I can be too old to recall any of this stuff. But I've already learnt that love releases you from wounds, turns salt into gold.

I become after his flesh and his spirit. You see God in love could hold his soul. Love poured out of me like a sonnet even while I heard his voice in my head like a mixed tape masterpiece that I should hit replay on all of the time. 'You're a baby that needs to be supervised, advised what to do, placated, a docile, docile infant. So how are you going to mom my youngsters in case you're a baby? How are you able to be a spouse if you did not have a mother, some mom-figure, a female role-model?' He was the only who found me destitute in squalor, in poverty of the spirit, identification and the mind living on the road. He wrecked my psyche, my ego and it turned into years earlier than I ought to finally allow pass of him. The dating was bittersweet. It taught me that the whole lot in existence worth yearning for and maintaining onto is fragile. It served as a reminder that now I am bored with the bloodless. Cold men with their bloodless fingers tying the threads of my coronary heart collectively shutting light, all sensibility out, amassing those threads, accumulating them like hunters within the wild.

That's the hassle with developing up, getting old. The world receives meaner, men and women and even sometimes youngsters get meaner in case you don't play by means of the regulations of the game. I suggest the sector at big may be a simply miserable kingdom with shark enamel geared up to rip and pull at any moment. And whilst that rug of affection is pulled out from beneath you whether or not you're a infant gambling inside the dirt or a baby gambling in love your spirit can become dispossessed, misplaced, displaced. Men, their arms could feel like moss or wind or winter, water in a spring. Women were a distinct kettle of fish. I attempted to trap them however they danced in a hurry, sprinted out of my draw close. They had their personal wishes, which meant that they had their own youngsters, pressures, depression, unhappiness, they had to vicinity their own issues and houses in order. They did no longer need me to name them 'mom'. I have taken the 'internal me' past and returned. When I make touch with its imaginary blueprint it is a pretty image harking back to a constellation.