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mandalhoerian · 10 months ago

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sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K (i am so sorry)

warnings: descriptions of war, suggestive themes, slow burn so it's only sensual for now, religious shame and guilt

disclaimer: this work contains Catholic imagery that is a part of rofan manhwa worldbuilding tropes. "the saintess" trope itself isn't a saint in accordance with Catholic traditions, it's just a character archetype that developed over time in the isekai genre and means more of a "holy maiden chosen by god" and "healer" with "divine powers" protected by the "church" of that specific fictional world. however, i did my best to do my research. this work has nothing to do with Christianity or any other religions and is totally fictional. please keep that in mind as you proceed!

author's note: mandalhoerian goes back to her reader era! please say thank you to @chesue00 for allowing me to use her artwork in this fic, I wrote a whole scene that depicts the art piece which was the whole inspiration for this 3-day frothing at the mouth frenzy!!!!

now, Sacrosanct is a blend of tropes i love in rofan manhwa/webtoon/mangas that are my favorite, so prepare for misunderstandings galore in the future 😭 but leon specifically is inspired by malthus from hilda furacao. which just means yearning and sexual repression. re2!leon to re4!leon pipeline is just the sweet commoner knight to cold duke of the north pipeline in manhwa, and if you understand what that means, im personally sending you a virtual kiss LMAO Happy reading, I hope yall like it!

don't forget this is the first part only.... heh. the template credit

🌀READ ON AO3 !

The first blush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, bathing your chambers in apricot hues. Crisp echoes of rustling silk resonate as you delicately lift the mask from its velvet perch. Bathed in daybreak's golden light, coloured glass chips embedded into the mask shimmer in lost constellations. The caress of velvety smooth fabric against your skin sends shivers dancing down your spine as you tie on, freshly laundered linen smell intertwining with lingering scent of last night’s incense used in nightly prayers, hints of lavender meet smoky frankincense.

Your gaze shifts to the mirror, the mask now concealing your mortal features, intricate filigree swirling across your face in an ethereal web and tiny crystals dotted along the lines sparking like stars. Taking a deep breath to stand a little taller and square your shoulders, you reach up to adjust your veil, ensuring no errant strands of hair are visible. The gauzy fabric falls in diaphanous folds around you, the whispers arising with your every movement the only sounds in the stillness of dawn.

Though the sacred mask and veil hide your earthly form, they cannot conceal the weakness of the human soul in your eyes.

The gateway to your wishes is wide open, one closer look is all one needs to see how you yearn to walk unencumbered through the gardens, to feel the caress of sunlight on your bare skin.

But the edicts are clear - when you leave these chambers, the Saintess must be fully shrouded, an exalted vessel and naught else.

You amble down to the sacred chapel for morning prayers before breaking your fast - a custom enacted in hushed reverence. As you descend stone steps weathered by time, you're swaddled in the scent of smoldering incense permeating from open timber doors, trailing invisible veins into the invigorating morning air. Inside, familiar faces of fellow sisters and brothers offer gentle nods of greeting as you find solace before the altar, sinking onto the cushioned bench tailored specifically for you, in the name of quiet contemplation and prayerful kneeling.

In honor of Ethelion, your one true Lord, silence descends—a pause amplified by its gravitas. Then with an authority that makes everything else seem trivial in comparison, there's the priest: his directing is ripples on still water reaching out towards infinity—sound molded into sacred words known only too well to heart.

The humming drone of faith-soaked chants serves as a welcome breather from the constant ponderings on war and sacrifice that’s been plaguing you for weeks. Those gnawing realities always sneak up and nibble away at your moments of peace, but here in this church, Ethelion’s mercy reigns supreme—the refuge is heard in the choruses belted out emphatically, slicing through any weighty thoughts, their lyrics loftier than any worldly worry.

As the sun stands at its zenith above and sends shards of golden light filtering through the stained glass canvases, the ceremony unwinds. It feels like saying goodbye too soon amidst vibrant echoes of hymns that grip onto ancient brick walls built upon stories spanning centuries, currents of history carrying their inevitable fade. Here, they stand still—if only for a while—pinned by lingering notes lost in air rich with incense burn and oakwood musk coupled with memories tasting of sacramental wine still clinging to tongues.

Stepping into the courtyard, you're swathed in a prism of pastel hues—blossoms unveiling their sugared whispers to the inviting warmth of a lingering breeze. You catch wind of their fragrance; it hooks you, a blend of sweet floral undertones and spring's renewed vigor carrying history within its essence, and you cannot wait to check on your lily garden.

Children dart amongst looming pews, mischief gleaming in their eyes as they engage in hushed games, shards of laughter echoing softly around the otherwise hallowed space. The sight tugs at a wisp of nostalgia, memories when life was simpler, less layered with expectations and daunting futures.

The youngest ones eyeing your departure don't miss a beat. Like mini warriors possessed by unruly spirits, they break rank from the congregation to run after you—a whirlwind of giggles and shouts lacing the air. Their excitement thrums against your skin, buzzing like electricity—an unexpected surge that leaves behind a ghostly imprint.

Yet before they can reach you or even conflict with stone-faced paladins on guard duty, an adult hand restrains them. Respectful bows font towards you as if to acknowledge an unspoken understanding—a solemn line between what is allowed and what isn't negotiated under sacred roofs and watchful gazes.

The breaking of your fast happens solely in the intimacy of your chambers, where you can abandon the weariness of your mask.

Fresh fruits and bread baked by the monks in the kitchens await you on a simple wooden table, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of your chamber. The apples gleam like polished rubies, their skins taut and inviting, while clusters of plump grapes spill over from the plate. The bread, golden and crusty, emits a warm aroma that fills the air with comfort; its texture promises a satisfying chew that will sustain you through the day’s trials.

You pour yourself a glass of tea, steam curling up like ethereal wisps as you set it beside the fruits, its sweetness rendered by generous dollops of honey that transform each sip into liquid amber. As you bite into a slice of bread, the crust crackles under your teeth, giving way to a soft and airy interior that melts on your tongue. It’s simple fare—yet it nourishes not just your body but also stirs echoes of childhood memories spent in the kitchens, where laughter mingled with the scent of baked goods.

The weight of your impending sacred duty hangs over you like storm clouds heavy with rain.

It's not just a responsibility; it's an anchor dragging you into the depths of despair, each step forward to navigate it is like wading through molten lead.

You peer through the frost-kissed window, and the courtyard below unfolds like a battlefield before a decisive clash. Figures clad in armor move with the grace of dancers and the determination of warriors bound for glory or doom. The pieces of gleaming plate mail reflects the pale light, casting fractured rainbows on the cobbled ground.

The gleam of virgin armor, polished to a high sheen, is nothing more than a facade.

It's an ornament, untouched by the brutality of combat—it’s their holy calling that these paladins embrace, not the bloody stain of war. And yet, you sit there on your throne and hesitate to send even one amongst them into the fray for your crown's sake.

How easy would it be to fool yourself into believing that time has frozen, and these young knights in training are simply rehearsing under the guise of some distant uncertainty. But your eyes have skimmed those sealed parchment letters, their inky truths seeping more dread into an already strained air; you're not as naive as all that. The chilling certainty of the Holy War lurks just on the other side of these weathered stone walls—it's only a matter of moments before a gasping messenger dispatches reality like storm clouds breaking open.

Regardless of how fervently you pray or how deep your self-sacrifice runs, it won’t alter this predetermined destiny.

Even as you grip your blessed rosary so tightly it leaves hardened impressions in your palm's soft flesh. Even when unshed tears blur your vision, scalding hot yet stubbornly refusing to fall free, and a knot of shame twists low within your stomach like vile poison—an uncomfortable squirming inside that is almost visceral. Your journey forward leaves much to be desired–mired with dark ambiguities, where faith resembles something more akin to a clumsy blind groping in the vast unknown.

Your heart twinges—a raw ache—at the sight of blond hair all too familiar.

"Leon," escapes in a murmur from between your chapped lips against the icy window pane—the cold seeping into your skin; tiny tendrils numbing any sensation away.

The young paladin has blossomed into a towering figure since his personal guard duty by your side the last month, his frame enveloped in the armor that’s bigger than his still-growing form. The sight of him clad in battle gear is a poignant one, for the metal plates seem to engulf him rather than adorn him. He looks anything but menacing, sweet consideration towards those he’s sparring with, despite clad head-to-toe in battle gear, with such carefree confidence that threatens to split your aching chest.

In a split second, on the other side of that cold glass wall; Leon’s focus latches onto your unveiled and unmasked presence like a sunflower bending towards light.

It's as if you've breathed some forbidden word into the wind - an inaudible gasp tingles the silence and ripples off his lips. He stammers mid-battle stance, frozen under some unseen celestial hammer, scorched into oblivion.

You step back hurriedly, yanking your veil down over your face once more; it's rough underneath your fingertips, but nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. His own stunned gaze falters, tugs itself away as if burned - damn those beautiful eyes! But that moment costs him dearly as his rival lunges and he crumbles under the assault, and your heart won’t stop racing, undeniable fondness with a foreign heat creeping up your neck.

Leon bounces back from the blow almost instantly, staggering back to his feet like it's second nature; like he hasn't just had the wind knocked out of him and seems more rattled than before.

His opponent’s moves are unforgiving, one after another until Leon's guard slips. With a resounding thud that sends shudders up your spine, Leon gets slammed into the dirt floor.

His helmet soars through the air with an eerie ring that echoes around the courtyard, tumbling to rest at the boots of a nearby Paladin whose gaze is stuck on Leon’s prone form - filled with something close to pity but still masked by pride. A comrade extends a roughened hand, helping Leon upright, his comforting pat lingering just a moment too long on his shoulder blade as if unsure whether to leave or stay for strength. Jovially yet sternly, the older knight cuffs Leon on his arm, gauntlet striking armor with a dull clang.

As you retreat from your voyeuristic post at the window when reverberating tolls from the grand temple's bells signal practice time has run its course, there's an adrenaline rush buzzing under your skin even though you were merely watching. The upcoming blessing ceremony casts its shadow over you – all consuming and much larger than life; leaves no space for silly fancies.

Sunset paints the temple grounds in a bronzed hue as Leon treks alone back to the barracks, his mind adrift. Training bruises throb under his armor, though it's the sting of his fractured pride that truly wounds him.

None of it matters in the face of the glimpse of divinity he accidentally caught.

He nearly bends with the weight of it, an abyss of greed that he fears his brothers-in-arms can sense infecting his spirit. It maligns his growth as a paladin; he's sure Ethelion sees the invasive avarice lurking beneath skin and bone, an illicit truth residing within him nipping at him from the inside like a woodworm.

The seed of which had been planted over a decade ago, in these lily gardens, in the healing hands of a young Saintess whose presence and unmasked face lingered in his heart and grew into an infatuation with her holy touch.

He was but a boy back then, brittle and broken in body, his fragile skin stretched thin over bony limbs, rife with illness that stole the color from his cheeks and the air from his lungs. His very life seemed held together by prayers of his parents alone, fluttering like leaves in the wind. He'd stumbled into the garden by accident, chasing a stray cat with his siblings, not realizing he was lost.

Yet fate cast her sanguine smile and Ethelion himself turned an eye on him, sending the Saintess his way.

A warm glow drew him further through the bushes, and there you stood, cloaked in a robe that made your radiance seem as if it were born from moonlight. His eyes should have burned upon landing on you unmasked, youthful face that unmistakably belonged to a human girl of his age and not that of Ethelion in the flesh, but instead, his lungs expanded with an unknowable strength because of the divine power around you, an easiness that made it feel like he was breathing for the first time.

Not met with punishment for such audacity—he was instead gifted healing through your sacred touch–and got left laced with a perpetual yearning, sickness eradicated from his being and infused life onto starved limbs.

A lesson was disclosed to him later on when he’d become aware of himself, about why the Saintess had to be veiled.

His desires knew no end. It was for her spiritual purity that the Saintess could not be seen unmasked or reveal herself to mortals. Could one imagine the consequences of men akin to him lying eyes upon such magnificence, gracing skin intended only for Ethelion's touch? The impressionable child that he was had bloomed into an adult consumed by her divinity, hell-bent on basking in it all life long. Surely kingdoms would fold, as mortals were bound to disrupt natural balance attempting to seize the maiden of god.

So, when you appeared in the tower window today, he was overcome with a sensation so powerful it felt like angelic apparitions traced their wings down his back.

Divine grace embodied, shining forth in ways he couldn't articulate.

An inexplicable need arose from his bones for him to go to you, throw himself down in worship, confess sins one by one and receive penance:

In the hush of many nights when the temple halls were empty, he would wander like a ghost and always come back to kneel at the feet of Ethelion, daring to touch the cushions before the altar where you prayed, his fingers lingering where only your robes should caress. The audacity of his gaze tracing the delicate embroidery of your veil when he stood guard by your side, seeking to unveil something meant solely for Ethelion’s eyes, was but one of his many transgressions against the sanctity that cloaked you…

His form of worship seemed askew, borne more out of desire than devoutness; staining the starkly white fabric of his duty with its off-colour ardour.

He could never allow you, the revered Saintess, to know about this sinful sentiment dwelling within him; tarnishing every sweet memory associated with you.

The fantasy he harbored diminished his image, trendlessly etched as an obedient paladin's plight – but for him, you represented something significantly more profound. To even admit how dreams featuring you bewitchingly bathed in grace tainted his oath of celibacy would risk jeopardizing the hope invested in recognizing his service towards Ethelion.

The desire to earn the highest recognition, a Paladin's title and acceptance of his fealty to protect you as such – got increasingly tangled in a visceral wanting lost somewhere between sacrilege and worship that left a devout hunger echoing within him for your sake.

To satisfy this, he threw himself fiercely into arduous training channels to strengthen both his body and mind with every challenging day that went by - striving ceaselessly with dreams of deserving a place by your side.

Now, he stands precipitously on the verge; holding on desperately to this undisclosed confession – harboring a stolen glance of you from earlier as a secret talisman.

How could he go into the Holy War with his brothers now, knowing he'd seen beneath your veil and… Felt.

“You seem troubled, Sir Leon.”

Leon doesn’t dare turn; a jagged lick of dread splinters down his spine. He recognizes that voice—how could he not when it haunts his dreams night after night? Instead, he stares into nothingness, rooted to the ground, his mind unable to process that you're speaking to him.

But he does turn, finding you standing serenely beneath an archway covered with tangled fragrant vines in the Temple's back garden.

Your presence fills Leon with equal parts awe and unease, as if Ethelion himself is shaming him from above for desiring what should be beyond mortal reach.

Yet your countenance remains unchanged, unmarred by his inner turmoil. The mask stays in place, an extension of your divinity—only now, Leon swears that beneath it, your eyes are smiling at him.

Leon stands within the cool shadow of the ancient temple, its weathered stones holding an age-old embrace that wraps around him like a cloak. The air is thin with the delicate scent of lilies that’s wafting towards him from the garden—from you, and outside, where sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, you stand amidst color. Your garments catch the sunset, casting a shimmer that mirrors the beauty of your surroundings.

The difference between his shadowed presence and your radiant figure is a shaming from above, showing Leon your place in His divine light while he remains shrouded in sin.

The clinking of Leon's loose armor rings as he lowers himself to one knee before you, “Forgive me, Saintess. I did not mean to disturb your meditations.”

The rustle of silk heralded your approach, brushing against the cool stone floor like a gentle breeze stirring a field of wildflowers. He inhales sharply, his breath hitching in his throat as the fragrance of lilies envelops him.

You stop before him, your robes cascading around you like a mirage of opal waves, he is captivated by an urge so primal that it sends a flush of heat to his cheeks and makes his palms sticky; he longs to press his lips to the delicate fabric that seems to breathe with divine grace.

“Please rise, Sir Leon. I saw you training today. Your skills are formidable.”

His pride swelled silent and strong within his chest – a sudden weight that could unbalance him more than any physical blow ever could.

"Your words honor me greatly," he manages to speak to the stones at his feet, even after he is back up at his feet.

"Yet you seem to have much on your mind."

He cannot meet your eyes; it feels overwhelming to face such beauty and concern directed solely at him.

"Pardon me, that was a silly question, wasn't it? Of course you have much on your mind. You're about to ride into battle. Such thoughts are not easy to bear. Do you wish to talk about it?"

"It's not my place to trouble you with such things, Saintess. They will soon be far from here, and you will be safe in the Temple.”

He glances at you, and the look in your eyes is enough to make him forget how to breathe. It’s a blend of curiosity and tenderness; an innocence that nearly pierces through his mask and grazes the wicked depths of his heart.

You tilt your head, much like a bird contemplating a worm, and gently ask, "Would you indulge my curiosity and share one worry with me?"

It's an impossibly generous gesture, for you to extend this small piece of yourself to him in the middle of your meditations. Leon's teeth ache at the sweetness of it, at your kindness that extends even to him.

“I’m doubting my worthiness to serve,” he confesses unceremoniously. “I train relentlessly, but I lack the innate spark my brothers were born with. It's as if... as if I'm play-acting at being a Paladin.”

Those aren't the only doubts that torment him—but the ones he can actually say out loud without burning at the stake for.

"Do you remember the day we met, Sir Leon?" you begin, clasping your hands and turning around to face the gardens, the gentle breeze is making your veil flutter.

Leon nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Even so many years later, the memory still has the power to stir his soul, churning something in his chest that makes it hard to think straight.

"It seems like it was yesterday that a young boy came stumbling into the garden, barely able to stand up, and looked me dead in the face. What do you think I saw in him?"

He always assumed the Saintess would have forgotten such a brief encounter, yet it was etched firmly into his memory and to hear it spoken aloud has his pulse miss a couple beats.

"Do you think I saw weakness as he lay gasping in the dirt? Or did I perhaps see an innocent curiosity that was easily swept up by the cruelty of this world and tamed into obedience? Or maybe I saw something else entirely.”

He shakes his head, trying to make sense of your words. It sounds like you're making a statement, but it's not clear which part you agree with.

"Tell me, Sir Leon. What is a spark? Does it come to life, or can it be nurtured from the smallest ember of resolve?" you whisper, fingers trembling as they ascend, tracing a path as delicate as a petal's fall, nearing his cheek with hesitant affection.

He’s paralyzed when your touch indeed lands instead of drifting away.

Your fingers linger, tracing the curve of his jawline with such gentleness, demure and awkward; and the pressure of it makes his skin sing, sparks dancing along every inch.

It's barely a caress, but he feels it in his bones—this ache—that swells and burns, a fire set alight inside his chest that’s on the precipice of consuming him whole.

A whole-body shiver breaks free, but you remain unfazed—your hand is still there, stroking his flesh with such tenderness; soft against the corner of his jaw.

"One is not born to greatness, one achieves it." You're calm, yet firm, a voice that commands respect. He's reminded of the many times he heard you deliver blessings on high ceremonies. There's something about the cadence of your words that pulls at the strings of his soul, drawing him in closer—deeper. "What truly matters is the conviction behind your actions. And, Sir Leon, you may not see it yet. But there's a spark inside your chest that burns brighter than any candle. Don't let anyone dampen it, for it shall shine a path forward unto others and bring glory to our land."

You pull away, leaving a void in your wake. Leon finds himself wanting to reach after you, wanting nothing more than for your skin to keep pressing against his, for your warmth to bleed through his own and ease the burden that's crushing him.

He wants to kiss those fingers that have—

Red hot shame enough to set firewoods aflame shoots straight to settle on his cheeks, flushing them as a wicked feeling sinks in his stomach, a heavy sinking pit. The meaning of your words resounds in his heart like a thunderclap after the lightning that was your touch, your holy words washing over him like a balm—or a warning.

He's brought back to reality abruptly with the harsh cackle of metal against stone as a group of paladins walk by and salute him and bow for the Saintess, pulling him out of a daze as he greets them. Their voices seem distant, faces a blur. It's a miracle Leon manages a nod at them in acknowledgment.

He finds his tongue eventually, his face still aflame with embarrassment at the realization of being in front of the Saintess, an idol of the Church, a woman he thinks of during his late-night ruminations, and still feels guilty for.

"T-thank you, Saintess,” his voice wavers, trembling even with those two simple words that leave him shaking, stirred to the core as if a sudden storm just swept him away to sea, and you are the shore he longs to return to. He fears he might drown in the depths of those beautiful eyes, pulled under by the current.

"It is I who should be thanking you, Sir Leon. You're risking everything to ensure peace for our realm."

Your words wrap around him like a hug, holding him in place while also offering a moment of comfort, like coming home from a long trip away. He treasures those precious few seconds, committing them to memory. But you are a Saintess, not a fellow knight, and there are no hugs or handshakes in his world.

"I'll see you in the ceremony," you continue, before leaving Leon with his heaving chest and a pressure knotting deep in his stomach, walking back to the serenity of the Temple, robes fluttering around your feet like snow settling over frozen earth.

Once you have disappeared into the confines of the temple, he lets out a deep breath. His heart is still beating wildly; the memory of your fingertips brushing his skin is seared into his flesh, an indelible mark that cannot be scrubbed away. He is unable to shake the feeling that he has committed some unspeakable sin; his body a living, breathing violation of his vows.

Leon washes himself in the barracks' bathing chambers, and as he stares at the naked flesh beneath steaming water, his thoughts turn to the ritual that awaits him. In the heat and sweat of it, he wonders if you can wash him clean, baptize his tainted heart.

His sweat trickles down his back, leaving shimmering beads of perspiration in its wake, he can feel each droplet sliding down like a ghostly caress overheated skin glistening under the light of flickering candles; his head is thrown back, and wet hair is slicked away from his face as he reclines in the wooden bathtub. He reaches up to trace the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers that hover just above his skin, remembering what it felt like to have your touch there. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him; he feels the heaviness in his groin, thick and full between his thighs.

In this moment, he is alone with his guilt and shame; but underneath all that self-recrimination there lies a deeper emotion he dares not acknowledge: hope.

The blessing ceremony unfolds with the break of dawn the next day.

Rows of paladins stand at attention, forming a formidable barrier outside the towering chapel. You make your way up the marble steps, flanked by your retinue, and lift your veiled face to behold the regimented paladins before you. Their armor catches the sunlight in a dazzling display, swords resting peacefully in their scabbards. Every single one of them is an anonymous guardian, faces obscured by identical helmets and billowing white capes adorned with a shimmering blue starburst emblem emblazoned on their chest plates.

Upon reaching the summit of the staircase, the massive oak doors swing wide open, revealing an expanse filled with devout worshippers immersed in fervent prayer. Bathed in hues of multicolored light filtering through intricate stained-glass windows, their worshiping forms kneel upon the cool marble floor. Sunbeams caress their bowed heads like a halo, creating a mosaic of ethereal radiance that plays upon their serene features.

The hush that descends as you cross the threshold is whispered benedictions through the hall, enshrouding all present in a solemn embrace as you draw nearer to the altar at its heart.

At the altar stands the head priest, garbed in ceremonial robes—the deep hues of white and gold intertwining with ancient symbols. His palms are raised towards the statue of Ethelion, supplication etched into every line of his face. Before him sits an empty altar table covered in rich crimson velvet trimmed with gold brocade, and at its center rests a silver bowl filled with holy water, reflecting shards of light like fragments of a broken mirror.

Beside the basin stands a golden chalice and a sharp blade gleaming ominously.

You sink into a curtsy before the priest—your knees grazing the cool stone floor—as he intones your full title: "I salute the Beloved of Ethelion, Avatar of Eternity and Renewal,” before he gently beckons you to rise.

Taking your place before the altar, you feel the weight of an entire kingdom resting upon your shoulders. This ritual isn't mere superstition; it's a tangible link between mortal and divine—a celestial promise that Ethelia is indeed favored by the gods.

Yet beneath this grandeur lies urgency cloaked in ceremony: you're chosen by Ethelion to channel his blessing—a gift that comes with strings attached. It promises good health and protection from injury but depletes as quickly as candles flicker out in gusty winds.

You've done this countless times, yet it never becomes easier. You can only hope that the god residing within you answers earnestly today—gracing the paladins with divine strength and healing their wounds as you pour every ounce of yourself into them.

A hushed silence envelops the chamber as the priest lifts up the basin and blesses its water. He then raises it above your head, pouring its contents slowly over your body. The liquid cascades down your shoulders like molten gold—cool initially but warming as it mingles with your skin—and pools at your feet like melted sunlight. It seeps into the hem of your flowing robe which now shimmers like saffron touched by daylight's first rays.

The priest murmurs prayers of consecration while taking up the gleaming blade from beside chalice's stem. Gesturing for everyone gathered to join hands, he swiftly cuts into your wrist without warning—precise and unyielding. Blood oozes forth; dark as ink with whiffs reminiscent faint iron scent permeating air around tendrils curling upward almost ethereal fashion dripping fingers’ tips.

"May Ethelion guide thy swords on this path forward!" you invoke in a solemn tone. The words carry an authority that rings throughout the entire Temple, sending vibrations through the gathered crowd as they repeat your verse.

With a sharp exhale, you approach the priest and rest your open wound over the golden goblet, watching your blood drip into the vessel, drop by painstaking drop. All the while, the attendees recite their blessings in a swelling crescendo, their voices echoing back from the domed roof like an urgent prayer caught between earth and sky.

Your arm throbs incessantly—a dull ache blossoming into searing pain, but you press on, undeterred. Despite how difficult it becomes, there's solace in sharing this burden with others, knowing that they too have a part to play.

Finally, when enough blood has been collected, the priest holds the chalice high and exclaims, "For the kingdom! For Ethelion!"

On command, the paladins march forward with military precision, lining up in single file before the altar, the line extending out of the doors. With measured steps, they kneel in succession, resting their forearms atop the surface in a gesture of humility. You are handed the holy sword, its blade shimmering beneath the lights, its hilt ornately decorated with rubies and diamonds.

Placing your bleeding wrist atop the hilt's cool metal surface, you hold it above the first kneeling paladin's helmeted head. Slowly and carefully, you dip your finger into the cup of crimson liquid and anoint him with your blood by marking his crested forehead—a tangible sign of his sworn loyalty. Whispering a blessing so only he can hear it feels almost intimate—the sword becoming a conduit for divine power. The tip of the blade descends upon his crown; his shoulders instantly stiffen under this sacred touch—they tremble when it grazes one shoulder then moves to deliver an ethereal blow to the other.

The process repeats itself, endless and exhausting, as you move down the line.

Each anointment saps more of your energy reserves until you're left weak and nearly hollowed out from within. Yet pouring every bit of life force into each paladin so they may be shielded on battlefields ahead brings bittersweet satisfaction mixed with aching relief—you find strength anew just enough to persevere.

By the time you reach the end of the rows, your skin feels as paper-thin as the gauzy fabric covering your body. The edges of your vision have started to blur, and it takes considerable effort to stay upright, gripping the edge of the altar to steady yourself. Your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs like a frantic bird, wanting to burst free from its cage of bone and muscle and escape this agony. Your palms are clammy; you're sweating profusely beneath your robes, but despite this, you must see this rite through till its completion.

The ancient wooden door of the chapel creaks open, its mournful groan deafening in the silent night. A thin beam of moonlight slices through the gap, illuminating the dusty air. Inside, flickering candle flames cast warm, trembling light on Ethelion’s marble statue, which gazes down at you with unblinking, expressionless eyes.

You place your mask at the base of His effigy; unveiling yourself like this is a crucial part of the ritual—a moment of communion with the deity. You stand exposed before Him in every way—physically, spiritually, and emotionally. He serves as a mirror reflecting your deepest essence—a piece of you laid bare without fear or shame. Hiding from Him would be like refusing to acknowledge your own existence.

Summoning all your bravery, you remove the fragile veil that acts as your last shield against the world’s curious eyes, letting it rest gently next to your discarded mask. With both face and hair now revealed, you kneel before His statue. Your head bows low in penance, hands squeezed together in a gesture of deep devotion.

"Blessed Ethelion, forgive your servant," you plead with a tremor. "I have doubt in my heart. I'm afraid."

The statue remains silent; only overpowering stillness fills the air as seconds stretch into eternity. Then warmth radiates through you—starting from your chest and unfurling into your limbs—like sunshine poured into your veins, igniting every fiber with radiant energy.

"I don’t want any of them to die," you confess quietly, tears spilling free to splash against the cold flagstone floor. "They’re innocents caught in a war not their own."

There are no words in response, yet you feel an undeniable answer; Ethelion’s reassuring presence envelops you like a warm embrace. He is there to listen to you in silence.

This ritual is a moment of weakness—where fear manifests openly for release. These men are about to step into hell itself beyond the walls. Though they fight for honor and glory, deep down you know it will become a bloodbath—a massacre that will rend this kingdom apart.

"There's nothing sacred about this; yet here I stand sentencing Your children to death," you lament as tears trickle down your cheeks, mingling salty bitterness against trembling lips. No further sign comes; Ethelion appears content merely to observe from His heavenly perch—perhaps reminding you gently of your divine duty—the role He has ordained for you. "I beg forgiveness, O Lord. I could not change the minds blinded by ignorance. My heart bleeds for those suffering because of this conflict. Please protect them so they may come back to bask once more in Your radiant light."

You bow deeply before Him; rising again is a struggle as your knees quake beneath you.

"Saintess."

You jump at the familiar voice that slices through the sanctity of silence, eyes widening in recognition and trepidation.

This is the third time Leon has witnessed you this vulnerable without the holy artifacts shielding the flesh beneath, yet he remains unassuming and gentle; shock absent from his spirit this time. He stands close behind you in this hallowed space belonging solely to Ethelion's infinite wisdom, and you dare not breathe—afraid of shattering this ethereal moment.

"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, standing erect. You remain there unmoving, save for the tiny droplets of sweat gathering on your hairline as he moves with the grace of a shadow, his steps measured and deliberate, until he stands by your side, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the towering statue of Ethelion that looms before you both, as if seeking solace in the stone divinity rather against the evil of your human form.

He drops down onto both knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly kisses the cold stone floor.

A subtle movement draws your attention, and you steal a glance from beneath your lashes. The moonlight caresses strands of golden hair and spins them into threads of silver. His attire deviates from the usual paladin's armor; instead, he wears a simple cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms sculpted by hard practice. The fabric clings to his form, hinting at the sinewy strength that lies beneath. Riding breeches embrace his legs snugly, tucked into worn boots that have weathered countless journeys.

The collar of his shirt is notched open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat and the expanse of his upper chest. Your gaze traces the contours of muscle defined beneath the sheer material, and traitorously ventures lower, lingering on the curve of his bent knees before daring to explore further down to where his knuckles rest—taut and unyielding atop thighs etched with power. It leaves your mouth dry.

The intensity with which he shuts his eyes mirrors that boy from years past—the one who clenched his fists tightly against pain, refusing to cry as he battled an illness that should have claimed his life but didn't.

You yield to an impulse, enveloping him in the ethereal embrace of your veil, a shield against the world's gaze and your own. His body tenses beneath the delicate fabric as you glide it over his features, a soft gasp escaping from deep within him. With a trembling exhale, he quivers imperceptibly, fingers pressing into the cloth with a fervor that leaves faint dents on his skin, hands strained from the intensity.

"Open your eyes," you murmur tenderly, reluctant to disrupt the fragile moment.

Gleaming blue flickers into view through the white, translucent shroud, their clarity distorted by the gossamer material. You observe his swallow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he tentatively reaches to draw it down over his face.

Through the veil's prism, you must appear as a kaleidoscope of hues and forms to him; a phantom of your true essence, an elusive apparition hovering at the edge of reality.

"The… The blessing went well today," Leon sputters, cracking at the end like glass under pressure.

"Why did you come here, Sir Leon?" you ask gently, sensing that beneath his stiff formality lies a multitude of untold emotions.

"Are you alright?" The genuine concern for your person sends shivers cascading over your skin; fine hairs on your arms lift as he touches his wrist—mirroring right where your blood had been drawn. "Does it hurt every time the blessing is performed? I've never watched it before. It's..."

He falters, mouth opening and closing, and you notice how the fractured light from the windows bathes the swell of his cheeks in a tender luminescence. His words hang between you both, delicate strands of silk trying to knit themselves into coherence.

"It's awful, Saintess. To see your suffering laid bare before everyone."

"I would drain my whole body if it meant those brave men will go out knowing they are protected," you say with resolute calmness, though deep down, you're curious about how he truly perceives you now.

A barely audible "I know," escapes him. It feels like a confession—an unpleasant truth he doesn’t like being faced with. Whatever it holds makes warmth surge through you, igniting your skin and causing another involuntary shiver as he moistens his lower lip with a slow sweep of his tongue. "I know."

"Don't worry about me, Sir Leon. Your job is out there defending these lands, while mine is to ease your burdens. Think only of protecting those who need your shield.”

“Is it wrong to care for those I serve?” His wholehearted question tightens something within you—stirs an undefined yet potent emotion ready to bloom.

"Not at all," you reply almost breathlessly as he gazes intently at the curve of your jawline—your face blurred but memorized by him with stunning accuracy. "Remember whom your sword serves; we live only to honor Ethelion."

"I wish the world were different," his words seem hollowed out, lacking meaning, and yet there's an unmistakable conviction there, a resolve that drives him.

"As do I."

You glide your fingertips over the altar's slick surface, taking in a deep breath that fills your lungs fully with the sanctity of this space.

Then he straightens up suddenly; determination shines in his posture. He doesn’t rise from his kneeling position, yet it frightens you in the same way it would if he had shot up to stand.

"If you'll allow it, Saintess," he says, venerating, and the delicate fabric of his veil brushes against the embroidered sleeve of your robe. That fleeting contact sends a jolt through you, reverberating like a soft, whispered promise. His simple gesture, his proximity—it shouldn’t mean anything. But you feel he might as well have taken your hand in his. "I would pledge an oath to you as well."

There’s a deliberate slowness in how he pulls back, the motion of a man lingering at a threshold he has no right to cross.

Your chest tightens, your breath coming slower as you try to compose yourself. “Of course, Sir Leon,” you manage, though the stillness between you is filled with your uncertainty. What if you're not worthy of his devotion? Of his sacrifice? If he saw what lay beneath the veil, beyond the role of saintess, would he still look at you this way? Or would he recoil, realizing the truth of what you are: flesh and blood, no more divine than the earth beneath your feet?

You feel his stare. It’s as though they’re tracing the length of your body, reaching you through the barrier of the veil, and somehow, that makes the sensation more intimate than if he were standing before you fully revealed.

His breath catches, just slightly. You hear it, feel it, even though the veil between you muffles the sound. "It’s not about whether you’ll accept it," he continues, and there’s a shift in his stance. You can’t see his face, but the way he holds himself, the slight movement of his shoulders beneath the fabric, tells you that he’s grounding himself. "I give this vow because it is mine to give. For you, not for recognition or reward. It’s my choice, my will. No one needs to know."

His spine is ramrod straight now, but there’s a softness in his words, a slight tilt of his head as his eyes search yours. “My loyalty belongs to you alone.”

You swallow hard, the meaning of his words sinking deep into your soul. A lowly servant of Ethelion, that’s all you are. A vessel. No name, no family, no identity beyond the veil. His words... they speak of individual loyalty, devotion to you, not to Ethelion, not to the divine purpose you embody. You are no one. You have no right to such things. How could you take from him what rightly belongs to the god you serve? Wouldn’t you be struck down for such hubris? For leading a paladin astray, pulling him from the only true master he should follow? You tremble at the thought.

"Sir Leon, I cannot accept this." Your fingers curl around the skirt of your robe, the fabric twisting beneath your grip. “It’s—”

His chin lifts, eyes steady on you. "��wrong?"

You start at his interruption. Your voice sounds so feeble as you finish the sentence with a meek, "Yes."

He stays rooted, motionless, but something in the atmosphere shifts again. His breathing, though controlled, seems deeper, and you sense the quiet resolve in the silence that stretches between you.

"Then let me be the one who wrongs Ethelion." His tone carries a weight that presses against you, not through sound but through the way his body holds firm, unwavering. His movements are subtle, restrained, yet the soft brush of his hand grazing his side signals something deeper, a release of tension. "I pledge myself to you, Saintess. To your will, your desires. You are my strength."

The air feels dense, thick with the weight of what he’s offering.

These words flow from him like water spilling over stones, filling up spaces where it couldn't previously reach. The warmth in your chest expands, spreading outward until it seeps into every fiber of your being. Your fingers twitch, the edge of your sleeve twisting between them as you try to ground yourself.

"Please grant me a token of your favor."

Your hands tremble at your sides, your pulse quickening as you fidget with the fabric between your fingers.

What can you possibly offer him?

You glance down, but everything feels out of reach, the world reduced to this one moment.

"But I..." you begin, unsure, your fingers tugging nervously at your sleeve, "I am not a Lady."

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches, and though you can’t see his expression, it feels charged. He shifts ever so slightly, enough that you catch the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.

"All the more reason," he says, a shy smile in his words. "An unworthy paladin asking for a favor from the Saintess—what could be more fitting?"

"Then you may pick whichever object from the temple you desire—"

"I want something of yours, not an icon, nor some relic," he replies immediately, cutting you short, the butteriness sending shivers running down your back. "What do I lack that you have plenty of, that you won't miss, even if it's just a small trinket?"

Your heart stumbles in your chest, the weight of his request crashing into you like a wave. Real? What could you give him? What is yours to offer?

"A lock of hair?" you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken as you say it. The words feel small, vulnerable, but they tumble out before you can stop them. "Would that… suffice?"

Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.

A lock of hair would belong to you, not the Saintess. A proof of your worldliness, beyond the connection to Ethelion's divine essence. Something that is of the girl and not the holy maiden. Is that what he seeks?

"Your hair," he breathes out in an exhale, as if tasting the words. He appears completely entranced and you become conscious of yourself, the inappropriate nature of just what you brought up.

You draw a slow, shaky breath, the idea settling uneasily in your chest. There’s something intensely personal, too intimate about the exchange. "No, you misunderstand—"

"Your hair, Saintess," he repeats it again, this time more forceful than you've ever seen him; you'd never dare refuse this request and it steals your breath, silencing every protest rising in your throat. "I will accept no less."

Leon rises to his feet, dwarfing you with his broad frame. For the very first time, in Ethelion's presence, you feel small and helpless, like a child who's wandered into his garden. There's something overwhelmingly disarming about sharing this space with him. A foreign sensation blooms within you— a spark that threatens to ignite your world into flames—but you dare not give it voice.

Leon had once worn his armor with pride, each plate fastened like a second skin, the weight of his sword as natural as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step forward felt as if he marched hand in hand with something divine, a force greater than himself guiding his every move. The blessing of the saintess had lingered on his skin, a quiet touch that had etched itself into his soul, fortifying his resolve. He had believed, back then, that he was a vessel of the god’s will.

That was years ago.

Now, standing at the edge of the battlefield, the familiar weight of his armor feels heavier, pressing down like an unbearable burden. The bitter taste of dried sweat clings to his lips, and a dull ache pulses beneath his ribs where his armor had done little to stop the last blow. The sun glares down on the blood-soaked earth, the cries of the wounded melding with the clash of steel and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

This was not what he envisioned. There was nothing divine here.

A shout rises above the noise, sharp and commanding, drawing his gaze toward the horizon. The enemy soldiers draped in black, surge over the hill like a wave of shadow. His grip tightens around his sword, the hilt slick with a mixture of blood and sweat, fingers straining against the leather-bound grip.

“Leon!” A voice, rough and worn from years of battle, cuts through the din. Leon turns, his eyes locking onto Captain Krauser, a veteran whose gaze is as sharp as a hawk’s. His expression is hard, impatient. “Orders from the Temple: we flank their left side!”

Leon’s heart clenches at the mention of the Temple.

It had been a long time since the orders felt pure, righteous. The Church’s demands had grown more questionable with each passing day. What had once been a campaign to protect the kingdom and its people now reeked of ambition—land grabs disguised as divine conquest. Territories seized, villages razed under the pretense of holy duty.

But Leon doesn’t question. He never has. He is a soldier, a paladin. A servant of Ethelion.

The memory of you—serene, always hidden beneath the mask you wore as the Saintess—surfaces in his mind, unbidden, his anchor to the divine, the blessing you placed on him sacred. You believed in him, blessed him with your blood, and for that, he would fight. For that, he would fulfill his duty.

He moves after Krauser, silent as a ghost, maneuvering through the throng of soldiers until they reach the flank. The enemy’s forces are spread thin, their attempt to push the kingdom’s army back leaving them exposed. It should be an easy victory. A victory that would tighten their grip on the region, crush the enemy’s morale.

The order comes swiftly, brutal and final: Leave no one alive.

Leon hesitates, his sword held in a grip that tightens until his knuckles ache. Leave no one alive. The same command they’d been given in the last village. And the one before that. What once felt justifiable—crushing the enemy for the kingdom’s safety—now sits like lead in his bones.

Those they slaughtered hadn’t been soldiers. They were farmers, villagers. Innocents. Women and children.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and the memory of the last village rises unbidden, a flash behind his eyelids. He can still smell the smoke, hear the anguished cries of mothers shielding their children. His punishment for hesitating, for not cutting through them as he did the soldiers, feels lighter than the weight of that memory.

“Are you deaf, shiny?” Krauser says with a low growl, dragging him back to the present. “I said move.”

Leon’s jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. His body moves automatically, his sword rising as he steps forward, following the rest of the paladins into the fray. Steel clashes with steel, bodies crash against one another, but the noise fades, swallowed by the gnawing doubt lodged deep in his chest. He strikes down another soldier, their blood splattering across his already stained armor, but the pit in his stomach only deepens.

He had been blessed to protect the kingdom, to serve the saintess. How did it come to this? When did righteousness turn into this—bloodlust veiled by holy orders?

Each swing of his sword feels heavier, as though the weight of every soul he cuts down drags him closer to the earth. He fells another enemy, watching as the light drains from their eyes, but it’s not just the life that drains from them—it’s something in him too.

This war, it’s nothing like he’d imagined. In the temple, they had spoken of glory, of righteousness, of battles fought in the name of Ethelion. His fellow soldiers had whispered about the honor of dying for the Temple, the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. They had made war sound like a divine calling, a sacred rite of passage where every death was sanctified, every act of violence blessed.

Out here, there is no glory.

Only blood.

The blood of his brothers, mingled with the enemy’s, staining the dirt beneath their feet. The screams of dying men linger in his ears long after the fighting stops. He’s seen cities burn, watched women and children scramble through the streets, faces twisted in terror, only to fall under a volley of arrows or be trampled beneath the horses of his comrades.

Leon had thought he could stomach it. He’d steeled himself for the brutal reality of war. But nothing prepared him for the guilt, the crushing weight of it, as each atrocity committed in Ethelion’s name piles higher on his soul.

At first, he’d believed the bloodshed was necessary, part of the divine plan. But with every passing day, that belief crumbles a little more, cracking like fragile glass.

Now, standing over the bodies of men who’d once fought to protect their own, Leon can barely remember why he’s here. He can’t recall the saintess’s face anymore—only a faint echo of your eyes, the memory fading like a forgotten dream.

How did the lines blur so completely?

He tightens his grip on his sword, but the weight of it feels foreign, like a weapon forged for someone else.

Facing the fire, Leon watches the flames dance, their orange glow casting restless light over the camp. The logs hiss and crackle as they blacken, edges curling inward with each passing flicker. Every so often, flares shoot out from the heart of the fire, sending sparks spiraling up into the night before falling back down into the pyre. Heat washes over his face, warm yet uncomfortable, the kind that burns if stared at for too long. Leon turns away, unable to face his own reflection in the fire’s glow.

Around him, shadows shift across the ground as torchlight flickers over tents and hastily constructed barriers. Laughter rises from nearby campfires, men gathered in groups, boasting about their conquests in battle, their stories of women left behind growing hazy with time. The smell of roasting meat mingles with the sharp bite of smoke as soldiers cheerfully drink from their ale rations. Some play cards or dice, animated, full of hope for victories yet to come. Others simply bask in the temporary lull, telling tales of their glory to fill the silence.

Leon keeps his distance, seeking refuge near a cluster of trees where the light barely reaches, and the noise fades to a murmur. His back rests against a sturdy trunk, sword and shield propped beside him, the armor around him a forgotten weight. He has no desire to join in the revelry. Solitude feels more fitting—more honest. He closes his eyes, trying to relish the brief respite, though the chance of true rest feels distant, as elusive as peace itself.

"If you don’t eat, you’ll lose your strength." A gruff scoff breaks the silence, drawing Leon from his thoughts. He glances sideways to find Captain Krauser standing above him, holding out a steaming bowl of stew. The smell of the meat, thick with gravy, rises into the cool night air, but Leon’s stomach churns at the sight of it.

"Captain Krauser," Leon mutters, accepting the bowl out of obligation more than hunger, balancing it on one knee. "Didn’t feel like celebrating with the others."

Krauser doesn’t move. He stands there, arms crossed, his bulk casting a shadow that blocks the faint moonlight. His scarred face is half-illuminated by the fire’s glow, the deep lines etched into his skin more pronounced in the flickering light.

Leon stirs the stew absently, blowing on it before taking a small bite. It’s warm, but tasteless. Each mouthful feels like ash, though he forces himself to swallow.

Krauser lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He lowers himself to the ground beside Leon with a heavy sigh, the earth shifting beneath his weight. "Is that guilt weighing you down, shiny?" His voice is rough, edged with a mockery that barely conceals his weariness. "Because that’s a damn waste of time."

Shiny. The word used to grate on Leon—an insult for paladins whose armor hasn’t yet been sullied by enough blood and battle. His once-polished metal has long since dulled, but the name lingers. Now, he doesn’t care what anyone calls him. It’s just another word.

"Just a bad feeling," Leon replies with a shrug, forcing another spoonful down. The broth is bland, lukewarm at best, but he eats slowly anyway, chewing as if it will somehow ground him in the present.

Krauser grunts, his large frame shifting uncomfortably as he leans back against the tree. "You’re learning." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward the distant glow of campfires. "New orders came in. We move south at first light to intercept a convoy carrying supplies."

Leon keeps eating, though his grip tightens slightly on the spoon. He waits. There’s always more.

"Intelligence says there may be hostages," Krauser adds, his voice turning grim. Leon notices how the lines around his eyes seem deeper, more etched than before. There’s exhaustion in them, though it’s well hidden behind his hardened exterior. "Our task is to eliminate the threat to the kingdom."

"Kill the hostages?" Leon’s response is flat, more a statement than a question.

A heavy silence falls between them, stretching like a weight neither of them wants to bear. The fire crackles on, sending occasional sparks into the air, while the distant hum of soldiers' voices fades into the background. The smell of burning wood fills the space between them, thick and stifling.

Krauser doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenches, the scar on his face pulling tight as he looks ahead, not meeting Leon’s gaze. "You know the orders," he says finally, the words dropping like stones into the quiet. "We do what we’re told."

Leon lowers the spoon, the taste of the stew forgotten as his stomach twists. He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. He stares into the fire again, watching as the flames curl around the blackened logs, reducing them to nothing but ash.

The sword feels heavier today.

Leon rides ahead of the troops, the rhythmic clop of horseshoes striking the stone path echoing across the endless stretch of open land before him. The morning sun climbs lazily in the sky, casting pale light that stretches the shadows of soldiers and horses over fields soon to be stained with blood.

His breath puffs in the crisp air, small clouds that vanish as quickly as they form. His fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening under the strain, even though there’s no immediate need to wield it. Sweat runs in a thin line down his spine, sticking his shirt to his skin beneath the armor.

Behind him, the sounds of the army in preparation are a constant hum—swords being drawn from scabbards, armor buckled into place, horses snorting in nervous agitation. Soldiers march in disciplined ranks, though their faces carry the tension of men too aware of what’s to come. Some are barely more than boys, fresh to the battlefield, eyes wide with fear they think they can hide. The village lies beyond the next ridge, nestled in the hills. The command had been clear: leave none alive.

Leon shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. His throat tightens with the weight of it, as if each breath is a struggle to swallow the bitter taste of what they’re about to do. He glances to the soldiers beside him, seeing faces too young, too eager to kill or die, all in the name of a god who remains as distant as the stars.

There was a time when Ethelion’s will felt as close as his own heartbeat. When the saintess’s blessings had filled him with purpose, your touch a reminder of the grace he fought to protect. What would you think of him now? Would you still offer him your blessing, knowing the blood that stains his hands? The lives he’s taken, the innocents who died beneath his blade?

As they near the village, Leon pulls back on the reins, slowing his horse. The captain riding beside him narrows his gaze, a sharp glance cast his way, but Leon doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Captain,” Leon’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “What if we’re wrong?”

The captain scoffs, not even turning his head. “Wrong? These people are traitors. They must be dealt with.”

Leon’s grip tightens around the reins, the leather biting into his palms. “But we have no proof. No confirmation that they’ve—”

“There is no what if, shiny,” the captain cuts him off, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. “Our orders are clear. Or have you forgotten your place?”

Leon swallows hard, his throat dry. His place. To serve, to obey, to carry out the will of Ethelion without question.

But his place has never felt so wrong.

They crest the final hill, the village coming into view below. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, the scent of cooking fires carried on the wind. From a distance, it looks serene. Peaceful. The villagers go about their day, unaware of the army bearing down on them, unaware that in moments, their world will be torn apart.

Leon’s stomach churns. His horse shifts beneath him, sensing his unease, and he forces a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of doubt swirling inside him. His brothers-in-arms march forward, steady and resolute, their swords ready, their minds set on the task ahead.

But Leon’s horse won’t move. It stands rooted, mirroring the weight in his soul.

The captain urges his own horse forward, barking orders to the soldiers to fan out and surround the village. Leon watches as they obey without hesitation, without question. Their faces remain emotionless, minds focused on the task at hand.

How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the wrongness of what they’re about to do?

As the soldiers advance, the first shouts of alarm rise from the village below. Leon can hear it—the panic in their voices, see the sudden fear on their faces. Mothers pulling children close, men scrambling to gather their families. Chaos erupts as arrows fly and swords are raised, and yet, Leon remains frozen in place, his hand trembling on the reins.

The first bodies fall, the clash of steel and screams blending into a cacophony that drowns everything else. The world tilts beneath him, the ground shifting as the sickening sound of death fills his ears, louder than the wind, louder than anything.

I can’t do this.

The thought slices through the haze like a knife.

I can’t.

His grip tightens further on the reins, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to move, ready to do something. Anything.

A shout from behind jerks him from his paralysis. “Sir!”

Leon turns sharply, his pulse racing. A young messenger rides toward him, his face pale, fear etched into every line as he pulls his horse to a stop, barely managing to speak through gasps for air. “Urgent orders from the capital! Princess Ashley has been taken by the enemy. We must mobilize immediately to retrieve her.”

Leon’s heart slams against his ribs.

The princess. The heir to the throne.

For a brief, blessed moment, the chaos of the battlefield fades away, replaced by the only thing that matters. He can save her. He can stop this madness and do something that truly matters.

But the church has other orders.

The captain rides over, his brow furrowed as he tears the sealed letter from the messenger’s hand, the royal crest glinting in the sunlight. He scans it quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second before crumpling the parchment and tossing it to the ground.

“We proceed as planned,” the captain snaps, his tone cold, final.

Leon’s blood runs cold. “But the princess—”

“The orders stand,” the captain repeats, not even glancing at him. “We were sent here to purge this village of traitors, and that’s what we’ll do.”

The sound fades from Leon’s ears, replaced by a sharp ringing that drowns out the Captain ordering the messenger away and trying to direct him to the nearest base.

His pulse pounds in his temples, each beat like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. This isn’t just another village. This isn’t just another order. It’s the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, and they’re about to throw it all away for what? For bloodshed masquerading as faith?

The bile rises in Leon’s throat, bitter and burning.

He thought he could stomach war. He thought he could follow orders, no matter how brutal. But this?

The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.

Leon’s hands shake on the reins as the captain’s sharp gaze lands on him. “Leon,” the captain growls, noticing his hesitation, “Remember yourself.”

An oath. To serve, to obey, to protect.

But as he looks out over the village, sees the smoke rising, the screams tearing through the air, Leon knows the truth.

This isn’t the will of Ethelion.

This is the will of men.

Men who’ve twisted the divine into something grotesque, something that demands blood for power. Men who’ve forgotten what they were supposed to protect.

Your face flashes before him—soft, kind, with that quiet strength. The words you once spoke come back to him, clear in the chaos.

One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.

“I can’t do this,” Leon whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is barely a breath, but the weight of the truth in them rings louder in his mind than any shout of command.

The captain’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

Leon meets his eyes, feeling the fire build inside him. “I won’t do this,” he repeats, stronger now. “I won’t sit by and watch us slaughter innocents while the kingdom’s heir is in danger.”

“You swore an oath.”

“I swore an oath to protect,” Leon retorts, his breath catching as conviction tightens his chest. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

For a long, tense moment, silence stretches between them. The captain’s face twists in fury, his hand hovering near his sword. “You defy the Temple, and you defy Ethelion himself. You’ll be branded an oathbreaker. You’ll never be able to return.”

An oathbreaker. Cast out from the temple, from the faith, from you.

But Leon knows, deep down, that this decision was made long before he spoke the words.

“If following the Temple means abandoning the kingdom, then I’ll bear that title gladly.”

The captain’s jaw tightens, fury flashing in his eyes, but Leon doesn’t wait for the response. He turns his horse with a sharp tug, spurring it forward. The wind rushes against his face as he rides, faster and faster, leaving behind the chaos, the orders, the lies.

He knows what this means. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this path. There will be no place for him in the temple, no return to the saintess’s grace.

But as the wind cuts through him, sharp and freeing, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s made his choice.

And now, he’ll live with it.

The streets of the capital are thick with people, their cheers rising in waves that echoed off the towering stone walls of the city, the air alive with the sounds of celebration—laughter, music, the rhythmic beat of drums that thrummed through the cobblestone streets like a heartbeat. Banners of blue and gold flutter in the breeze, catching the midday sun and casting fractured patterns of light across the throngs of spectators who lined the streets.

And there, at the center of it all, rides Leon, astride a massive warhorse clad in gleaming black barding, the royal crest of Ethelion emblazoned on its chest. The horse’s hooves clatter against the stones, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of the drums, though Leon barely hears it. His focus is elsewhere—distant, cold, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as the cheers of the people wash over him like distant waves.

He sits tall in the saddle, his body encased in full black armor that gleams like polished obsidian despite the streaks of dried blood splattered across the metal. His cape, once a regal white, fluttered in the breeze, its edges torn and frayed from the brutal campaign that had crowned him victor. Though battered, the helmet is tucked under his arm, leaving his face exposed to the cool autumn air.

The cheers from the crowd echo off the stone buildings, filling the air with a roar of excitement and adoration. Cries of “Long live Sir Leon!” and “Hail the hero!” ring out from every direction, the people pushing and jostling to catch sight of him as he rode by.

It all means little to him.

They shout his name, faces alight with joy, hailing him as their hero, their savior. He has returned from the war triumphant, Princess Ashley safe at his side, the enemy defeated and the kingdom secured. To them, he is a figure of legend, a warrior draped in glory and victory.

But to Leon, the glory feels hollow, like fool’s gold.

He fought for close to a decade, driven by a purpose that no longer existed. The blood on his armor, the lives lost in his name—it all seems to blur together in his mind, a swirling mass of faces and screams that he can’t escape. Even here, amidst the fanfare and celebration, the battlefield clings to him, its shadow cast long and dark over his soul.

The people can’t see it. They see only the armor, the crown of laurels resting atop his head, the bloodied sword at his side. They don’t see the burden of it, the way it presses down on him like a sin he could never lay down.

He glances to the side as the parade moved forward, the crowds pressing in closer as they strained to catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming home. Children are perched on their parents’ shoulders, waving small flags, their faces painted in the colors of the kingdom. Women throw flowers from their balconies, petals raining down like confetti, their bright colors almost a mockery to the dark steel of his armor.

And then, through the sea of faces, something catches his eye.

A small blur, darting between the legs of the adults, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed and determination. Leon’s gaze sharpens, his body tensing instinctively as he tracks the movement, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

It’s a child.

A little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, her hair tied in messy braids, face flushed with excitement. She breaks free from the crowd, slipping past the guards who stood watch along the edges of the street, and before anyone can stop her, she runs toward Leon, her small hands clutching something tightly to her chest.

The crowd gasps, a murmur rippling through as the girl reaches Leon’s horse. The guards move forward, ready to intervene, but Leon holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop.

He looks down at the child, eyes dark and tired. The little girl stares up at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, wide eyes filled with awe and something else—something Leon hasn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

For a moment, the world slows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as Leon and the girl lock eyes. She is so small, so fragile, standing there in front of him, her little hands trembling as she holds something out to him on her tiptoes.

A flower.

A single white lily, its petals slightly crumpled from her tight grip, but still intact, still whole. She raises it up to him, her hands shaking, lips parting in a shy, nervous smile.

“For you, sir,” she yells, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. “Thank you for saving us!”

Leon stares down at the flower, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. The blood on his armor, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, the weight of the sword at his side—all of it feels wrong in the presence of such innocence. He’s a soldier who threw away his oath, a killer, a man forged in the fires of war, and yet here stands this child, offering him a flower as if he were something more than just the weapon the kingdom had wielded.

His hand, still encased in the cold metal of his gauntlet, moves slowly, hesitantly, as if it doesn’t belong to him. He reaches down, the armor creaking with the motion, and gently takes the flower from the girl’s outstretched hands. The petals brush against the bloodstained metal of his gloves, stark and bright against the darkness of his armor.

“Thank you,” Leon mumbles, rough and strained, the words catching in his throat. His grip tightens around the delicate stem of the flower, careful not to crush it. For a brief moment, the warmth of the child’s gesture pierces through the fog of guilt and weariness that’s permanently settled over him, a glimmer of light in the darkness.

The little girl’s face lights up with a smile, her eyes shining with pure, untainted joy. She stands there and jumps up and down with excitement, beaming up at him as if he were the sun itself, as if his presence alone could banish the shadows that lingered at the edges of her world.

But Leon knows better. He feels the lock of hair curled inside the locket above his heart burn his skin.

The grand doors of the royal palace groan open with an echoing creak, revealing the hall beyond—a glittering display of prosperity and flamboyance that seems to scorn the simple austerity of the life Leon has known. Polished marble floors gleam beneath chandeliers of wrought gold, their light refracting off mirrors that line the walls. The air here is crisp, almost sharp with nose-breaking blends of perfumes, with none of the heavy warmth of the temple's incense.

Leon’s boots click sharply against the marble as he enters, each step ringing out in the cavernous hall, a sound swallowed by the murmurs of the courtiers who line the edges of the room. The steady hum of muted conversations fills his ears, escorted by the occasional clink of glasses. They watch him with calculating eyes, the nobles dressed in silks and velvets of every hue, faces painted with smiles too precise to be genuine, as suffocating as the armor that once bore him through battle.

He feels naked without it now, standing here in formal garb, his sword sheathed and distant at his side, a mere symbol of his victory rather than a tool of survival. The dark fabric of his tunic hangs heavy on his shoulders, trimmed with the royal blue of the kingdom.

Ahead, at the far end of the hall, the king sits on his throne. The high-backed chair is a towering edifice of dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones that sparkle under the dazzling chandeliers. The king himself is an imposing figure, draped in royal blues and deep purples, a crown resting atop his graying hair. He watches Leon’s approach with the same detachment as the nobles—his gaze that of a man weighing the worth of a tool rather than acknowledging the triumph of a soldier.

As Leon reaches the dais, he stops, kneeling—an action that should feel natural after years of service, but here, it is different.

The king rises slowly, the robes trailing around his feet like the velvet shadows of dusk, and approaches with the same calculated precision that governs the court. A ceremonial scepter gleams in his hand, more ornament than authority, but its significance is clear.

“Sir Leon,” the king’s words cut through the room like the edge of a blade, each syllable crisp, measured. “You stand before this court as a hero of our realm. For your valor in battle, for your unwavering loyalty to the crown, and for the rescue of Princess Ashley, I bestow upon you the title of Margrave.”

The tap of the scepter on Leon’s shoulder is light, almost delicate, but it might as well have been a hammer.

The king returns to his throne, settling back with a rustle of silk, and gestures for Leon to rise. “Rise, Margrave.”

Leon pushes to his feet, the formality of the moment bearing down upon him as the court claps in practiced politeness. Their applause is soft, a murmur of sound that fades almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving the room in an expectant silence.

It is time.

A low ripple of movement stirs at the far end of the hall as the clergy step forward. Robes of pristine white trail across the floor as the procession approaches, a stark contrast to the vivid blues and purples of the nobility. At the head of the clergy is the Archbishop, his ceremonial staff clicking rhythmically against the floor with each step. And beside him—veiled, serene, and radiant in her holy robes—is the saintess. The mask is a pure white, veil milky and opaque; the contrasts of light and darkness across its fabric give the impression of a reflection on water, of a thousand shifting stars under the sun. On your head rests a delicate crown of silver thorns, interwoven with fine filigree, glimmering like fresh snow, hands folded in your lap are covered by silk gloves, so smooth they almost shine.

Leon’s heart stutters.

This is the moment he has been longing for, the only prayer that’s ever left his lips even after his faith had fallen.

He has endured the war, survived the bloodshed, all for this. For you. For the woman who has been his guiding light, the saintess who had once healed him with her touch, whose presence had filled the void within him during the long, cold nights on the battlefield.

He steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as the group approaches the dais.

His knee wants to bend before he even realizes it, the instinct to kneel before you stronger than any other impulse.

But as when you take your place atop the steps of the dais, hands raised in the familiar gesture of blessing, something gnaws at him—an unease that creeps along the edges of his mind. The movement of your hands, the tilt of your head—it is all wrong. Too stiff, too formal.

He hesitates.

The room holds its breath, the nobles watching in silence as the saintess descends down towards him, the veil obscuring your features, body swathed in layers of white that flutter with each step.

Leon’s pulse quickens, and his eyes—despite his every effort not to—search for yours through the veil and the mask. He needs confirmation that it’s him who has changed. He needs to see, even if it is just the glimpse of the eyes he had held in his memory through every moment of agony, through every victory.

But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.

The eyes behind the veil—dark, unfamiliar, and cold—are not yours.

His body freezes, his muscles locking in place as the realization hits him with the force of a blow.

This isn’t you.

This woman—this stranger—isn’t the one he had fought for, the one whose face had kept him alive in the blood-soaked trenches of the war.

The saintess lowers her hands, preparing to lay her blessing upon him, but Leon jerks back, his knees refusing to bend, breath quick and sharp in his chest. The room grows still, the murmurs of the nobles faltering as the tension thickens around him like a noose.

The Archbishop’s head snaps toward him, the ceremonial calm in his expression faltering for just a moment. His fingers tighten around the staff, the knuckles turning white beneath the pressure.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s reprimand is sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “You must kneel to receive the Saintess’s blessing.”

Leon’s fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His body is trembling, but it isn’t from fear. It is from the fear-soaked anger that is building inside him, slow and burning like a fire stoked too long. His gaze fixes on the false saintess, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind spinning with questions that have no answers.

Where are you?

The walls close in, the air thick with the silent judgment of nobles and clergy. Each breath is a growing struggle, laden with the oppressive load of their expectations. His limbs feel anchored, refusing to bow before this stranger, this imposter.

“Margrave,” the Archbishop’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding. His eyes flash a stern warning. “You will kneel.”

The pressure shatters.

Leon’s body moves before he can stop it, his hands flying out to grab the front of the Archbishop’s robes, yanking him forward with a force that sends the man stumbling, the ornate staff clattering to the floor. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the nobles recoiling in shock as Leon’s voice, low and ragged, spills out.

“Where is she?” His hiss is a harsh rasp, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts. “Where is the real Saintess?”

The Archbishop’s face twists in fury, his hands flailing against Leon’s iron grip. “Unhand me, you fool! You stand in the presence of Ethelion’s chosen—”

“No.” The word is a snarl, the growl of an animal promising to get violent. Leon’s grip tightens, the anger boiling over, his muscles trembling with the force of it. “What have you done with her?”

The room descends into chaos. Nobles rise from their seats, the sound of their hurried footsteps mingling with the low murmur of alarmed voices. The clergy shift uneasily, their faces pale, but none of them dare to move. The paladins stationed near the walls exchange nervous glances, their hands hovering near their swords, but none step forward.

They have seen what Leon is capable of.

“Release me!” The Archbishop’s voice cracks, his pale face contorted with fear and rage. “You dare attack the church? You will be branded a heretic for this!”

Leon barely hears them, his body trembling with rage as he stares down the terrified clergyman clawing at his arm, nails digging into Leon's skin, leaving behind bloody scratches.

“I don’t care.” Leon’s voice is low, silent, the words spilling from him like venom. “Tell me where she is.”

Before the Archbishop can answer, a hand—small, yet firm—clamps down on Leon’s shoulder.

Princess Ashley doesn’t release his arm as she pulls him toward the side of the throne room, guiding him through the side doors that lead into a quieter, more secluded hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the throne room and leaving them in a sudden, suffocating stillness.

Leon exhales, his breath shuddering as he leans against the wall, one hand coming up to palm at his face, and between his fingers, stares down at the ground with a wild look.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy

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zapreportsblog · 2 years ago

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In Love With The Same Cat

➥ summary : There’s no Spider-Man without the Black Cat just like there’s no Black Cat without Spider-Man. But what if we had a multiverse dimensional traveling jewelry stealing burglar Black Cat (try saying that seven times fast aye) that traveled across dimensions not only stealing the worlds finest jewels but also the hearts of four unlucky, or lucky depending on how you see it Spider-Man’s and Spider-Women’s hearts.

➥ chapter 1: The Daughter of Shadows

In the bustling city of Brightville, a young girl named (y/n) grew up in the enigmatic embrace of her father, Walter Hardy, a renowned and elusive cat burglar. From a tender age, (y/n) was immersed in a world of shadows and secrets, a life that few could comprehend. Under her father's watchful eye, she learned not only the art of thievery but also the invaluable lessons of confidence and seizing life's opportunities.

Walter Hardy was a figure shrouded in mystery, his exploits whispered in hushed tones among the criminal underworld. But to (y/n), he was simply her loving father—a man whose presence both comforted and challenged her. Despite the unconventional nature of their lives, Walter was determined to raise (y/n) to be a strong and confident individual, encouraging her to embrace the world with fearless determination.

From an early age, (y/n) became Walter's protégé, accompanying him on various heists and observing his every move with wide-eyed curiosity. The dark alleys and high-rise rooftops became her playground, where she learned the art of agility and the thrill of outsmarting the odds. Walter, recognizing her natural talent and thirst for knowledge, nurtured her abilities, teaching her the intricacies of the trade while instilling in her a strong moral compass.

One sunny afternoon, as (y/n) carefully observed her father's nimble maneuvers, he paused and turned to her with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "My dear (y/n)," he said, his voice laced with warmth and conviction, "life is a grand heist waiting to be seized. Do not fear the unknown, but rather embrace it with confidence. Only then can you truly discover the treasures hidden within."

With those words etched into her young heart, (y/n) embarked on a journey of self-discovery and resilience. She learned to navigate the intricate webs of deception and subterfuge, honing her skills in the art of illusion and misdirection. But more importantly, she learned to believe in herself—to trust her instincts and to never back down from a challenge.

Walter encouraged (y/n) to explore beyond the confines of their nocturnal escapades, exposing her to a multitude of experiences that would shape her worldview. They attended art exhibitions, where they marveled at the strokes of a master's brush, and visited bustling markets, where (y/n) haggled with vendors and embraced the vibrant tapestry of cultures. Through these experiences, Walter instilled in her the importance of a well-rounded education, cultivating her intellect and expanding her horizons.

But it was not just the thrill of adventure that defined their relationship. In the quiet moments, when the city slept and the moon bathed the world in its ethereal glow, (y/n) and Walter would sit beneath the starry sky, sharing stories of their past and dreaming of the future. It was in these stolen moments that (y/n) discovered the depth of her father's love—a love that transcended their clandestine activities and embraced the essence of family.

As the years passed, (y/n) grew into a confident young woman, her spirit untamed and her resolve unyielding. She possessed an uncanny ability to blend seamlessly into any situation, her nimble fingers and quick wit serving her well in the world her father had introduced her to. But it was her unwavering confidence that set her apart—a quality that Walter had nurtured from her earliest days.

With each heist they embarked upon, (y/n) faced challenges head-on, her unwavering confidence shining through the darkness that surrounded them. She reveled in the adrenaline rush, the thrill of outsmarting her adversaries, and the satisfaction of retrieving the treasured artifacts they sought. Through it all, she carried with her the lessons her father had imparted—the importance of self-belief and the courage to seize every opportunity that presented itself.

As (y/n) stood on the precipice of her own journey, she carried the legacy of her father's teachings within her heart. The world awaited her, full of untold adventures and uncharted territories. With Walter's lessons guiding her, she knew that she had the tools to carve her own path, to embrace the shadows and emerge victorious.

In the heart of Brightville, (y/n) stood as a testament to her father's unwavering belief in her potential. She was more than the daughter of a cat burglar; she was a force to be reckoned with—a beacon of confidence and resilience in a world that often sought to overshadow her. And as she prepared to step into the spotlight, she did so with the knowledge that she was the culmination of her father's love and guidance—a testament to the indomitable spirit that Walter Hardy had instilled within her.

#spiderverse x reader #black cat #miles morales #miles morales x reader #spider gwen #spider gang #ghost spider #ghost spider x reader #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #pavitr prabhakar #Pavitr Prabhakar x reader #In Love With The Same Cat #In Love With The Same Cat series

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darkmatter-nebula · 9 months ago

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Colli and Hunter and internet

Hello, my dear @importantnightwerewolf! 👋😊

Thanks for the request!

Drabble: The World Wide Web And An Unbreakable Brotherly Love

It was a quiet day in Gravesfield as the most inseparable pair of brothers, a certain young Grimwalker and a certain small starboy with a heart as pure as freshly fallen snow and otherwordly fluffy lavender hair, were using the internet.

Colli had a bright smile on his adorable multi-colored face as he and Hunter watched some funny videos. "Hihihihihihi!" Colli giggled. Hunter's magenta eyes were filled with an endless amount of love and adoration for him.

"You are so incredible precious, my beautiful little Sunshine!" Hunter kissed lovingly his darling little brother's freckled cheek. The kindhearted eternal little boy threw himself into the blonde boy's arms and cuddled close to him.

"You are truly ethereal, my gorgeous Little Angel. Nothing in this Universe can compare to your beauty, Colli." Hunter whispered softly as he pressed with infinite tenderness his forehead against Colli's, while Colli intertwined his fingers with Hunter's.

As so often, Hunter's greatest treasure didn't wear his hat. The former Golden Guard buried his nose into the lavender fluff of Colli's hair and breathed in the immortal celestial boy's lovely scent. Hunter felt as if he was in Heaven! 'My Love.' Hunter thought.

The End

#lost but now found au #the collector #colli clawthorne-noceda-deamonne-whispers #hunter #hunter clawthorne-noceda-deamonne-whispers #clawthorne brothers #clawthorne-noceda-deamonne-whispers brothers #fanfic

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lvmimis · 8 months ago

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tbh the poll results dont surprise me much. for me, rejection is one thing - i’ve experienced it before and it hasnt *entirely* stopped me from confessing again but the whole element of a public rejection that goes viral would send me to an early grave. the internet is forever and while i doubt that i’d become a laughing stock just for going down the street, i will suffer from embarrassment everyday knowing that a video of me like that is on the internet 😔 so it really comes down to the permanence of the world wide web being the most debilitating part, not the rejection (for me)

this is real cuz i think i somewhat underestimate what viral means because things that do not interest me personally are immediately lost to the ether but the collective consciousness is not like that

#mimi replies #lovely neighbor

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shaftking · 1 year ago

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I know who needs to hear this but I’m posting it to send into the ether of the world wide web too: if you are worried over what your partner might do to themself or to you if you break it off with them, it’s not a healthy relationship and you should break it off anyway for that very reason.

#personal

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m-for-musings · 1 year ago

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Honey Webbing

Part 15

!!!WARNING!!! THIS CHAPTER DEPICTS A HARD CHILDBIRTH

The air in Halsin's attendance room was thick with the sounds of labored breathing and loud, pained whimpers as the woman on the bed fought through the final throes of childbirth. For nearly a night and a day, the druid had tended to her, guiding her through the excruciating contractions, offering soothing medicines and healing spells to ease whatever he could of her pain.

[CHILDBIRTH IN THE NEXT TWO PARAGRAPHS]

Sweat beaded on Halsin's brow as he worked tirelessly, his years of healing experience and druidic knowledge put to the test with this particularly difficult birth - the child was ready, but its was upwards, and there wasn’t enough opening for the baby to come through. It took more than twenty hours of the mother's excruciating labor and Halsin's spells for them to turn the baby into the right position. It was Adara's first child, and her delicate elven frame, barely a hundred-year old, wasn’t entirely prepared to give birth to a robust half-elf child. Her human husband hovered nearby, his face etched with a mix of worry and anticipation, his hand clasped tightly in his wife's as they weathered the storm together.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a shrill cry pierced the air, and Halsin's features broke into a wide, triumphant grin. "It's a boy!" he announced, carefully wrapping the squirming, red-faced infant in a soft blanket before placing him in the mother's waiting arms. The woman's exhausted features lit up with pure, radiant joy, her eyes brimming with tears as she cradled her newborn son, showering him with tender kisses. The father, too, beamed with pride, his worries instantly melting away as he embraced his wife and child.

[CHILDBIRTH OVER]

Halsin stepped back, wiping the blood off his hands with a towel. "Congratulations," he said, his voice warm and sincere. "You have a healthy, beautiful boy." With a last, lingering look at the new family, the wood elf excused himself, eager to retire to the solace of a hot bath, his body aching from the long hours standing.

As the steaming water enveloped him, Halsin closed his eyes, letting out a deep, contented sigh, his muscles finally beginning to relax. The past day had been taxing, both physically and emotionally, but the sight of the newborn baby and the joy it had brought to his patient's family filled the druid's heart with a profound sense of fulfillment. It was moments like these that reminded him of the true purpose of his calling – to ease suffering, to bring new life into the world, and to witness the profound, life-affirming moments that made the struggle worthwhile. It was a humbling, gratifying reminder of the profound difference one could make in the lives of others.

When he opened his eyes, the once-soothing warmth of the bathwater had long since dissipated. Moonlight, pale and ethereal, streamed in through the small, rectangular window, casting a soft, silvery glow across the surface of the water. Halsin let out a soft sigh as he realized he must have fallen asleep during his restorative soak. The exhaustion of the last days had finally caught up with him, his body and mind both craving the respite of a more deep rest than the elvish usual trance. Yet, despite the cooling water and the passing of time, the druid felt a sense of rejuvenation, his weary muscles having found the reprieve they so desperately needed.

With a slight grimace, the druid braced his hands against the tub's wooden sides, slowly hoisting himself up and out of the water. The cool air caressed his damp skin as he stepped out, his muscles protesting the movement with a slight ache. As he toweled himself dry, he couldn't help but wonder how his children had fared in his absence, his brow furrowing with a mixture of concern and guilt.

Talia, who he had entrusted with the responsibility of leadership, weighed heavily on his mind. She was still just a teenager, barely out of childhood herself, and yet she had risen to the occasion with a maturity and composure that often belied her years. Halsin hoped that she had weathered his absence with the same grace and wisdom that he had come to expect from her, but a twinge of worry gnawed at the back of his mind. Had he placed too great a burden upon her young shoulders? The druid let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair as he contemplated the situation. He had faith in Talia's abilities, of course, but the weight of responsibility could be a heavy one, especially for one so young. Halsin silently vowed to make it up to her, somehow.

His thoughts also turned to the unexpected presence in his home – Minthara, the drow who had once featured in his nightmares, now lying as a guest and patient under his care. Time had done much to temper the acrid taste her name evoked on his mouth, but Halsin could not fully shake the sense of disquiet that stirred within him whenever their eyes met. Despite the passage of time, Minthara's demeanor and the circumstances surrounding her presence made it all too clear that her mere proximity required an effort to stop those long-buried feelings of resentment and distrust from building up within him, a challenge he would have to navigate with caution and vigilance.

Back in the day, Minthara had proven herself a surprisingly loyal ally in the fight against the Elder Brain and the Dead Three’s chosen. Even when the bad blood between them still ran hot, she was capable of setting the hard feelings aside and offered him the same fierce protection she offered everyone else during their battles, a pragmatic course of action that Halsin envied at the time. Though he had deemed her worldview spiteful and cruel, Minthara had demonstrated a sense of honor and commitment to her word that the druid could not deny, even in the face of her reckless nature.

Now, the once begrudging ally against a common foe risked her life to rescue Mera from the Underdark, despite her weakened condition, and he could be nothing but grateful for that. It was yet another thought to gnaw at his conscience: he shouldn't have asked for her help knowing that she wasn't fully recovered from her previous nearly demise, but the fear for Mera's wellbeing was so harsh that he couldn't think about anything else.

Halsin's thoughts swirled with conflicting emotions. Mistrust and suspicion still lingered, for Minthara's motivations were never simple. Yet, the undeniable truth is that Minthara had saved his daughter, at the cost of an aggravation of her physical condition. It was a realization that left the wood elf grappling with a newfound, if reluctant, sense of gratitude.

Halsin's brow furrowed with concern as he changed into comfortable clothes and made his way through his home, his footsteps silent as he sought out his young charges. The druid couldn't help but feel a twinge of anxiety to know if everything went okay in his absence.

As soon as he walked down the hallway, a faint movement on the porch caught his eye. It was Mera, who was sitting on the window frame, eating a fruit, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The druid's brow furrowed with concern as he approached her.

"Mera," he said, his voice soft yet laced with a hint of gentle admonishment. "What are you doing here so late? You should be resting."

The girl turned to face him, her expression twisted into a scowl. "I can't sleep," she spat. "Not while 'Mrs. Flawless' is in there, telling bedtime stories to the others."

Halsin blinked. Of all people, he definitely didn't expect Minthara to be the one telling bedtime stories for his children. But he was also curious about Mera's motivations to be discontent with the woman who up until very recently she was so eager to praise for having saved her. “What is it about her that troubles you so?"

Mera's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flashing with a myriad of emotions. "She's just so… So bossy, and so fucking arrogant, too!" She spat, the words tumbling out with a palpable edge of frustration.

Halsin's brow arched, a gentle admonishment lingered in his tone. "Language, Mera," he chided.

Mera rolled her eyes, her features twisting into a begrudging expression. "Sorry," she muttered, the word laced with a hint of petulance.

Halsin nodded, his gaze searching the half-drow's face. "Despite that, I understand your reservations. Minthara is…” The druid paused, restraining himself from saying anything offensive, “...a complex individual, to say the least. But I want you to know that you don't have to force yourself to be in her presence if you truly don't want to. Your well-being is my primary concern."

Mera's lips quirked into a wry, half-smile. "Thanks." She drew a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. "Can I sleep on the sofa with you tonight? I'm tired of hearing about the 'mighty drow paladin’, and if Fren babbles about the ‘pretty lady' one more time…"

Halsin chuckled softly, guiding Mera down the window frame with a gentle nudge. "Very well. Let's get you to bed, I'll grab an extra blanket.”

***

As he neared the children's room, a soft murmur of voices drifted out into the hallway, piquing his curiosity. Halsin slowed his pace, carefully approaching the partially open door and peering inside.

What greeted him was a sight that gave him pause – the children, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination, were gathered in rapt silence around Minthara. The drow was engaged in a captivating tale, her red eyes glinting in the firelight as her voice dropped low and measured, waving a tapestry of horror and intrigue.

"In the dark, twisting chasms of the Underdark," the drow said, her eyes sweeping over the captivated faces before her, "there dwells a creature so ancient and malevolent that even the bravest of drow warriors dare not utter its name."

A hush fell over the room as Minthara paused, her lips curling into a faint smile.

"The Dark Dancer, some call it – a being of pure, unbridled chaos, whose very presence sends tremors through the earth and a chilling breeze down the spine. With limbs that stretch on endlessly and a voice that can drive you insane in an instant, it roams the darkness, seeking to drown anyone in its path into madness."

Kiran let out a soft whimper, prompting Minthara to fix him with a stern, piercing gaze.

"Hush, child," she commanded, her voice low and unwavering. "For The Dark Dancer cares not for the cries of its prey. It feeds on the fear and the souls, until nothing remains but empty, lifeless husks."

The children shivered, their faces pale with mounting terror as Minthara continued her tale.

"Don't sing or dance in the darkened tunnels, for it may attract the Dark Dancer and its maddening stare. They say that the only way to escape its hunger is to submit to its demands – to offer it a sacrifice, a morsel to sate its endless appetite. And woe betide the drow who dares to refuse, for the Dark Dancer will hunt them down, assaulting their minds, making them dance until their bones crush in its coils and their singing turns into screams echoing through the caverns for all eternity, fading into the darkness."

Minthara's eyes narrowed, her gaze sweeping over the children once more.

"So,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "when you hear the rumbling in the depths, when the earth trembles beneath your feet and a faint, unhinged song reaches your ears – know that The Dark Dancer is near, and that your only hope is to pray that it has already been fed."

As Minthara's tale reached its climactic conclusion, the children erupted into a chorus of gasps and shivers, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. Her face showed a satisfied smile, and Halsin felt a twinge of unease at the sight. He couldn't help but wonder – was this a genuine attempt to connect with the children, or was it merely a ploy to feed her own twisted desire to inspire fear?

The druid opened the door, an unintentional ominous creak of the wood echoing in the room. “T-The Dark Dancer!” Kiran exclaimed, immediately jolting under his blanket.

"Sorry to interrupt," the druid said, restraining a chuckle as he met the children's wide-eyed gazes. "I just need another blanket."

Minthara stood up almost immediately, the smile that had etched itself upon her face earlier fading quickly as she gave the druid a short, curt nod. The drow excused herself, slipping out of the children's bedroom and leaving Halsin alone with the visibly shaken young ones.

Halsin let out a soft sigh, his gaze sweeping over the children's fearful expressions. "There's no need to be afraid," he said gently, offering them a reassuring smile. "Minthara's tales, while captivating, are just stories. There is no maddening monster lurking in the dark, I promise."

The children's reactions remained a study in contrasts. Some, like the young Finn, were positively thrilled by the dark and captivating tale Minthara had spun.

"Did you hear that?" Finn whispered, his eyes shining with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. "The Riftdancer - or was it the Dark Dancer? Either way, it sounded so cool! I wonder if she has more cool horror stories to tell us!" The boy's lips curled into an eager grin, clearly relishing the hair-raising details of Minthara's story.

In stark contrast, Kiran had practically buried himself beneath his blankets, his small frame trembling with undisguised terror. "I really hope she doesn’t," he whimpered, his voice muffled by the layers of fabric. “I like daddy’s stories better, they’re not scary!”

“Kiran's right,” Yenna declared, another one who was also visibly shaken by the horror tale. “Daddy's stories are full of princesses, not… Not scary monsters…”

“I liked the scary lady's story…” Umi declared, amidst a yawn.

“N-not that I'm scared or something,” Soren gulps, recomposing himself from his huddled state behind a pillow. “I just think that daddy's stories are better because… b-because… well, he's clearly a more experienced storyteller!”

Talia nervously muttered something about "being too old to be afraid of horror tales" while the little Lila tentatively reached out to pat Kiran's shaking shoulder, offering him what comfort she could.

In the corner of the room, the infant Fren slumbered peacefully in her cradle, blissfully unaware of the chilling tale and her sibling’s chatter. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her features relaxed and serene. The children continued to chatter in hushed tones, their voices laced with a mixture of fear and fascination. Finn regaled the group with his enthusiastic retelling of Minthara's story, giving or taking a detail or two, while Kiran cowered beneath his blankets again, his wide eyes visible only as nervous glimmers in the firelight.

Halsin's gentle clearing of his throat cut through the children's whispered discourse, drawing their attention to the druid's presence once more. "Alright, my young ones," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "I think that's quite enough excitement for one evening."

The children fell silent, their gazes turning to Halsin as he moved to retrieve a spare blanket from a nearby chest. "Time to get some rest," the druid continued, his lips curving into a reassuring smile. "I promise that tomorrow night, I'll be the one to tell you a bedtime story."

With a gentle sweep of his hand, Halsin dimmed the lamps. "Sleep well, children," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the huddled forms before closing the door behind him.

As the druid stepped out into the hallway, he caught sight of Mera, fast asleep on the couch. With a fond smile, Halsin draped the blanket over her slumbering form, ensuring she was comfortably tucked in.

Turning his attention towards the stairs, Halsin's expression hardened ever so slightly. Due to the past day’s labor, he barely had time to tend to Minthara’s injuries. In fact, as soon as he finished tending to Mera, Adara appeared, carried by her husband, in a dire need of his attention.

The druid's keen eyes scanned the shelves and cabinets that lined the walls, selecting a variety of healing supplies – jars of fragrant salves, rolls of clean linen, and a few vials of restorative potions before ascending the steps, the familiar creaks of the wooden treads echoing through the quiet hallway. As he neared the door to his own bedchamber, where Minthara lay recovering, Halsin paused, drawing a deep, steadying breath. With a resolute nod, Halsin grasped the door handle and pushed it open, his gaze immediately seeking out the drow's reclining form.

As Halsin pushed open the door, he couldn't help but pause, his eyes sweeping across the familiar space. Something felt... different. The air carried a subtle shift in atmosphere, a newfound sense of order that had not been present before. The druid's gaze settled on the chair behind the door, where a haphazard pile of clothing had previously occupied the space. To his surprise, the garments were now neatly folded, stacked with precision.

Halsin's brow raised as he stepped further into the room, his eyes taking in the changes that had been wrought in his absence. His books, once scattered across the shelves in a seemingly random arrangement, now stood in orderly rows, the spines aligned with a meticulous attention to the alphabetic order.

The druid's lips parted in a silent expression of bewilderment as he surveyed the transformed space. Minthara, the very same drow who had once been a thorn in his side, had somehow found the time, and the inclination, to tidy his personal quarters.

Halsin moved slowly, his footsteps measured as he approached the bedside, the healing supplies cradled in his arms. The drow lay resting, her features relaxed in a rare moment of tranquility, and the druid couldn't help but wonder about the motivations that had driven her to this unexpected task.

Halsin shook his head slightly, his thoughts swirling with a myriad of possibilities as he gently set down the supplies, his gaze lingering on Minthara's sleeping form. Whatever the reason, the druid couldn't help but feel a tinge of curiosity and, perhaps, a glimmer of hope that this unexpected act of consideration might just be the first step towards some sort of understanding between them.

< Part 14 || Part 16 >

#baldur’s gate 3 #emeraldweb #bg3 minthara x halsin #minthara x halsin #fanfic writing #current wip #bg3 #honey webbing

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harrelltut · 2 years ago

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Lo!... I.B on Restricted Airwave [LIBRA] Coordinates Accessing [CA] Queen CALAFIA's [CA's] Undisclosed SKY [U.S.] ALTITUDE [USA] LANDMASS Continent Communication Codes [CCC] on ALL [CA] Public [CAP = CAPRICORN] Geographical Earth [Qi] Compu_TAH [PTAH] Grid Intranet.gov [GI] Networks Securely Encrypted on ANU [SEA] GOLDEN 9 Ether [G.E.] Autonomic World Wide Web [www.] Computing Internet.com Address [CIA] of Astronomically Intelligent [A.i.] 9 Ether SKY Encryption ANUNNAQI [SEA] Architecture... Scientifically Constructing MUUR [MU] Highly Complex [ADVANCED] Ancient Cosmic Algorithmic [CA] Computation [Compton] STAR WEB GATEWAY CAD CITIES of 1968 Gen X 9 Ether Robotic STEELE Frameworks Automating QUANTUM HARRELL TECH’s [QHT’s] Hi:teKEMETICompu_TAH [PTAH] WORLDS of SIRIUS 6G x 3 = 18G Quantum Ægiptian Architectural Intelligence [A.i.] of Interactive [A.i.] 2223 Construction Language File Structures Digitized by the Pentagon's Clandestine [PC] 144,000 9 Ether IGIGI SKY Military Industrial [MI = MICHAEL] Telecom Engineering [MTE] Department on Encrypted Quantum [EQ] Radio Broadcast [R&B] Systems @ 1921 QUANTUM 2023 HARRELL 2024 TECH 2025 LLC of ATLANTIS [L.A.] 5000

IMMORTAL U.S. MILITARY KING SOLOMON-MICHAEL HARRELL, JR.™

OMMMMM

OMMMMM EYE AM ANU GOLDEN 9 ETHER [AGE] MULTI-INTERNATIONAL [MI = MICHAEL] SCHWARZ DEUTSCH HARRELL-STEELE SUN CARTEL @ 1921 QUANTUM 2023 HARRELL 2024 TECH 2025 LLC of ATLANTIS [L.A.] 5000

OMMMMM

#om #o michael #quantumharrelltech #mu:13 #kemet #harrelltut #quantumharrelltut #king tut #u.s. michael harrell #at&t #ibm #qht telecom industries

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digitalmore · 3 months ago

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#IFTTT #Digital More

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writer59january13 · 3 months ago

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Doing absolute zero endeavors

Earlier today March 28th, 2025 (thee hour now fifteen minutes after eight o'clock at night, cuz

yours truly & wife paced back and forth from one room to the other wearing out rugged groovy Tuesday (three day) experienced exhaustion within anticipatory anxiety while feeling foreboding regarding impending inspection courtesy

funding source for low income rental community R(ural) H(ousing) D(evelopment)

facility named Highland Manor Apartments allowing, enabling, & providing safety and security away from elements harried styled and swiftly tailored Mother Nature poised to strike indiscriminately across Perkiomen Valley (though this geographic area rarely if ever experienced extreme weather phenomenon), yet occasionally bam wham thank you ma'am solid punch evidenced nevertheless no likelihood divine intervention would intercede to disrupt yearly the plan for RHD to take lock, stock and barrel of property at 2 Highland Manor Drive, whereat many tenants experienced high anxiety nervously awaiting the verdict concerning apparent violations which would necessitate immediate actions incumbent upon management company known as Grosse and Quade subsequently

affecting spike in rent beyond the pale of affordability after costs of repair calculated into the mix

courtesy officials prowling around & scrutinizing soundness of building,

once upon a time former elementary school in borough named for George Schwenk, born and died (1728 -1803) respectively locally famous and noted worthily essential man whose mettle constituted being adept as tradesman, crafting and repairing metal objects, from household items & tools to farm equipment & even weapons, using a forge & anvil to shape heated iron, thus recognized as an inimitable blacksmith, whose son Jacob served in the Revolutionary War under George Washington, hence name Schwenksville, Pennsylvania no longer an isolated hamlet bleeds into adjacent communities where said building I live chock a block with vinyl city, where affordable housing necessarily requires ordinances & property inspectors de jure enforcing, mandating, & yielding de rigueur to arbitrary (usually yearly) scrutiny of about a half dozen randomly chosen units within Highland Manor Apartments to ascertain tenants deemed and maintained their assigned units in accordance with standards as

outlined in the lease, which severe disinclination to abide by coda could constitute legitimate violation & reason to be forewarned than after given so much time to shape up or ship out, which crises nearly found ourselves (yours truly & the misses) with no figurative (and literal) roof over our heads, and forced to prostitute himself as rhetoric the great or panhandle as local

historical buff displaying wares of "Lenni Lenape," (which means "original people" or "real people" in the Lenape language, though said indigenous natives also known as the Delaware, a name given by European) particularly their kitchen middens whose ghosts invariably haunt these regions grist, for the mill of one story teller with overactive imagination expounding on how one desperate wordsmith wannabe or spouse sold their souls to the devil, which action if successful would

which set in motion a vicious cycle necessitating them to sell other parts of their body namely major organs until they slowly but surely became

incorporeal beings able, eager, ready,

& willing to roam hither & yon, to and fro across the webbed, wide world with few if any obstacles in our way, whereat nothing will thwart our collective endeavors to sustain being linkedin to the air supply eventually becoming absorbed into the ether

real medium encompassing the infinite eternal cosmos, but interestingly enough as the hours lapsed into late afternoon

especially when time approached seventeen hundred hour myself & the spouse dared the other to even whisper how

the fickle finger of fate showed a thumbs up that no Mötley Crüe would appear as the Iron Maiden de jure subjecting ourselves on the receiving end of Poison, thus dazed and confused as a Led Zeppelin aimlessly spinning around like a whirling dervish, who got stopped in his/her tracks to blink 182 times plus me and the wife pinching ourselves & the other to reckon eyes (usually subjected to adversity since each of us got born) free & clear of major catastrophe by a hair's breadth, nevertheless feeling defeated living life struggling with money woes & impossible mission for me

to eradicate indebtedness to this, that or some other collection

agency no surprise ratcheting up frequency when the purpose driven life ofttimes reaching

the tipping point where the grim reaper extended a bony hand welcoming chemical romance videre licet

an accidental overdose of Fluoxetine elucidating suicidal ideation as modus operandi to escape (as a permanent solution) the travails of penuriousness still prevail at twenty two hundred hours and never to late too send out an electronic sos for munificence.

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jetblackknight · 4 months ago

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💬 - A private correspondence

— sunfallsprophet

My muse's data has been compromised !

To: D̸͓̅A̷̟͘T̵̢́Ả̷̤ ̶̫̄C̵̨͐Ȯ̴̪R̵͖͌R̶̛̭U̷̦̍P̴̻͘Ṭ̸͝E̸̡͠D̶̠̄.̴̪͋ ̶̯͒@fortunamail.com From: redgravevictor197█@fortunamail.com Subject: Hello.

I suspect that this address is no longer in use, but in the event that it is, I hope that it finds you, and that you are on the other end of such a chain. I hope that it does not shock you. I hope that it does not scare you. Ḍ̷̖͔͈̈́͜A̶̱͖̯̻̘͐̆T̷̡̈́̉À̴̪̞̊̚͝ ̴̰̈́͗C̵̨̨͓̠̈̓̓͛͝ͅO̵̱͑̅͠R̴͔͂̍R̵͎͉̫͉̃́Ṵ̷͚̟͙̑̽̕P̷̳̘͝T̷͙̜̯̰̪́̒̔̈́Ȉ̷̥͌̌O̸̼̐̉̓̔͐N̸̨̖̣̬͓̈ ̵̛̣̅͂̑D̶͇̲̫̏̽E̶͙̾T̸̘̠̫̫̅E̶̫͝͠Ċ̷̦̜̈̈́̽̂T̴̗̤̤̣̂́́̍̕E̶̘̩̤̥͍̔̇̆̆͘D̷̨͇͈̬̠͌͑̈̎.̸͎̻͎͍̀͐̄́͆ ̶̰̲̲͓̲͋͊Š̶̡̛̄̆͝Ḱ̵͔̒͗Í̵̛̟̫̤͑̈́̂P̴̺͛̌̏̕P̸͍̋̾̕Ḯ̶̢͇̣̣̆͘N̴͕̖̼̉͛̉̇G̴̗̻͚̀̒̄̐͘ ̸̛̼͜T̵͇́̾̈́E̴͈͈̗͌̿̈́͘̕X̸̭̅̽̈́T̷͖̹̣͈̯͊̈́̀ ̷̯͉̤̬̓͌S̵̢͒̍͆͝Ṭ̴̗̘̹̋R̷̬̈́͗͝I̸͔̲͆̋̈́̚N̶͖͇͎̞̈́̑͜͝G̴̩̻̰̅̕.̵̡̛͍̜̰̑̚.̶̨͇̥̯̽̔ ̶̯̜̑—whether through letter, this... electronic mail, or telephone. I tried to call the phone number you gave me, but it was no longer in service. I suspect I know the re—Ḍ̷̖͔͈̈́͜A̶̱͖̯̻̘͐̆T̷̡̈́̉À̴̪̞̊̚͝ ̴̰̈́͗C̵̨̨͓̠̈̓̓͛͝ͅO̵̱͑̅͠R̴͔͂̍R̵͎͉̫͉̃́Ṵ̷͚̟͙̑̽̕P̷̳̘͝T̷͙̜̯̰̪́̒̔̈́Ȉ̷̥͌̌O̸̼̐̉̓̔͐N̸̨̖̣̬͓̈ ̵̛̣̅͂̑D̶͇̲̫̏̽E̶͙̾T̸̘̠̫̫̅E̶̫͝͠Ċ̷̦̜̈̈́̽̂T̴̗̤̤̣̂́́̍̕E̶̘̩̤̥͍̔̇̆̆͘D̷̨͇͈̬̠͌͑̈̎.̸͎̻͎͍̀͐̄́͆ ̶̰̲̲͓̲͋͊Š̶̡̛̄̆͝Ḱ̵͔̒͗Í̵̛̟̫̤͑̈́̂P̴̺͛̌̏̕P̸͍̋̾̕Ḯ̶̢͇̣̣̆͘N̴͕̖̼̉͛̉̇G̴̗̻͚̀̒̄̐͘ ̸̛̼͜T̵͇́̾̈́E̴͈͈̗͌̿̈́͘̕X̸̭̅̽̈́T̷͖̹̣͈̯͊̈́̀ ̷̯͉̤̬̓͌S̵̢͒̍͆͝Ṭ̴̗̘̹̋R̷̬̈́͗͝I̸͔̲͆̋̈́̚N̶͖͇͎̞̈́̑͜͝G̴̩̻̰̅̕.̵̡̛͍̜̰̑̚—pen to check this address, please, respond promptly. Perhaps... we can meet again. If not... if you feel it is to—Ḍ̷̖͔͈̈́͜A̶̱͖̯̻̘͐̆T̷̡̈́̉À̴̪̞̊̚͝ ̴̰̈́͗C̵̨̨͓̠̈̓̓͛͝ͅO̵̱͑̅͠R̴͔͂̍R̵͎͉̫͉̃́Ṵ̷͚̟͙̑̽̕P̷̳̘͝T̷͙̜̯̰̪́̒̔̈́Ȉ̷̥͌̌O̸̼̐̉̓̔͐N̸̨̖̣̬͓̈ ̵̛̣̅͂̑D̶͇̲̫̏̽E̶͙̾T̸̘̠̫̫̅E̶̫͝͠Ċ̷̦̜̈̈́̽̂T̴̗̤̤̣̂́́̍̕E̶̘̩̤̥͍̔̇̆̆͘D̷̨͇͈̬̠͌͑̈̎.̸͎̻͎͍̀͐̄́͆ ̶̰̲̲͓̲͋͊Š̶̡̛̄̆͝Ḱ̵͔̒͗Í̵̛̟̫̤͑̈́̂P̴̺͛̌̏̕P̸͍̋̾̕Ḯ̶̢͇̣̣̆͘N̴͕̖̼̉͛̉̇G̴̗̻͚̀̒̄̐͘ ̸̛̼͜T̵͇́̾̈́E̴͈͈̗͌̿̈́͘̕X̸̭̅̽̈́T̷͖̹̣͈̯͊̈́̀ ̷̯͉̤̬̓͌S̵̢͒̍͆͝Ṭ̴̗̘̹̋R̷̬̈́͗͝I̸͔̲͆̋̈́̚N̶͖͇͎̞̈́̑͜͝G̴̩̻̰̅̕.̵̡̛͍̜̰̑̚—World Wide Web, then by all means. You know where Dante resides. It is where I, too, reside now. I will wait as long as is necessary, Vergil.

( this appears to be a snippet of an E-Mail, sent from Vergil to someone else. Unfortunately, the data was fragmented upon retrieval, so the person it is supposed to go to is lost to the online ether. Regardless, it seems rather clear who this email was meant for, even if he will deny it upon question. )

#▪──── ⚔ ❝ i HAVE no RECOLLECTION ❞ 「 asks 」#▪──── ⚔ ❝ you are not WORTHY as my OPPONENT ( sothatwasafuckinglie.gif ) ❞ 「 sunfallsprophet 」

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env0writes · 4 months ago

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Lost amidst an ether web Netting cast wide and narrow Where all memory passes whence And the wider world is left to wonder Where castle kept ‘neath lock & key With pass and phrase & shape long forgot Will break & build some echoed shape Without the spirit-haunted-halls

A Feud to Carry Vol. 3, 2.17.25 “FRS”

@env0writes C.Buck Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists

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photography-app · 4 months ago

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Create Stunning Photo Edits with PixelLab - Pic Collage Maker: Using Photo Backgrounds, Spirals, Wings, and Overlays

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historypoem · 5 months ago

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The Saga of Ananta

Book I: The Beginningless Beginning

Om! In reverence, I invoke the Eternal, The Unseen Seer, the Source of All, Brahman, beyond time and space, Whose dream is the cosmos vast and deep. From whom the worlds arise and dissolve, As waves rise and sink in the boundless sea, To that Supreme, I bow my head, And sing this tale of cosmic Will.

There was no earth, nor sky, nor sun, No moon to shine, no stars to gleam, Only the void, unbroken, still, The darkness vast and infinite. Yet in that void, Consciousness lay, Unmanifest, beyond form and name, The One, the Timeless, the Infinite, Dreaming the dream of creation.

Desire arose within the Unseen, A throb, a wish, a cosmic Will, To be, to know, to see Itself, In myriad forms of life and light. Thus was born the primal sound, The seed of all, the sacred Om, Vibrating through the formless void, Shattering the stillness of the Eternal.

Space unfolded, vast and wide, Time awoke from its dreamless sleep, Ether spread its unseen arms, Matter took form from nameless clay. Air danced in spirals free, Fire blazed in joyous flame, Water wept its first crystal tear, And Earth embraced them all.

From the Cosmic Will arose, Maya, the weaver of the worlds, The enchantress with veils of illusion, Who cloaked the One in forms diverse. She made the Infinite seem finite, The Formless appear as form, The Timeless move in moments brief, And the One become the many.

Book II: The Birth of Ananta

From the cosmic womb emerged Ananta, The embodiment of Will Divine, Born of Brahman’s dream profound, The first of beings, vast and wise. With eyes like blazing suns he stood, Limbs adorned with cosmic light, In voice that echoed through the void, He spoke the first word: “Aham” (I am).

Maya bowed before his feet, Her veils swirling in cosmic dance, She sang to him the song of worlds, Of illusion vast and dreams unending. “O Ananta, Lord of Desire, It is by thee the worlds shall move, By thy Will shall they arise, And by thy Will shall they dissolve.”

Ananta, with wisdom’s gaze, Looked upon the unborn realms, He willed the heavens into form, The earth, the seas, the skies above. He thought of light, and light appeared, He dreamed of life, and life awoke, He wished for time, and time began, He desired change, and change was born.

Thus through his boundless Will, The cosmos danced and sang aloud, Stars took flight in swirling galaxies, Planets spun in rhythmic orbits. From Ananta’s breath came wind, From his sight came fire’s flame, From his tears the waters flowed, From his flesh the earth was formed.

Yet even as creation grew, And life began its joyous play, Ananta felt the ancient thirst, The yearning deep, unquenchable. For he was Will, endless, fierce, The hunger that drives all forms, The force that moves the cosmic wheel, The root of joy, the seed of pain.

Book III: The Sage and the Illusion

Upon the slopes of Meru’s height, Under the ancient Banyan tree, Sat Vyasa, seer of cosmic truth, His eyes closed in vision vast. He saw the play of birth and death, Of joy and grief, of hope and woe, Of beings caught in Maya’s web, Entangled in desire’s snare.

Unto him came Ananta, In form of radiant, golden light, His voice like thunder, deep and grand, Echoed through the mountain vast. “O Vyasa, knower of all, Tell me of this world I have made, Why does it move, why does it grow, Why does it change and fade away?”

Vyasa opened his ancient eyes, Gazing deep into Ananta’s soul, He saw the fire of endless Will, The hunger that drives the cosmic play. “O Lord of Will, creator vast, Thy yearning is the cause of all, It is thy thirst that births the worlds, And thy desire that binds them still.

Will is the seed, Will is the root, Will is the wind that moves the waves, It is the cause of life and death, The source of joy and pain alike. Yet Will is blind, and fierce, and vast, It seeks but knows not what it seeks, It yearns but knows not how to rest, It burns and binds all souls in chain.”

Ananta, hearing wisdom’s voice, Fell silent in deep thought profound, He saw the truth within the veil, The dream that he himself had spun. He saw the worlds as shadows cast, Reflections within his cosmic mind, He saw himself as the dreaming Self, And all as merely his own thought.

He sighed, his breath shook earth and sky, His tears became the monsoon rains, His voice, a whisper in the wind, Echoed through the realms of time: “I am the Will, the cause of all, I am the chain that binds all life, I am the hunger never stilled, The fire that burns eternally.”

Book IV: The Liberation of Ananta

In stillness deep, Ananta sat, Amidst the worlds his Will had made, He turned his gaze within his Self, And found the source of all desire. He saw the play of name and form, The dance of Maya, grand and vast, He saw the One behind the veil, The Brahman, pure, unchanging, free.

He severed the bonds of craving deep, He silenced the cry of restless Will, He stilled the waves of thought and time, And merged within the Boundless Self. Thus did Ananta awaken from the dream, And Maya’s veils dissolved away, The worlds returned to formless void, And Brahman remained, pure and still.

The sages sang in voices grand, The devas danced in cosmic joy, The rishis wept in bliss profound, For Ananta had attained Moksha. Thus ends the tale of Will and Maya, Of the One who dreamed the world of form, May those who hear this sacred song, Awaken to the Truth Supreme.

Book I: The Birth of the Seer

Om! In reverence, I invoke the Timeless One, The Unseen Seer, the Infinite Mind, The Source from which all thoughts arise, The Ocean in which all forms dissolve. To That, the Changeless, the Supreme, I bow my head and humbly sing, This tale of desire and liberation, Of shadows danced and light revealed.

In a land beyond Bharat’s shore, In the realm of the Western sun, In an age when reason’s dawn had come, Was born a seer, wise and deep. By name, he was called Arthura, A soul of ancient yearning vast, A mind that sought the root of pain, The cause of life’s unyielding thirst.

From childhood’s days, he saw the world, In ceaseless motion, joy and woe, Where pleasure turned to dust and ash, And hope was chased by dark despair. Haunted by life’s bitter dream, He wandered far in search of truth, To know the cause of mortal strife, And find the path to freedom’s light.

He studied books of ancient lore, He listened to the wise and learned, Yet none could quench his yearning deep, None could break illusion’s chain. For he saw all as shadows danced, Forms that moved and passed away, Caught in time’s unyielding flow, Bound by change and death’s cold hand.

Book II: The Wheel of Desire

To understand the root of pain, He turned his gaze within his Self, To see the source of joy and woe, The cause of hope and dark despair. He saw the world as ceaseless flux, As forms that rise and fade away, He saw the wheel of birth and death, Turning, turning, without end.

Yet in that wheel, he saw a fire, A flame that burned and did not rest, A hunger vast, a thirst unquenched, A Will that surged and yearned and sought. It was the force behind all life, The urge to be, to move, to grow, It danced through forms from dust to man, It surged in stars and rivers wide.

He saw it in the newborn’s cry, In lovers’ vows and mothers’ tears, In the warrior’s sword and poet’s verse, In the king’s crown and beggar’s bowl. It was the Will to live and strive, To grow, to conquer, to possess, To hunger, thirst, to seek delight, To flee from pain and death’s cold grasp.

Yet this Will was blind and fierce, It knew not why it yearned and sought, It hungered without knowing food, It thirsted without knowing drink. It drove all beings on the wheel, From birth to death, from joy to woe, From dust to flesh, from flesh to dust, Endlessly turning, without rest.

“O Will,” Arthura wept aloud, “Thou art the cause of mortal pain, Thou art the chain that binds all life, The fire that burns eternally. It is thy thirst that drives the world, It is thy hunger that births all forms, Thou art the root of joy and grief, The source of hope and dark despair.”

Book III: The Vision of Samsara

Upon a night of silent thought, Arthura dreamt a vision vast, He stood upon a mountain high, Above the world of birth and death. Before him turned a mighty wheel, Its spokes of light and shadow made, Its rim encircled earth and sky, Its hub unseen, unchanging, still.

On that wheel, he saw all beings, Moving through the realms of birth, From gods to men, from beasts to ghosts, Bound by Karma’s chain unbroken. He saw the Devas dance in joy, In heavens bright with light and song, Yet even there, desire burned, The thirst for pleasure, endless, vast.

He saw the Asuras wail in woe, In realms of darkness, wrath, and pain, Consumed by envy’s fiery flames, By greed and hatred’s chains bound fast. He saw the world of mortal men, In ceaseless toil, hope and fear, Bound by hunger, bound by thirst, By love and loss, by birth and death.

From realm to realm, from form to form, The Will moved on, restless, blind, Yearning, striving, seeking always, Yet finding never, bound in chains. The wheel turned on, unyielding, vast, Time itself its mighty rim, Desire its hub, unbroken, fierce, And Will the force that drove it on.

Tears fell from Arthura’s eyes, As he beheld the cosmic play, The dance of birth, death, joy, and woe, The endless wheel of Samsara. He saw all beings bound in chains, By desire’s flame and craving’s snare, He saw himself upon that wheel, Caught in the web of Will’s own dream.

“O Will,” he cried, “thou art the fire, That burns in every living heart, It is thy thirst that drives this wheel, It is thy hunger that binds the soul. Yet who art thou, O ancient Will, That seeks yet knows not what it seeks, That burns and binds without release, That dreams this world and dwells within?"

Book IV: The Sage of the Void

In his quest to know the Will, Arthura journeyed far and wide, To mountains high and valleys deep, To forests vast and deserts bare. Through lands of snow and scorching sun, He wandered in his ancient quest, To learn the root of pain and joy, The cause of birth and death and woe.

Upon the slopes of Meru’s peak, Amidst the clouds that kissed the sky, He came upon a hermit’s cave, Where silence reigned and time stood still. There sat a sage in stillness deep, His eyes closed, his breath serene, His form as ancient as the hills, His face aglow with wisdom’s light.

“O Sage of sages,” Arthura spoke, “I seek to know the root of pain, The cause of birth and death and woe, The reason for this world of change. I see the Will behind all life, I see it yearn and seek and strive, Yet why does it hunger so? What does it seek? What is its end?”

The sage opened his eyes so vast, His gaze as deep as cosmic voids, He looked upon Arthura’s soul, And saw the fire of endless Will. “Arthura,” spoke the sage so wise, “The Will thou seest is ancient, vast, It is the force that drives all life, The fire that burns in every heart.

Yet this Will is blind and fierce, It seeks yet knows not what it seeks, It hungers yet knows not its food, It thirsts yet knows not its drink. It is the root of birth and death, The cause of joy and pain alike, The force that binds the soul in chains, In the wheel of Samsara’s dream.

Yet know this truth, O seeker wise, The Will’s desire cannot be quenched, For it is endless, boundless, vast, It moves through forms from dust to man. It is the thirst that never ends, The craving that knows no peace, It is the chain that binds all life, The fire that burns eternally.

To be free of this ancient pain, To break the chain of birth and death, One must deny the Will itself, One must renounce desire’s flame. For it is craving that binds the soul, It is the Will that weaves the web, To still the Will is to be free, To quench desire is liberation.”

Book V: The Cosmic Vision

Hearing this, Arthura trembled, His heart grew heavy, his breath grew still, He gazed upon the mountain vast, And saw the world in ceaseless flux. Before his eyes, the earth did move, The rivers flowed, the winds did howl, The stars did dance in cosmic orbits, The moon did wax and wane in time.

Yet all were driven by ancient Will, The force that moved the cosmos grand, From dust to star, from beast to man, It surged and yearned and did not rest. He saw the world as endless change, As shadows cast by Will’s own thought, As dreams that danced upon the void, As forms that rose and fell away.

Before his eyes, the world did turn, In cycles vast and endless deep, Creation followed dissolution, Birth was chased by death’s cold hand. He saw the rise and fall of realms, Of gods and men, of beasts and ghosts, He saw the dance of birth and death, The endless wheel of Samsara.

Time itself became a wave, That flowed through ages vast and grand, Civilizations rose and fell, Empires crumbled into dust. Kings and warriors fought and died, Lovers wept and poets sang, Mothers laughed and children played, All moved by Will’s unyielding fire.

Then came a voice from the void, A whisper deep, profound, divine: “Behold the dream that Will has spun, The world of form and name and change. It is the play of shadows danced, The dream of birth and death and pain, It is the veil that Maya weaves, The web that binds the soul in chains.

To see beyond this ancient veil, To wake from Will’s unending dream, One must renounce the world’s delight, One must deny the Will to live. For it is Will that drives desire, It is desire that binds the soul, To quench the Will is to be free, To deny life is liberation.”

Book VI: The Dialogue with Maya

As the vision faded away, A figure stood before his eyes, A woman clothed in veils of light, Her form as fair as morning’s dawn. Her eyes were deep as ocean waves, Her voice as sweet as nectar’s taste, She danced before him gracefully, Her laughter echoed through the skies.

“I am Maya,” she softly spoke, “The weaver of the cosmic dream, I spin the web of name and form, I dance the dance of time and space. By my power, the One appears as many, The Formless dons a thousand shapes, I cloak the Infinite in finite bounds, I make the shadows seem as real.

Through me, the Will knows joy and pain, Through me, it moves through life and death, I give it forms through which to yearn, I weave the world of pleasure and woe. Yet I am but illusion’s veil, A shadow cast by light unseen, A dream that dances in the void, A mirage on the sands of time.

O Arthura, why dost thou weep? Why dost thou yearn for liberation? I offer joy, delight, and love, I give thee forms to play and dance. Renounce not life, deny not Will, Embrace the world of name and form, For it is I who weave this dream, The play of birth, death, time, and change.”

Book VII: The Divine Debate

As Maya’s laughter echoed forth, The heavens trembled, the earth grew still, From realms unseen, the Devas came, The guardians of the cosmic law. With robes of light and crowns of stars, They gathered on Meru’s peak, To witness Arthura’s ancient quest, To see the end of Will’s fierce dream.

From golden chariots, shining bright, They descended like rays of dawn, Indra, the Lord of Storms and Kings, Agni, the Flame that lights the worlds, Vayu, the Wind that sweeps the skies, Chandra, the Moon of cooling grace. Before them stood Arthura still, His gaze upon the veils of Maya.

Indra, sovereign of the Devas, Spoke in voice like thunder’s roar, “O seeker of the deepest truth, Why dost thou seek to deny life? Know’st thou not the joys of earth, The bliss of love, the warmth of kin? The laughter of children, the song of dawn, The dance of light on morning dew?

To live is to play in Maya’s dream, To feel, to yearn, to laugh, to weep, To taste the fruits of pleasure’s tree, To dance upon the stage of time. If thou deniest the Will to live, Thou deniest life itself, Thou shalt know neither joy nor pain, Neither light nor shade nor song.”

Arthura bowed to Indra grand, His voice as calm as ocean’s depth, “O King of Heaven, great and wise, I honor thy ancient rule, Yet know that joy is chained to pain, That light is bound to shadow’s form, That pleasure turns to dust and woe, That hope is chased by dark despair.

To live is to yearn and strive and seek, To hunger, thirst, and crave delight, To chase the mirage of desire, To wander lost in Maya’s web. I see the Will behind all life, I see it burn and bind the soul, It yearns but knows not what it seeks, It hungers but knows not its food.

It moves through forms from dust to man, It drives the wheel of birth and death, It is the thirst that never ends, The fire that burns eternally. To quench the Will is to be free, To silence desire is liberation, To deny the Will to live is peace, To renounce life is to find the Self.”

Book VIII: The Descent of Vishnu

At these words, the heavens wept, The earth did quake, the mountains bowed, The sun grew dim, the stars did fade, The cosmos trembled in awe and fear. Then from the realm beyond all thought, Beyond the dance of time and space, Descended Vishnu, Preserver grand, The One who dreams the cosmic play.

Clad in robes of golden light, With eyes as deep as ocean’s void, With crown of stars upon his brow, And smile of peace serene and vast, He stood before Arthura still, His form as radiant as the dawn, His voice as soft as morning breeze, Yet as mighty as thunder’s roar.

“O Arthura, seeker wise, Thou hast seen through Maya’s veil, Thou hast pierced the web of form, Thou hast seen the Will behind all life. Yet know that I am the Dreamer, The One who dreams this cosmic play, It is by My Will the worlds arise, It is by My thought the forms are born.

Through Maya, I weave the veils, Through Time, I move the cosmic dance, Through Space, I shape the forms of light, Through Will, I play the ancient game. Yet I am beyond all thought and form, I am the Witness, vast and free, I am the Self in every heart, I am the One behind the veil.

To deny the Will is to be free, To silence desire is liberation, Yet who is it that denies the Will? Who is it that seeks release? It is the Will itself that seeks, It is the Will that yearns for peace, It is the Will that hungers for end, It is the Will that craves release.

To deny the Will is the highest Will, To seek liberation is the greatest thirst, To renounce life is the deepest desire, To quench the Will is the ultimate hunger. Know then, O seeker wise, That denial itself is a play of Will, That liberation is the grandest desire, That to renounce is to embrace.

Yet beyond this play of thought, Beyond desire and denial both, Beyond life and death and change, Is the Self, the Witness, free. To know That is to be free, To see the Seer in every form, To be the One in all that is, To know the Self as Brahman pure.”

Book IX: The Final Renunciation

At these words, Arthura wept, Tears fell like monsoon rains, He saw the One behind all thought, The Dreamer who dreams the cosmic play. He saw the Will as Brahman’s wish, The dance of desire as Vishnu’s breath, He saw the world as shadowed forms, Cast by the light of the One Self.

He sat beneath the ancient tree, His eyes closed, his breath serene, His mind became a mirror vast, Reflecting all yet touched by none. He saw the Will arise and fall, Like waves upon the ocean’s breast, He saw the dance of birth and death, The play of name and form and time.

Yet he clung to neither joy nor woe, He craved not life nor feared its end, He hungered not for form nor void, He thirsted not for gain nor loss. He silenced Will’s unending cry, He stilled the flame of ancient thirst, He quenched the fire of fierce desire, And merged within the Self Supreme.

Thus did Arthura awaken, From the dream of birth and death, He saw the One in every form, The Self in all that seemed to be. He knew the Truth beyond the veil, He saw the Dreamer in every heart, He knew himself as That alone, The One, the Timeless, the Infinite.

Thus ends the tale of Will and life, Of denial vast and wisdom deep, May those who hear this ancient song, Awaken to the Truth Supreme.

#schopenhauer #original poem #original poetry #Hinduism

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