#it's sort of a combination of not valuing mortal life and needing to be like this to live

[ask-thearchivists]

Then why couldn’t you have done any of those things to the titans? I think hunting and killing them caused a lot of “undue suffering”.

The Charmer: Titans are extremophiles like us, and resistant to our magic in the best cases. Most of those are not direct uses of our magic so they could work, but because of them being extremophiles, there is absolutely no guarantee that they would be fatal, or immediately fatal. They can survive high altitude, low oxygen, high gravity, boiling, freezing, just as natural occurrences in their environment.

The Charmer: Increasing the gravity on their bodies until they are crushed under their own weight might not work because they have to be resistant to the effects on gravity on their bodies when they reach their adult size. At most this might make their legs break, or cause spinal injuries, like spinal cord and nerve compression, herniated disks, and spinal fracture.

The Charmer: Pulling all moisture from their bodies would undoubtedly kill them, but their high elevation adaptations allow them to breathe very dry, high-altitude air. This would imply that if I were to pull all moisture from the body of a Titan then they would not immediately die. They would probably feel their organs shutting down, one after another, and their skin peeling and ripping with every movement. It would be a deeply unkind death.

The Charmer: As for fatal radiation poisoning, I think the same would hold true for similar reasons. The tallest Titans, when standing straight, would be above the barrier of their world's atmosphere, encountering cosmic radiation unshielded. Every living thing besides us has a limit on how much radiation they can handle, but Titans are quite likely the only mortal that comes close to reaching us, and we feed on radiation to live. It would likely be an extremely drawn out and painful death, where they would have their skin bubble up and off, but after they've lost all their fur. There are many other unpleasant symptoms of fatal radiation exposure, but I do not think I need to describe them for you to understand that none of those methods would be anywhere near as kind as what my followers did.

The Charmer: As it is part of our duties to study all mortal life, I was sure to pick a method so instant and so painless, that none of them even had time to realize what was happening. It is part of my job to do this, and I have made many mistakes since I took on this responsibility. Though I imagine that that is inevitable, as I was the equivalent of 14 years old for your species when I started needing to do those duties. In any case, I realized very quickly that I needed to be careful to make sure it was instant. It was otherwise, quite unpleasant, to put it mildly.

[xx-slug-xx]

Billford isn’t just silly “toxic old man yaoi” like people have been saying. Their relationship being implied something more really means nothing. Cuz it’s literally horrible. Bill was manipulative, abusive towards Ford for years. And then did the exact same to Dipper years later.

Neither Ford nor Dipper or the rest of the Pines need Bill, if anything Bill needs them and that say a lot about how pathetic Bill is.

Yes and that’s why Ford and Bills relationship is so interesting to me!

Bill, a being that has spent eons painting himself out to be this absolute monster, and he absolutely is based on all his actions, finding solace in some human freak? Something that Bill, being treated as a freak in his home dimension, can relate to? Bill, the demon who most likely accidentally destroyed his entire dimension, who then had to make himself out to be the monster he felt that he was? His ego wouldn’t allow himself to be anything but that monster, and he lies about enjoying all the destruction he causes until his lies are no longer lies to him.

He’d never admit that he wanted more from Ford than the portal and nothing more. He’s supposed to be selfish, only caring about what new planet to consume. Relating to a mortal flesh bag? That would defeat the image he’s created for himself.

Ford saw Bill as perfection in his youth, and Bill valued him for being a dreamer. Bill was the only thing that could efficiently stroke Fords ego, and Ford enjoyed every second at the time. He’s the smartest man on earth, not able to relate to anyone but a dream demon he thought was trying to help him. Ford practically worshiped Bill like he was a god. Little did Ford know that the creature he thought was light was actually a great darkness. The unimaginable feeling of betrayal he felt when he learned the truth.

Bill played the game with him, not only to keep up the facade, but surely for something more as well. Ford seeing him for what he really was and making it his life’s goal to destroy him absolutely ruined Bill. Bill didn’t know what he had until it was already gone.

In the Book of Bill, he’s a horribly unreliable narrator. But Ford is way more reliable, and so is viewing everything from a completely uninvolved perspective. Combine what we see from the show, Journal Three, and The Book of Bill? And oh baby we got a recipe for a disaster of a relationship

They are so horrible for each other, but that sort of chemistry is so fun to explore when it comes to character analysis! It makes both Bill and Fords dynamic, their motivations, and other character related things so much deeper!

Bill needs purpose, and his purpose was ruined by his own undoing. He can blame any of the Pines family for this, but really, he’s his own worst enemy. The man needs serious help lol. Fords moved on, he has better things to worry about. Bill just can’t see past the potential for what could have been. Unable to forget the past, no matter how hard he lies to himself

I would definitely not say that Bill did the same thing to Dipper. Yes, he manipulated the kid and made his and his sister’s lives hell. But their history is not at all equal when Dipper didn’t dedicate his life to a false god like Ford did

Sorry for the ramble, anon! I’m in autism mode lmao

[pessimisticshapewithablog]

The Golden Order destroyed human/mortal innovation and advancement.

Because Marika was unable to adapt due to getting rid of her ability to do so. She and her kin, as gods, were stuck in a sort of arrested development, not able to act outside the concepts they valued.

Spoilers for Shadow of the Erdtree below!

We learn about many cultures that existed long before the Golden Order, but specifically the Astrologers and the study of the stars and the Fire Giants, the first blacksmiths. Both cultures lived in relative harmony, so much so that there are items that commemorate this pairing. The sword of night and flame, rellanna's twin blades. Fire and magic combined. (Note: I'm aware that the visuals could also be a callback to Pontiff Sulyvan from DS3, but I'm going to choose to focus on elden Rings' choice of worldbuilding.)

Within the world of Elden Ring, I like to think magic and fire represent mortal curiosity and intellect, the want to learn and understand themselves and the world, and creativity and ingenuity, creating tools to change and shape the world to their needs.

Although it's unknown where the giants fit within the Crucible, some comments about the small size of modern humans could imply that man used to be larger and more imposing. See Godefry. Giants could, in fact, be a species of human, just really big. A possible aspect of the primordial crucible.

The Astrologer's could have been an anomaly of the crucible. Small, diminutive humans, not bound by their instincts as most things of the were but by reason. Rather than focusing on their animal nature, the Astrologer's looked to the stars to understand their existence.

These two aspects of the crucible of men would together helm the advancements of their kind for thousands of years. But when the Golden Order came, that changed.

The Golden Order Deconstructed

Within elden Ring, many of the cultural and religious practices of the people sprung up organically in the face of adversity. From the handling of death to finding fate amongst the stars. There was a reason to them, an inherent belief behind them. Stars were the source of primeval life and possibly predated the crucible, it makes sense that a culture might look to them for insight on their existence.

Death was a universal experience for mortals. They lived with it and experienced the effects of it. There was a reason why the dead were almost always burned in ghostflame. Within the DLC, we learn that when bodies aren't burned, they festered and rotted, never really decaying like in our reality. This could have caused problems for many cultures, so each found unique ways to manage it.

But when the Golden Order came into power, rather than trying to understand the purpose behind it's 'opposing' religions, it decided to do away with them entirely. This caused much of, if not all, the conflict with the world of Elden Ring. And why it failed in the end.

The Golden Order wanted to reinvent the wheel but didn't understand how and why it was invented in the first place.

Queen Marika, The Golden Goddess

As a god, Marika never took the time to learn about the world she lived in. Not about the cultures that existed before hers, the way it functioned, or why it functioned the way it did. When Marika gained control of the Elden Ring, basically the key to the reality of elden ring, her lack of knowledge led her to make changes that had devastating effects on the existence. Her actions were driven by emotion and superstition.

Every action Marika took was to subvert and demonize preexisting beliefs or out of spite for some perceived slight against her.

• Suppressing the Crucible, the literal wellspring of all life, in an attempt to prune humanity into an idealized image. Treating anything that didn't fit that image like a monster that needed to be culled because of the Hornsent.

• Taking away the stars from those who relied on their guidance, even though the fate of gods were still governed by the stars.

• Murdering the fire giants because she thought the fell god was cursing her bloodline, when actual it was likely her heritage as a mortal, possibly a descendent of a giant + astrologer bloodline, and the incest with herself, that led to her children being 'afflicted.' Radagon and his children's red hair is hereditary, probably a dominant trait of his Fire Giant heritage.

• Thinking that removing death from the Elden Ring would simply stop it from happening and not have any lasting repercussions because she couldn't comprehend it place on the world.

It wasn't until the Golden Order 'succeeded' in wiping and disenfranchising many people and cultures that Marika had to confront the fact that she didn't know what her own Order was about. This was the reason why the Golden Order accelerated into stagnation, where most cultures that predated it advanced for centuries. Because of her philosophy, or lack thereof.

Reaching godhood didn't make Marika wise. It only gave her the power to enact her will without thinking of the consequences. For all her suffering, Marika was but an unenlightened fool, given the power to unmake reality.

Radagon, Champion of the Golden Order,

The Fundamentalist

We don't know exactly who or what, Radagon was, but he might have been a part of Marika she discarded when ascending to godhood. What part of Marika he embodied is up for debated, but given that he made the choice to join the Carians and learn from them (even if it was only septerfuge to learn their secrets), it can be assumed he was her intellectual aspect. This is contrary to their Scar/Soreseals.

Marika's Scarseal

This legendary talisman is an eye engraved with an Elden Rune, said to be the seal of Queen Marika.

Greatly raises mind, intelligence, faith, and arcane...

Radagon's Scarseal

This legendary talisman is an eye engraved with an Elden Rune, said to be the seal of King Consort Radagon.

Greatly raises vigor, endurance, strength, dexterity...

Only after Radagon becomes the Elden Lord does the Golden Order become more intellectually driven. Marika calls Radagon a leal hound of the Golden Order, and yet he is the one who tried to understand and give it principles. Radagon, not Marika herself. Maybe at this time, she had become disillusioned with the Order, but the reason it was the way it was because of her actions and choices.

Either the Writers of Elden Ring Lore got their notes mixed up, or these don't actually represent aspects of Radagon or Marika. Quite the opposite, in fact. It could be hinting at them being pieces of a whole, but Lore can't just be hints alluding to something that's never fully expounded upon but I digress. Marika was incapable of making any changes to the Golden Order because she lacked the ability to think critically, likely due to her literally getting rid of her ability to do so, Radagon.

She chose to make a battle-thirsty warmongerer the representative of her order, while also denying his crucible association until it was inconvenient. This very decision was why she sealed Messmer away in the Shadow Land but she still repeated it to her detriment. Noone forced her to persecute the Omen and misbegotten or make enemies of everyone her order encountered to the point of needing to hide what it did.

The Demi-God Dilemma

The perpetuation of strife...

Marika, and most her god Lineage, were detrimental to the existence of Man directly or indirectly:

● Godwyn seemed alright, but his place and existence within the plot puts him as a sort of false representative of the Golden Order Ideals and Golden Child. We are told that Godwyn was beloved by all and a friend to those he met, this quite the opposite of what the Golden Order was. His death is what, supposedly, led Marika to shatter the Elden Ring, and her removing the Rune of death is what allowed it to be able to be used to kill him. His soulless body now spreads undeath across the lands, a Blight that afflicts the living and dead.

● Godrick, a degeneration of Godwyn's Lineage, uses his power to cannibalize tarnished for power. Taking their body parts for his own selfish goals.

● Morgott made it his life's goal to preserve the Golden Order, the very Order that cast him out and treated him and his kind cruelly. The Order that also forced itself into relevancy through violence.

● Messmer, be it for Marika or her benefit, decided to wage war against anyone who didn't have grace, essentially the rest of the world since Marika made a habit of taking grace from people for her own reasons and also grace not being as relevant in the grand scheme of things as Marika had hoped.

● Mogh created a blood cult of maniacs that actively attacks and murders other tarnished and probably regular, none-tarnished folk alike for religious blood sport.

● Melania was a source of a plague with no cure and while she initially tried to keep it a bay within her, she readily used with when compelled to do so, completely destroying a region.

● Miquella might have wanted to do right by humanity but his method of going about it involved brainwashing people to go along with whatever he wanted and not actual creating the environment for a better world to develop on it's own. Or better, not accepting the world for what it was and trying to force change without the true wisdom to maintain it.

● Radahn for all his intellect and Carian lineage, like Morgott, he chose to champion the Golden Order that destroyed his family's legacy. Caria being a bastion against the Golden Order's blind faith in a god over of man's intellectual pursuits. Not only that, he became a god of war of sorts before being infected by the Scarlot rot. Playing as a general and perpetuating forever for the trill of it.

● Rykard is...Rykard. In his desire to subvert the Golden Order, he became monster consumed by power and self-destruction. Luring tarnished into his fold to be murderers of their kind, only to kill them to add their power to his own.

● Ranni, for all her well-meaning, conspired to have Godwyn killed to avoid taking up the mantle of an Empyrean inadvertently leading to the shattering. Her Age of Stars does seem directed toward letting mankind choose it's own path but it still puts the elden ring in the hands of a god, even a distant one.

● Melina is the only one of Marika's children that has any concern for the welfare of people and existence, willing to sacrifice herself for us to undue the damage caused by Marika's machinations.

Because Marika discarded her Humanity to reach godhood all that was left of her was her worse apsects. Pure Id and Ego. Because of this, all her decisions were clouded and without foresight. Most of demigod children were affected by this aswell, negatively affecting mankind as a whole with their self-absorbed maleficence.

Most of those mentioned used humanity for their own ends or outright killed them without consideration. Every one of their motives were deeply flawed and unconstructive, driven by a misguided sense of self importance, greed or maliciousness. None of them cared or thought about the consequences to their actions of about making plans beyond them.

Conclusion

I honestly didn't intend for this to get as long as it did, but I had a lot of thoughts about elden Rings' themes of Godhood and Divinity. I personally don't think godhood is inherently a bad thing, but how someone becomes one can make or break what they will be capable of.

Becoming a god by getting rid of pieces of yourself is like becoming a robot. IMO, very dumb lol. For all Marika's kindness of gold, she ultimately became a god for revenge.

Godhood was a trap for Marika because, in leaving behind parts of herself to reach it, she lost agency over who she could become. She could not change or adapt, and was trapped in a spiral of trauma induced self-sabotage. Marika might have wanted to create a world bathed in the kindness of gold but she was incapable of doing that because she discarded her ability to do so. Something she realized too late.

Somehow, Marika embodied the worst of humanities' shortcomings. Shortsighted, temperamental, fearful, and self-destructive. When she was unable to control the world and remake it in her image, she decided to destroy it by shattering the elden ring. Radagon trying to fix it makes sense because he actually knew just how important it was to everything. Not just the Golden Order but existence itself.

Like St. Trina, likely Radagon saw the path she was taken and tried to stop it but failed, and so the plot of Elden Ring unfolded. Marika's drawn-out suicide note...

[cheerfulmelancholies]

The warning made no difference. As the crowd erupted into a screaming inferno, the lone survivor turned and ran as fast as she could. Despite it all, the only thought Ariel had was about how stupid they all were. She'd spent the entirety of the trial trying to warn them, chased after the caravan as they carted the witch into the town square, and attempted to stop them from pouring oil and flinging tinder at the foot of the stake. The guards needn't have bothered shoving her away as the bloodthirsty crowd was more than able to do so themselves.

"Imbeciles," she muttered as her legs grew tired and her pace slowed. She wasn't far from home. She just needed to get inside, gather her things, and move on to a new life somewhere. There wouldn't be much left here, after all. Not with a large chunk of the population burned to a crisp and the few remaining likely angry and seeking answers.

Something hot gripped her shoulder and she stumbled away with a yelp and fell. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the witch standing over her, smoke drifting from her fingers and an amber glow in her eyes.

"You tried to warn them," she said, voice quiet but holding a dark tone.

"I did," Ariel replied. She forced herself to meet the witch's gaze head on. If she was going to die, she had no intention of crying about it.

"Yet they didn't listen."

"Idiots," she huffed before she could help it. She noted the way the other woman's head tilted. "If you think I did it out of pity, you're wrong."

"Oh? Then why try to save them?"

Was she really going to vent to a woman who could turn her into a puddle with a mere sentence?

Ah, why not? If she was going to die, at least she'd be able to get it off her chest.

"Do you know what it's like to be able to see the future? Do you know how miserable it is to see something horrible befall a person, only for them to laugh in your face when you try to warn them? Then when it happens it's suddenly your fault." Her tone became venomous. "I liked it here. I kept my head down and I kept my visions to myself. But seeing all the terrible things happen--because that's the only thing these worthless visions can show me--and having to look people in the eyes when you know what's coming...

"I thought, just this once, maybe they'd listen. I thought that with something this big, maybe I should make an effort. But they'd didn't listen because they never listen. And now that it turns out I was right, what's left of this town is going to chase after me. Now it's off to yet another new town, with a new identity, to try and start over. Frankly, you'd do well just to put me out of my misery."

The witch was silent for a long while, regarding the woman before her. "Seems to me it was out of pity," she said after several moments. "Although you have an easier time blaming anger." She offered the woman a hand. By now, they had cooled to a normal temperature.

Ariel stared at the appendage, confusion overpowering her frustration.

"Perhaps the other mortals don't see the value in your abilities, but I think it would be quite useful if handled properly. I, too, have a difficult time maintaining a quiet life. I can do a lot of things, but I never know when someone might discover my secret. I think... if we combine our skills, we might have an easier time living."

Ariel took the hand and allowed the witch to pull her to her feet. "Are you offering me a job?"

"Of sorts. I help you start over, you help warn me when things might go wrong. Together, we can exist the way we'd like."

"It... would be nice to finally settle down and not have to worry about running again. Not to mention, finding some use in my power would be lovely." It had been especially troublesome these past few months; seeing all these tragedies and having no way to release them. Being unable to act on the visions had been eating away at her psyche for some time, though she was loathe to admit it.

"My name is Lorelei," the witch said with small bow.

"Ariel. And you've got yourself a deal." She smiled and returned the bow.

With Lorelei's magic, Ariel was able to gather all of her belongings, even the furniture, and together they disappeared into dusk to find a secluded home in a new town.

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” shouted the crowd, drowning out the distressed warnings of one person. “No, you fools! She can control the flames!”

[pocketramblr]

If the ask game is still open, Izuku is Death (and I don't mean that metaphorically, or rhetorically, or poetically or theoretically or in any other fancy way. He's Death. STRAIGHT. UP.) and he is after AFO, who is very human. (Also, unrelated, but All Might survived way more near death experiences than in canon. He must have a guardian angel or something.)

gonna just combine those, for my own sake...

1- something Changed in the world the moment the first quirk came into being. Izuku doesn't know what it was, only that before, Death was Something Else, and that after, he Existed, and Was Death. It's a turbulent time to be Death, but maybe it had to be. Izuku watches with wonder life and how people use it, quirks in all their beautiful colored varieties. He has a very somber job, and it hurts, and he can't stop being Death, but he can keep himself well enough by deliberately appreciating life, and the world, and the quirks he's somehow tied to. It doesn't stop from hurting, but it helps his pain tolerance and lets him smile sometimes.

2- If Izuku has ever hated a human, he hates All For One. everyone else, he mourns. he gently takes children when its their time. he offers an ear to people's stories. He'll even tut over a killer, but give them space- usually they don't need judgement, their own's enough. And when it's not, they're scared of him as is.

All For One is different. he doesn't value life, or quirks, or the world, or even Death. just himself, as if he's apart of all of it. Just himself, and his brother, who he treats as proof of his control.

Izuku sits quietly with Yoichi in the vault, and promises AfO won't stop either of them, won't own Yoichi forever. At the very worst, Izuku will make sure he escapes eventually.

Izuku weeps when the vault is opened, and continues to go do his job, leading on from the bodies strewn behind Second and Third's bloody footsteps.

3- And then AfO kills Yoichi, and Izuku finally makes himself known. He snaps, because AfO's beyond any redemption, to him. He'll kill AfO himself, now.

But instead, it's the first time AfO's smiled in months- he's done it, become so strong, made himself such a legend, that no one but Death Itself could face him, beyond all mortals. Izuku doesn't particularly care about AfO's ego boost, since he's been annoyed by it so long anyway, and he figured AfO's cult would make up something like that anyway. not important, when he'll make sure they die out too.

But AfO kills everywhere he goes, and Izuku is Izuku, but he is also Death, and he must tend to those he leads away.

He won't let AfO think he's more important to Izuku than the many people he tramples.

4- When AfO start with Nomu, Izuku feels pain for the first time- he's felt agony, sure, emotionally. but not physically. It doesn't hurt any other after that, but he remembers. and he's even angrier, because Nomu spit in the face of Death, puppeted corpses on a cruel fragment of a memory of being alive.

And Izuku decides if AfO's going to break the rules, so will he.

Banjo should have died the first time he refused to give One For All up to AfO. but somehow, he didn't. En was the same.

Izuku had to focus on protecting Toshinori from the powerful blast AfO had to use to keep Nana dead this time, but then spent the next three decades keeping all sorts of things from killing Toshi that absolutely should have. So, when Izuku keeps him up and finally, finally sees AfO drop, he's thrilled. He makes sure Toshinori will survive, then goes to take AfO.

But a mere hour later, AfO slips away, grinning widely at Izuku's frustrated shriek.

5- not one minute later, Toshinori has a dream in his comatose state- he can see all the vestiges again, but there's an extra figure, who speaks to him.

"I'm Death- no, stop, you're not dying any time soon. But All For One returned to life when he should not have been able to. I don't care what he or his followers will think of it- I can take a physical form. If i do, and have One For All, I know he'll never come back. I swear it."

[everythingispirates]

im not v good at media analysis but ive had some thoughts bouncing around in my head that i need to outlet somehow so just, bear with me okay lmfao

anyway i think that at least in the first 3 movies death is meant to be synonymous with love, and it drives me batshit insane (affectionate). like ok first there was that post that went around a few years ago that rightfully pointed out that every man elizabeth kissed has both been in love/lust with her and also has died. (i am also including jack in this, because although i dont think they were ever "in love", they're practically obsessed with each other in a strange toxic sort of way that weaponizes affection so it counts lol. i could go on about this too bc it makes me insane too)

not to mention, like, davy jones' entire story being a tragic love story, the man literally cannot die because of calypso... i mean its not that simple obv but from his perspective at least he believes calypso does not return his affection for her even though she DOES, just not in the way he can really anticipate or comprehend. which to me i think means that while death = unrequited love, undeath or coming back to life (like will does as well) is a sign of love that is actually returned

like i could go on but ANYWAY, this all in mind, the fact that jack and barbossa then are both responsible for not only killing each other but that barbossa led the charge to bring jack back to life is crazy like?????? are we seeing this

I really really like this anon!! I might personally not go so far as to say they're synonymous but I'd absolutely agree that they go hand in hand, like it's sort of hard at least for me to draw direct symbolic parallels but so much of the death we see is definitely tied super closely to love just like you say!! the elizabeth thing is like an observed phenomenon and I esp find it interesting that the captain of the dutchman curse has this strong connection to love where I'd argue love is sirt of what's supposed to keep the captain tied to the mortal world in a sense?? also really neat that barbossa's curse has the "I feel nothing" aspect to it in combination with the unable to die, as well as love and death having a certain connection in media like historically there's really so much to be done with this concept so I'd love to hear more from you regarding it!! I like just woke up so sorry for rambling but anon you say you're no good w media analysis and I just wanna take this moment to say that a) you obviously have a sense for it and b) this is how you get better at it like do exactly this find a reoccurring motif and inspect it, see where it leads you!! I really value media literacy and I'd argue it's definitely a learned skill so I just wanna like encourage you and anyone who reads this who might find analysis a bit daunting to give it a shot. I think potc especially is really good as a starting point if you wanna get into it because it's not The most complex thing in the world like it's still a kids movie but it does have a lot of stuff going on without it being like overwhelming I guess the word is???

[astrologyartandcinema]

Astrology Notes Compilation

Mercury in Taurus has an innate simplicity and eloquence that makes even their most controversial jokes and statements palatable, at least in the moment, if negatively reacted to, it takes a reflection away from the Taurean Mercury, and this dissection rarely directly comes back to the subject. They are deeply intellectually involved with the sensual, most of the artists I know have this placements and their true intelligence lies in their ability to perceive concepts and subsequently portray them in their respective art forms.

Pisces and Gemini combinations can be so sensitive, withdraw into themselves and try to logic their way out of their experiencing the negativity, becoming almost like an unadjusted fixed dominant in their behavior. They cling to rigid institutions and behaviors to circumvent the chaos they see outside themselves.

Capricorn Moons, even with extroverted, water or fire sun signs are very good at dismissing the experiences of others, often because they are from homes where their own emotional experiences were dismissed by their primary caretakers. (Gaslighting at its worst can take place) They can have dichotomous personalities that leave more intimate friends uneasy with them as their emotions can lead to unpredictable coldness based on their own internal struggles.

Virgo moons I have found are similar in this way but are more self aware, able to pivot and adapt to maintain harmony in their relationships, provided they are not feeling especially insecure or undergoing their own sort of crisis in which they can be even more cruel if prodded. If they have a fire sun people particularly underestimate their intelligence, cold and untethered judgement. Fire sun, Virgo moons may have a public and private face that can be extremely duplicitous, presenting as carefree and bubbly but underneath their emotions can be seething in a self righteous mental loop.

Two stereotypes I anecdotally find to be true is the beauty and grace of Libra risings and the self assured victimhood of Pisces moons.

Being raised by a Libra rising, and having dated 3, friends with 4, and having no actual Libra placements in my chart I can concede that they almost never look disheveled, always have a timeless elegance, regardless of their personal grooming habits or conscious desire to be this way. If their Venus is in a sign or Decan ruled by Jupiter, Neptune or Venus they will gain weight later in life, and most enviously they will still be regal and still make quite an entrance. They wear weight well so to speak either putting it on in the most flattering places or places easily disguised with their natural ability to dress themselves and some times weight gain will simply amplify their beautiful figures.

Libra rising men, at least the heterosexual ones I know, prefer the company of women, they defer to the social hierarchies of women, and although they have their own difficulties with them, are predominantly friends with women, the alternative being other men which they find unrefined, vulgar, and at some times truly just their competition in their female dominated world. They are good listeners, seldom perform any masculine chest pounding, and seek and generally receive the approval of women in the work place and friend groups. When they have Virgo placements, they are particularly concerned with beauty, order and presentation but do not project or need others to participate in these as rigidly as they do. They also struggle to refuse anyone anything, set high standards for themselves interpersonally, and are very unlikely to neglect anyone they have committed to romantically or platonically.

Pisces Moons can be tediously unconcerned with the real world, unable to assert themselves in meaningful ways to the detriment primarily of those around them. Because of their ability to peer into the collective conscious and pick and choose more vague terms to dwell on, their close friends and partners enable them in their pursuits and out of admiration more than pity, pick up their slack. Their empathy although driven to the more universal and spiritual realms rarely soothes or protects the consciousness of the people that love them and they may not notice the suffering of their children or family because it is too personal and ugly and often stem from negligence of their own selfish nature. They don't see themselves as actors in a concrete world but sacred vessels for some higher vision, above more mortal and attainable concerns. When not involved in a structure that holds them accountable they see themselves as simply doing their best and perpetually victimized by the unfairness of what society values, reconciling issues with them will be a game of concession and disregard for one's own issue if a relationship is desired to last.

[masterweaverx]

So what I believe the central paradox in the Emerald/Cinder relationship to be is that they care for each other genuinely, in the absolute most horrible way possible.

Like, I honestly think that on some level Cinder really does value Emerald as a person, that she wants what’s best for her and to help her grow. But her upbringing has taught her that Love Isn’t Real Actually, so she’s interpreting what she feels as a wacky combination of ego and nostalgia-- “Oh, it’s Young Cinder! I know exactly what she needs!” And, because Cinder’s got that whole ‘power dynamic’ and ‘transactional relationship’ view of the world, she believes the best way to show her love recognition of Emerald’s potential is to guide Emerald to being Powerful, with the understanding that as the elder in this relationship she has total control and any ‘defiance’ will not be tolerated.

Emerald, meanwhile, has a delusion from the complete opposite end of the cynicism spectrum. She’s pulling her model of the relationship from, probably, the Remnant equivalent of some early Disney films. Love conquers all! Love redeems! Love just automatically wins, no work required! There may be a little worship going on in there too--it could be argued that Cinder is a demigod, actually. So armed with the knowledge that things will Just Work Out, Emerald has decided that the best thing to do is alleviate all the other problems in Cinder’s life. She just gets frustrated being Salem’s protégée, you know? It’s not her fault she’s snippy. And don’t people who care about each other help? It just makes sense.

So not only do we have these two diametrically opposed worldviews completely ignorant of each other, we also have any and all gestures of affection hitting the absolute wrong way. Like, Cinder would probably say “I know you can do better” and mean it legitimately, yes Emerald, you CAN do better--and what Emerald would hear is ‘you’re not doing enough.’ And Emerald would go out and deal with a problem--see Cinder? We killed Tukson for you! Isn’t that nice of us? And Cinder would think ‘oh hell, she’s trying to challenge my authority again, time to put her back in her place because I care about her want to make her the greatest Emerald I can.’ And each half thinks the other understands the meaning of the gesture automatically and doesn’t get that it’s actually upsetting.

Physical affection is a big part in this. Cinder’s interactions with Rhodes means she probably interprets headpats as sort of, well, dominance displays. “You are my small warrior. I am stronger than you.” It’s not something you give to an ally, it’s something you give to an enemy you respect. And from there a general interpretation of ‘physical touch is aggressive.’ Meanwhile Emerald is over here wondering why Cinder’s not hugging her, maybe she’s just touch starved, so a little hand patting to reassure her would be fine, right? Oh okay she didn’t like that okay not doing that sorry Cinder--

Of course Cinder is the abuser here, it’s just that she legitimately does not see what she does as abuse. Which I am taken to understand is actually pretty common among abusers. She sees it as encouragement, and support, and love ensuring a valuable ally knows that she can never challenge the greatness that is Cinder Fall! And Emerald ignores all the red flags because, well, Love Is The Greatest Power Of Them All, and Cinder wouldn’t bother with a mere mortal like her if it wasn’t real love of some sort, right? Right Mercury?! RIGHT?!?!

(I actually find it kinda heartbreaking that the thing that gets Cinder out of her post-defeat funk is sheer ANGER at Mercury saying she doesn’t care about Emerald. Both because of how she interprets it on the surface--that she just put time and effort into improving Emerald for no good reason--and because of the truth she refuses to acknowledge--she does care about green girl.)

All that said... Emerald has just seen Salem speaking Cinder’s psuedo-love language to her, and seen how Cinder responded. And she’s realized that maybe she needs to start reading a different dictionary.

[dwellordream]

“This brings us to the most fundamental fact of rural life in the pre-modern world: the grain is harvested once a year, but the family eats every day. Of course that means the grain must be stored and only slowly consumed over the entire year (with some left over to be used as seed-grain in the following planting). That creates the first cycle in agricultural life: after the harvest, food is generally plentiful and prices for it are low (we’ll deal with the impact this has on trade and markets a little later). As the year goes on, food becomes scarcer and the prices for it rise as each family ‘eats down’ their stockpile.

That has more than just economic impacts because the family unit becomes more vulnerable as that food stockpile dwindles. Malnutrition brings on a host of other threats: elevated risk of death from injury or disease most notably. Repeated malnutrition also has devastating long-term effects on young children (a point we’ll come back to). Consequently, we see seasonal mortality patterns in agricultural communities which tend to follow harvest cycles; when the harvest is poor, the family starts to run low on food before the next harvest, which leads to rationing the remaining food, which leads to malnutrition. That malnutrition is not evenly distributed though: the working age adults need to be strong enough to bring in the next harvest when it comes (or to be doing additional non-farming labor to supplement the family), so the short rations are going to go to the children and the elderly.

Which in turn means that ‘lean’ years are marked by increased mortality especially among the children and the elderly, the former of which is how the rural population ‘regulates’ to its food production in the absence of modern birth control (but, as an aside: this doesn’t lead to pure Malthusian dynamics – a lot more influences the food production ceiling than just available land. You can have low-equilibrium or high-equilibrium systems, especially when looking at the availability of certain sorts of farming capital or access to trade at distance. I cannot stress this enough: Malthus was wrong; yes, interestingly, usefully wrong – but still wrong. The big plagues sometimes pointed to as evidence of Malthusian crises have as much if not more to do with rising trade interconnectedness than declining nutritional standards). This creates yearly cycles of plenty and vulnerability; we’ll talk about the strategies these fellows employ to avoid that problem in just a moment.

Next to that little cycle, we also have a ‘big’ cycle of generations. The ratio of labor-to-food-requirements varies as generations are born, age and die; it isn’t constant. The family is at its peak labor effectiveness at the point when the youngest generation is physically mature but hasn’t yet begun having children (the exact age-range there is going to vary by nuptial patterns, see below) and at its most vulnerable when the youngest generation is immature. By way of example, let’s imagine a family (I’m going to use Roman names because they make gender very clear, but this is a completely made-up family): we have Gaius (M, 45), his wife, Cornelia (39, F), his mother Tullia (64, F) and their children Gaius (21, M), Secundus (19, M), Julia1 (16, F) and Julia2 (14, F). That family has three male laborers, three female laborers (Tullia being in her twilight years, we don’t count), all effectively adults in that sense, against 7 mouths to feed.

But let’s fast-forward fifteen years. Gaius is now 60 and slowing down, Cornelia is 54; Tullia, we may assume has passed. But Gaius now 36 is married to Clodia (20, F; welcome to Roman marriage patterns), with two children Gaius (3, M) and Julia3 (1, F); Julia1 and Julia2 are married and now in different households and Secundus, recognizing that the family’s financial situation is never going to allow him to marry and set up a household has left for the Big City. So we now have the labor of two women and a man-and-a-half (since Gaius the Elder is quite old) against six mouths and the situation is likely to get worse in the following years as Gaius-the-Younger and Clodia have more children and Gaius-the-Elder gets older. The point of all of this is to note that just as risk and vulnerability peak and subside on a yearly basis in cycles, they also do this on a generational basis in cycles.

...Most modern folks think in terms of profit maximization; we take for granted that we will still be alive tomorrow and instead ask how we can maximize how much money we have then (this is, admittedly, a lot less true for the least fortunate among us). We thus tend to favor efficient systems, even if they are vulnerable. From this perspective, ancient farmers – as we’ll see – look very silly, but this is a trap, albeit one that even some very august ancient scholars have fallen into. These are not irrational, unthinking people; they are poor, not stupid – those are not the same things.

But because these households wobble on the edge of disaster continually, that changes the calculus. These small subsistence farmers generally seek to minimize risk, rather than maximize profits. After all, improving yields by 5% doesn’t mean much if everyone starves to death in the third year because of a tail-risk that wasn’t mitigated. Moreover, for most of these farmers, working harder and farming more generally doesn’t offer a route out of the small farming class – these societies typically lack that kind of mobility (and also generally lack the massive wealth-creation potential of industrial power which powers that kind of mobility). Consequently, there is little gain to taking risks and much to lose. So as we’ll see, these farmers generally sacrifice efficiency for greater margins of safety, every time.

Modern farms are built for efficiency – they typically focus on a single major crop (whatever brings the best returns for the land and market situation) because focusing on a single crop lets you maximize the value of equipment and minimize other costs. They rely on other businesses to provide everything else. Such farms tend to be geographically concentrated – all the fields together – to minimize transit time.

Subsistence farmers generally do not do this. Remember, the goal is not to maximize profit, but to avoid family destruction through starvation. If you only farm one crop (the ‘best’ one) and you get too little rain or too much, or the temperature is wrong – that crop fails and the family starves. But if you farm several different crops, that mitigates the risk of any particular crop failing due to climate conditions, or blight (for the Romans, the standard combination seems to have been a mix of wheat, barley and beans, often with grapes or olives besides; there might also be a small garden space. Orchards might double as grazing-space for a small herd of animals, like pigs). By switching up crops like this and farming a bit of everything, the family is less profitable (and less engaged with markets, more on that in a bit), but much safer because the climate conditions that cause one crop to fail may not impact the others.

...Likewise – as that example implies – our small farmers want to spread out their plots. And indeed, when you look at land-use maps of villages of subsistence farmers, what you often find is that each household farms many small plots which are geographically distributed (this is somewhat less true of the Romans, by the by). Farming, especially in the Mediterranean (but more generally as well) is very much a matter of micro-climates, especially when it comes to rainfall and moisture conditions (something that is less true on the vast flat of the American Great Plains, by the by). It is frequently the case that this side of the hill is dry while that side of the hill gets plenty of rain in a year and so on. Consequently, spreading plots out so that each family has say, a little bit of the valley, a little bit of the flat ground, a little bit of the hilly area, and so on shields each family from catastrophe is one of those micro-climates should completely fail (say, the valley floods, or the rain doesn’t fall and the hills are too dry for anything to grow).

...While some high-risk disasters are likely to strike an entire village at once (like a large raid or a general drought), most of the disasters that might befall one farming family (an essential worker being conscripted, harvest failure, robbery and so on) would just strike that one household. So farmers tended to build these reciprocal relationships with each other: I help you when things are bad for you, so you help me when things are bad for me. But those relationships don’t stop merely when there is a disaster, because – for the relationship to work – both parties need to spend the good times signalling their commitment to the relationship, so that they can trust that the social safety net will be there when they need it.

So what do our farmers do during a good harvest to prepare for a bad one? They banquet their neighbors, contribute to village festivals, marry off their sons and daughters with the best dowry they can manage, and try to pay back any favors they called in from friends recently. I stress these not merely because they are survival strategies (though they are) but because these sorts of activities end up (along with market days and the seasonal cycles) defining a great deal of life in these villages. But these events also built that social capital which can be ‘cashed out’ in an emergency. And they are a good survival strategy. Grain rots and money can be stolen, but your neighbor is far likelier to still be your neighbor in a year, especially because these relationships are (if maintained) almost always heritable and apply to entire households rather than individuals, making them able to endure deaths and the cycles of generations.”

- Bret Devereaux, “Bread, How Did They Make It? Part I: Farmers!”

[melovez]

thinking about wilderman rn but idk how to explain it. i talk about him being a disney princess but it’s less that animals all love him because how nice he is to them but more like they realize and respect him as a member of the ecosystem/food chain. like he just has this way with animals that gives them this odd combination of trust and fearful respect. he would never agree with organizations like peta because they are forcing animals into human boxes in an attempt to get more sympathy. he doesn’t believe all animals are equal to humans, he doesn’t believe that humans are below animals. but he’d like humans a lot more if they understood that despite their smarts and their inventions, they’re animals too. and nature, ultimately, will have its way in the end. wilder is as close to the actual top of the food chain that any sapient species on earth can hope to be. humans can’t defend against grizzly bears and tigers on their own, but wilder can. but despite being on the top of the food chain, he acts much more mercifully to those on the bottom than humans do.

the humans he despises the most are the ones who have no respect for animals they have more power over. people who stress out chihuahuas for views, people who do awful things to insects for views, people who scream at their dogs in a language they don’t understand because they teethed on the furniture, etc etc. those are the people he really hates. because when you have the sort of power humans have over small animals, or that wilder has over humans, or that a tiger has over mice, you need to learn when something is beneath your concern. tigers don’t really eat mice, they’re too small and have nowhere near enough nutritional value. bears CAN hunt deer, but they subsist mostly off of other sources because it requires less energy. wilder could easily have subsisted off of humans, but they’re more trouble than they’re worth. humans, though? humans hunt endangered animals for sport. humans terrorize small animals because their noises of distress are “cute” or “funny”. humans do things to animals they consider “vermin” that could be considered cruel and unusual anywhere else.

wilder understands his place in the circle of life. humans don’t, not very often do they understand that. the few humans he’s friends wirh are humans that do understand. miles, grey, and casey. miles was perfectly ready for the power humans have on earth to be toppled. grey has no fear of death and respects it when it comes. casey has been near death a few times and it’s made him much more aware of his mortality, but it’s not something he fights against. the rest of humanity has to learn a thing or two before they’ll win wilder over.

[sisterofiris]

Everyday life in the Hittite empire

Have you ever wondered what your life would have been like if you had been born in central Anatolia 3500 years ago? No? Now that I’ve brought it up, are you curious to find out?

Well you’re in luck, because that’s just what this post is about. So sit back, close your eyes, and imagine yourself in Anatolia - that is, modern Turkey. Are you ready? Can you see the mountains, the red river and the towering buildings of your capital, Ḫattuša? Can you hear the chariots driving up the road? Can you feel the electric brewing of a storm in the distance?

Then let’s go.

(With a brief disclaimer: while I study Hittitology, this is not intended as an academic-level post. It was written to give general, approachable insights into Hittite culture and can be used as writing inspiration or to titillate curious history nerds around you, but if you’re writing an academic paper on the subject, I would recommend you check out the bibliography instead.)

About you

First things first, are you older than five? If so, congratulations on being alive. Child mortality in this place and time is very high, so you’re one of the luckier ones among your siblings. You probably have at least a couple of those; you may even have as many as six or seven, especially if you come from a well-to-do family with access to good healthcare. When you were little, your parents might have told you the tale of Zalpa, in which the queen of Neša gives birth to thirty sons then thirty daughters who marry each other, but you know this only happens in the stories - not to normal people.

When you were born, your parents rejoiced regardless of your sex, as sons and daughters are equally valued in your society (albeit for different reasons). Your father took you on his knee and gave you a good Hittite name: maybe Armawiya, Ḫarapšili, Kilušḫepa or Šiwanaḫšušar for a girl, or Anuwanza, Kantuzili, Muwaziti or Tarḫuzalma for a boy. Gender-neutral names, such as Anna, Muwa and Šummiri, would also have been an option. Many people around you have Hurrian or Luwian names, even if they are not ethnically Hurrian or Luwian themselves. (This is comparable to the modern popularity of Hispanic names like Diego, or French names like Isabelle.)

It’s hard to say what you would have done during childhood. While your earliest years would have been spent playing and babbling in grammatically incorrect Hittite, by the age of six or seven you may well have already started training in the family profession. If a girl, you would have been taught to weave by your mother; if a boy, you might have helped your father out on the farm, tried your hand at making pottery, or spent long hours learning cuneiform. (There may have been careers requiring gender non-conformity, as there was in Mesopotamia, but as far as I am aware this has not been proven.) You know that even the noblest children are given responsibilities - king Ḫattušili himself was once a stable boy.

Now, as an adult, you are a working professional contributing directly to Hittite society. You look the very portrait of a Hittite: as a woman, you have long, dark hair that you probably keep veiled, and as a man, your hair is around shoulder-length and your face clean-shaven. Ethnically, though, you are likely a mixture of Hittite, Luwian, Hurrian, Hattian, and depending on when and where exactly you live, maybe Assyrian, Canaanite or even Greek. There’s a fair chance Hittite might not actually be your native language. Still, you consider yourself a Hittite, and a subject of the Hittite king.

Well, now you know who you are, let’s get along with your day!

Your home and environment

Your day begins the way most people’s days do: you wake up at home, in your bed. As an average Hittite, you probably sleep on the floor rather than on elevated furniture. Your floor is either paved or of beaten earth, and your house itself has stone foundations and mud brick walls, with a flat roof supported by timber beams. Windows are scarce and small, to keep the indoor temperature stable.

Outside, the rest of the settlement is waking up too. Statistically, you live in a village or small town, surrounded by forest and mountains. Summers here are hot and dry, and winters cold and snowy, with spring and autumn being marked by thunderstorms. Most inhabitants work as farmers, relying on the weather for their survival. Contagious illnesses are a constant threat - under king Muršili II, the land suffered a deadly plague for twenty years - as are enemy invasions. If you live within the bend of the red river, in the Hittite heartland, consider yourself lucky; if not, your settlement could well be shifting from one kingdom’s property to another and falling prey to both sides’ raids on a yearly basis.

Admitting no enemy forces are in the area today, you take your time to get up. You might tiredly stumble to the outhouse to go pee. Eventually, you’ll want to get dressed.

Clothing

As a man, your clothes comprise of a kilt or sleeved tunic, with a belt of cloth or leather. As a woman, you wear a long dress and, if you are married, a veil. All clothing is made from wool or linen, and a variety of dyes exist: red, yellow, blue, green, black and white are all colours mentioned in texts. If you are rich enough, you may be able to import purple-dyed fabric from Lazpa (Greek Lesbos) or the Levant. You will also want to flaunt your wealth with jewellery, regardless of gender.

Of course, your shoes have upturned ends in the Hittite style. Historians will tease you for this. Don’t listen to them. You look awesome.

Mealtime!

It’s now time for one of your two daily meals (the other will take place in the evening, after your work for the day is done). This will be prepared at the hearth, a vital element of every home, and which is likely connected to an oven. The staple of your diet is bread; in fact, it is so common that “bread”, in cuneiform texts, is used as a general term for food. It is usually made from wheat or barley, but can also be made from beans or lentils.

Worried you’ll get bored of it? You needn’t be: your society has enough types of bread that you could eat a different one each day for a whole season. Fig bread, sour bread, flat bread and honey bread are just some of your options, along with spear bread and moon bread... yes, in other words, baguettes and croissants. (Something tells me the Hittites and the French would have a lot to talk about.)

You also have various fruits and vegetables available: cucumber, leek, carrots, peas, chickpeas, lentils, beans, olives, figs, dates, grapes, pomegranates, onions, garlic, and more. Your diet is completed by animal products, including cheese, milk, butter, and meat, mainly from sheep and goats but also cows and wild game. Honey, too, is common.

These ingredients can be combined into all sorts of dishes. Porridge is popular, as are stews, both vegetarian and meat-based. Meat can also be broiled and quite possibly skewered onto kebabs. And of course, food would be boring without spices, so you have a variety of those to choose from too: coriander are cumin are just two of them.

As for drinks, you can have beer, wine, beer-wine (good luck figuring out what that is), milk or water. If you’re well-to-do enough, you may own a rhyton, a drinking vessel shaped like an animal such as a stag or bull. Don’t forget to libate to the Gods before drinking your share.

Daily work

The next thing on your plate, after food, is work. What you do depends on your social status and gender, and most likely, you do the same work as your parents did before you. You could be something well-known like a king, priest, scribe, merchant, farmer or slave, but don’t assume those are all the possibilities; you could also be, for example, a gardener, doctor, ritual practitioner, potter, weaver, tavern keeper, or perfume maker.

It’s impossible to go into detail on every career option you would have in Hittite society, so for the sake of brevity, let’s just discuss four - two male-dominated, and two female-specific.

Farmer

As a farmer, you are the backbone of your society. You and your peers are responsible for putting food on the plates of Hittites everywhere, thus ensuring the survival of the empire.

Like many farmers, you live on a small estate, most likely with both crops (or an orchard) and livestock to take care of. You may own cows, sheep, goats, pigs, horses, donkeys, and/or ducks. Your daily routine and tools aren’t that different from other pre-industrial cultures, though you have it a little rougher than most due to the Anatolian mountain terrain. If you have the means, you hire seasonal workers - both male and female - to help out as farmhands, and you may own a few slaves.

You get up early to milk the cows, and at the onset of summer, you or a hired herdsman may lead your livestock up to mountain pastures to graze. Depending on the season and the work that needs to be done, you may spend your day ploughing the fields, harvesting grain or fruit, tending livestock, shearing sheep, birthing a calf, repairing the barn, or various other tasks. Make sure to take proper care of everything: new animals are expensive, and losing one could get you into a precarious situation. In particular, you’ll want to keep an eye out for bears, wolves, foxes, and even lions and leopards.

Scribe

Few people are literate in Hittite society, and you are one of the lucky ones. You have been learning to read and write in three languages (Sumerian, Akkadian and Hittite) since childhood, and after long years of copying lexical lists and ancient myths, your education is now complete.

As a scribe, you are the dreaded bureaucrat. In a small town, you likely work alongside the town administrator, recording tax collections and enemy sightings as well as corresponding with other towns, and with the capital. You and your peers are the go-to people for officialising marriage agreements and divorces, drawing up work contracts, and creating sales receipts. If not in the town administration, you could also work in a temple, recording the results of oracles, cross-checking the correct procedures for a ritual, and making sure everything necessary for a festival is available. If you are particularly lucky, you may be employed by the nobility or even the palace, and be entrusted with such confidential tasks as writing the king’s annals or drafting an international treaty.

Regardless of where you are, two things are essential to your job: a stylus and a tablet. You may be a “scribe of the clay tablets”, in which case you will need to carry around a bit of clay wherever you go (and some water to moisten it). Otherwise, you are a “scribe of the wooden tablets”, in which case you use a wax tablet in a wooden frame, which requires less maintenance. It’s unclear whether these types of tablet are used for different purposes.

Fun fact: you likely have a few pen pals around the Hittite empire. After corresponding with other scribes for so long, you’ve started writing each other messages at the bottom of your tablets, asking each other how you’re doing and to say hi to each other’s families. Your employers needn’t know.

Weaver

Weaving, to a Hittite like you, is the quintessential female activity, along with textile-making in general. Like farming, this is a backbone of your society: without weaving, there would be no clothes, and without clothes, well, you can’t do much.

As a weaver, you produce textiles for your family and in many cases also for sale. You work in an atelier within your home, along with the other women of the household, keeping an eye on your smallest children as they play nearby. While your husband, brothers or sons may transport and sell your handiwork, you are the head of your own business.

You are skilled in multiple weaving techniques, and can do embroidery and sew fabric into various shapes (including sleeves - take that, Classical Greeks). You create clothing for all sorts of occasions, including rituals and festivals, outdoor work, and winter weather, and if you are lucky enough to be commissioned by the nobility, you put your best efforts into clothing that will show off their status. Don’t try to cheat anyone out of their money, though; prices are fixed by law.

Old Woman

Contrary to what you might expect, you don’t need to be old to be an Old Woman - this is a career just like any other, though it probably does require a certain amount of life experience and earned respect. As an Old Woman, you are a trained ritual practitioner and active in all sorts of cultic, divinatory and magical ceremonies.

Most commonly, you are hired for rituals protecting against or removing evil. Your services may solve domestic quarrels, cure a sick child, or shield someone from sorcery (a constant threat in your society). This is done through symbolic acts like cutting pieces of string, breaking objects, and sacrificing and burning animals, which are of course accompanied by incantations - sometimes in Hittite, sometimes in other languages, like Hurrian.

Far from a village witch, you are high-placed in Hittite society and trusted by the royal family itself. You have taken part in major rituals and festivals, including funerals, and you perform divinatory oracles too. This last responsibility gives you a large amount of influence over the king and queen; if you establish that something should be done, then it almost certainly will be. Use this power well... or not.

Your loved ones

After a long day ploughing fields, writing tablets, weaving clothes or reciting incantations, it’s finally time to reunite with your loved ones. For adults, these likely - but not necessarily! - include a spouse and children. You may just live with your nuclear family, but living with extended family is also common, and there may be as many as twenty people in your household. Siblings, aunts and uncles, parents, grandparents, children and babies all share the evening meal with you, and some nights, you might gather afterwards to sing and dance, tell stories, and play games.

You also have relationships outside of home. Friendship is valued by Hittite society, with close friends calling each other “brother” and sister”. You might meet up with them regularly at the local tavern for a beer and a bit of fun. Someone there might even catch your eye... Interestingly, there are no laws against that person being of the same gender as you. So, same or different gender, why not try your luck tonight?

Greater powers

It’s impossible to spend a day in the Hittite empire without encountering religion. The Land of a Thousand Gods is aptly named: Gods are in everything, from the sun to the mountains to the stream at the back of your house to fire to a chair. You should always be conscious of their power, and treat them with respect. Though there are few traces of it, you may have a household shrine where you make libations or offer a portion of your meal. Your Gods may be represented by anthropomorphic statues, by animals such as a bull, by symbols such as gold disks, or even by a stone. Either way, treat these objects well; the divine is literally present in them.

You should also be wary of sorcery. Never make clay figures of someone, or kill a snake while speaking someone’s name, or you will face the death penalty. Likewise, always dispose of impurities carefully, especially those left over from a purification ritual (such as mud, ashes, or body hair). Never toss them onto someone else’s property. Has misfortune suddenly struck your household? Is your family or livestock getting sick and dying? These are signs that someone has bewitched you.

Some days are more sacred than others. You participate in over a hundred festivals every year, some lasting less than a day, some lasting a month, some local, some celebrated by the entire Hittite empire. The most important of these are the crocus festival and the purulli festival in spring, the festival of haste in autumn, and the gate-house festival, possibly also in autumn. The statues of the Gods are brought out of the temples, great feasts are held, and entertainment is provided through music, dance and sports contests. Depending on how important your town is, the king, queen or a prince might even be in attendance. All this excitement is a nice break from your regular work!

Sleep and dreams

Phew, what a busy day it’s been. The sun, snared in the trees’ branches, has set on the Hittite land, and you are ready for bed. Time to wrap yourself snugly in blankets and go to sleep.

You may dream, in which case, try to remember as much as you can. Dreams can be a vehicle for omens. Maybe, if the Gods are kind, you might catch a glimpse of what the next days, months and years hold in store for you.

Good night!

Bibliography

Beckman, Gary, “Birth and Motherhood among the Hittites”, in Budin, Stephanie Lynn, Macintosh Turfa, Jean, Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World, Abingdon 2016 (pp. 319-328).

Bryce, Trevor, Life and Society in the Hittite World, Oxford 2002.

Bryce, Trevor, “The Role and Status of Women in Hittite Society”, in Budin, Stephanie Lynn, Macintosh Turfa, Jean, Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World, Abingdon 2016 (pp. 303-318).

Golec-Islam, Joanna, The Food of Gods and Humans in the Hittite World, BA thesis, Warszawa 2016.

Hoffner, Harry A., “Birth and name-giving in Hittite texts”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 27/3 (1968), pp. 198-203.

Hoffner, Harry A., “Daily life among the Hittites”, in Averbeck, Richard E., Chavalas, Marc W., Weisberg, David B., Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East, Bethesda 2003 (pp. 95-118).

Marcuson, Hannah, “Word of the Old Woman”: Studies in Female Ritual Practice in Hittite Anatolia, PhD thesis, Chicago 2016.

Wilhelm, Gernot, “Demographic Data from Hittite Land Donation Tablets”, in Pecchioli Daddi, Franca, Torri, Giulia, Corti, Carlo, Central-North Anatolia in the Hittite Period: New Perspectives in Light of Recent Research, Roma 2009 (pp. 223-233).

[agent-of-sam]

Favorite Thor Ships: Part 1

Out of all the MCU, the Thor movies are my favorites.

It helps that I'm a multi shipper and all the women in Thor's life are awesome. So I want to do some posts about my favorite Thor ships. And I’m starting with my personal favorite: Thor/Sif.

                                                      Totally biased, I've been quietly rooting for Thor and Sif to hook up since 2011 and no matter what direction the story takes Thor x Sif will always be my favorite potential relationship.

Obviously, part of this is just because I have a massive crush on Sif, the character, and Jaimie Alexander, the actress. I love her...why?

Lady Sif is sort of the MCU equivalent of Wonder Woman, an immortal who combines strength and nobility with a sense of warmth, compassion, and emotional openness. 

She doesn't get a huge amount of screen time but comes off as an incredibly well-rounded character, especially in a genre where many female character are assigned valued based on how well they can mimic the traditional cliches of male Action Heroes.  

Sif is able to switch from playful and cocky, to stoic and serious, to gentle and supportive, depending on the situation (as benefiting a literal goddess).

In other word's, she's Girlfriend Material of the absolute highest quality! 

Beyond that, I love that she's so high-key Romantic in her feelings for Thor. Having your Badass Warrior Princess character mournfully pining as she gazes across a crowded room at her lifelong friend, her eyes brimming with unspoken feeling... it's exactly the kind of over the top, melodramatic bullshit that I love about the Asgardians and their weird alien/pseudo-Shakespearian/mythic warrior culture. 

At the same time, she's never fawning in her interactions with Thor. They banter like old friends and flirt in mid-combat. 

Sif tries to counsel him when she thinks he needs perspective or patience. 

She advocates for him when he's not around.

To me it's a very romantic set-up, a long-term friendship based on loyalty and mutual trust with the potential to develop into a very deep relationship. (Though, flipping it around, I can definitely see how female viewers might not appreciate their Super-Hero/Immortal Warrior Woman power fantasy character being portrayed, pining from the sidelines for several centuries).

Plus, their dynamic has this tropey, genderswap thing going on. A Fantasy Prince and his Loyal Female Knight. Except the Fantasy Prince is a giant Viking Immortal with a magic hammer and he and his girlfriend ride into battle side by side which is both hot and romantic to me.

Of course the downside  to Thor x Sif as a relationship (also maybe what makes it appealing)... is that it's all potential. As far as we know, Thor is either unaware of Sif's feelings or does not reciprocate. Which is weird because Thor generally comes off as a very socially/emotionally aware guy... at least in the context of Asgardian society. 

One of my favorite things about Thor is that he's confident but honest and genuine as well. He never comes off as a "ladies man" i.e someone who puts on a smooth, crafted persona specifically to interact with women. 

However, he clearly seems to be aware when women are attracted to him (Jane Foster, the woman in the subway)...so how come he doesn't seem to notice the very obvious torch Sif is carrying?

My personal headcannon for this is that they either casually dated as adolescent (whatever age that is for Asgardians) or came very close to it. But then Frigga and/or Odin stepped in, took Sif aside and basically told her to hold off because they thought she had the potential to be a good queen.

Before his time on Earth, Thor was reckless, arrogant, impulsive, and quick to violence. He wasn't ready to be a king or a committed lover. And so Sif was encouraged to do the responsible thing and wait. 

The irony being that by the time he had matured into the person he was supposed to be, he had met somebody else.

To me, there's something there that mirrors the fall of Asgard. Why not wait? They're gods after all, there's always going to be more time.

Then Thor gets banished and comes back different. He's met a mortal woman and doesn't want to be king anymore. Frigga, who Sif always thought would be her mother-in-law one day, is dead. 

Thor goes searching across the universe and then Odin sends her away from Asgard. And when she finds her way back even her home is gone. Her people live on Earth now, or at least the fraction of them that still survive after Hela, Surtur, and Thanos. 

Thor is gone again, traveling through space with a bunch of mercenaries she’s never heard of.

Maybe I'm just projecting because I want someone in-universe to mourn Asgard and everything those people must have lost in what must seem like a very short amount of time to them.

I always thought Thor x Sif had the potential to be a very stable, well-rounded couple. However, given Thor's general arc in the first two movies  it would have seemed a little off, thematically speaking, if he ended up with the immortal warrior princess/long-time friend that his parents wanted him to get with all along.

However, post-Ragnarok/Endgame I think there is a lot of dramatic/narrative potential to a romantic reunion between Thor and Sif, someone who knew him before everything started and can see how much he has changed. Maybe someone he didn't realize how much he cared for until she was gone. 

For her it's a second chance at something she thought was lost, a piece of her past that's come back damaged and different but still worth fighting for.  

--

Obviously, this is all conjecture. There's no guarantee that Sif will return in Thor 4. As a shipper part of me is hoping for it, however as a fan of her character I'm also worried about her being crammed in and either sidelined or mischaracterized by the those behind the scenes.

If she shows up in the Loki show, that's more screen time and room for character development. 

However, I'm not hugely interested in Loki's show and depending on the direction it takes I'm not sure that it will play to her strengths as a character. My dream scenario was for Sif to have her own Xena-style high fantasy adventure (with Thor showing up in a supporting role) but that’s seem very unlikely.

---

Anyway, I'm a multi shipper and I'm planning to do more of these for Thor x Valkyrie and Thor x Jane. I just wanted to get my fave out of the way first.

[morganaseren]

Human/Goddess AU

I swear, I’ll think of a better title later, but guess who thought of a new AU about Leliana and her female Cousland?! I ended up writing like 24 pages this time around because I have absolutely no self-control over my creativity anymore. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Things to know:

The premise was originally based off this short comic.

No Darkspawn or Blight threat.

Maker and Chantry don’t exist due to polytheistic God/Goddess system (with some inspiration taken from both Greek and Irish mythology). It’s broken down further into a multi-tiered structure of major and minor deities—a ranking determined by power essentially—but all the human and elf deities tend to get along fairly well with one another. Dwarves don’t have deities as they still worship The Stone, which they don’t consider a god, and Qunari don’t have them either since the Qun is more of a philosophy than a religion that follows any god.

The Evanuris don’t exist as we know of them canonically in-game, so Egghead never tore the Veil apart, and none of the Exalted Marches ever happened. Elves are still long-lived and have complete access to the Dales, which is essentially their kingdom of sorts.

No huge racial divides exist, but the dwarves (outside of surface dwarves) and qunari (outside of Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth) still tend to be rather reclusive.

Class stratification, however, still exists between the rich and the poor of Thedas.

Gods play a fairly active role on Thedas for those pious enough to worship them, but their work—stemming anywhere from simply helping crops to grow or even helping to turn the tides of a war—is often unseen. Very few among the faithful rarely ever get to see a deity in person.

Relationships with mortals and gods do occur—and children are born through such unions—but it isn’t considered official unless a courtship ritual is completed, where the mortal partner would be granted the same divine protection of the god and allowed access into the immortal world. That becomes relevant much later in the story.

In this AU, Leliana’s human (she’s 15 when she first meets Niamh, but nothing intimate between them happens until she’s well above age) while Niamh’s a goddess.

Like all my other AUs, this isn’t finished yet. There is a small intimate scene way down beneath the cut, but it’s nothing explicit. Still, if you’re interested so far, check out the additional content below!

Leliana had always been blessed, others had said, but it was not by simple chance.

She was born to a widowed mother—Oisine—who worked to provide for her child’s happiness so that she might one day have a better life than her. For such love and care, however, Leliana wanted to be able to return it one day. Perhaps beyond their quaint cottage by the sea, she could someday buy her mother the riches and luxury she so clearly deserved.

It was also—were she to admit it to herself—a wish of her own desires, for she had always yearned for more than just a simple life.

One day, Leliana wandered into the nearby forest out of simple boredom. She had played amongst its trees for as long as she could remember, and she knew the winding paths of it like the back of her hand. By chance, however, she came across a pair of black-furred wolves who stood upon a trail she had never seen before. The animals didn’t seem at all skittish, and as they turned to travel further into the woods, they looked over as if to beckon her into following. Leliana did, and she eventually found herself before an old, cliffside altar overlooking the sea.

It was remarkably humble in its appearance, Leliana admitted. Strangely enough, she felt more of a… presence to it than any of the ostentatious buildings of worship she had seen in the nearby city. The altar before her barely stood at chest-level, and beneath the light of the full moon, she realized the stone of its structure had been worn smooth by time and the elements.

She frowned when she saw the multitude of dead leaves and dirt gathered around the altar, however, and she wondered when the caretaker of such a monument had last seen to it. Leliana looked over at her two wayward companions, but one was already lazing about on its back in a nap while the other simply sat on its rump, revealing a maw full of pearl-white fangs as it yawned at her in boredom.

“Well, you two will clearly be of no help,” she murmured to herself before proceeding to clean up the various bits of debris around the altar. She began scrubbing at the top slab with a cloth to clean the dirt stain upon it, but she heard something akin to the sound of wind shifting followed by a person’s shadow falling across the stone surface.

Leliana looked up abruptly to see a dark-haired woman standing opposite of her and stumbled back in shock, especially given the path beyond the altar led to nothing but a sheer drop into the sea. There was no possible way someone else could have walked past her without her notice, so how had she gotten there?

Nothing in the woman’s posture indicated she meant her any harm. If anything, she seemed largely curious as she gazed upon the now clean altar while slowly walking around it to meet her.  

Leliana saw that she wore an impressive silvery-white pelt over the shoulders of her cloak—a shade so dark that she couldn’t see any of the individual folds in the fabric. It seemed to simply absorb any light that dared shed itself upon it. To her continued amazement, the woman’s eyes were also gently aglow, and for a moment, she wondered if she had trespassed upon a ghostly specter with that pale grey gaze quietly regarding her.

For even with all the tales she’s heard and even told herself, the utter truth of the matter seemed far too outlandish even to her.

“It’s been quite some time since someone last visited my altar.”

The accent was one that Leliana couldn’t readily place. It certainly wasn’t Orlesian, Neverran, or Antivan. The woman’s tongue didn’t linger on the vowels and consonants in quite the same way, but the intonation wasn’t quite Free Marcher in origin either. Still, there was a calm, soft-spoken nature to it—calling forth the mental image of a downy feather drifting along the sea breeze—that she found soothing.

“This altar…” Leliana swallowed hard to gather the courage to speak her thoughts. “It is yours then? I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude—”

But the woman gently waved off her apology.

“Had my familiars found you unworthy, you would not have been able to find the path here at all.”

At the title, both wolves behind Leliana immediately jumped up at the woman—no, the goddess—and proceeded to nuzzle at her face. They whined insistently for her attention, which only caused her to laugh. On their hind legs, the beasts simply towered over her apparently immortal guest, but she held their combined weight easily against her as she ran her hands through thick fur.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you. I didn’t see a name upon the altar when I was cleaning it,” Leliana admitted.

“Hm?” Luminous silver eyes returned to her before glancing briefly at the stone monument. “Ah. Time tends to pass rather differently in your world. As such, I shouldn’t be surprised to see the text long eroded. If it pleases you to call me something, however, then you may call me Niamh.”

Leliana’s brows furrowed as she tried to place the name from the multitude of deities she had learned about over the years. “You’re the goddess of storms and the night sky, yes?”

Niamh seemed pleased at her knowledge, emphasized by the smile she gifted her. “Indeed I am. In any case, as you were kind enough to clean my altar, you are welcome to ask a favor of me.”

“Can it be anything?”

The goddess’ smile turned a tad more enigmatic then. “So long as the request is of equal value, then yes.”

‘Equal value?’ Ah.

Her mother had once told her to be wary of asking gods for favors, as they would always ask for something in return. It was their Law of Equivalent Exchange. If one didn’t word their wish carefully, a person could end up losing more than they gained, especially if the deity in question felt a mortal’s request wasn’t worth what was offered.

Leliana bit her lip. It would have been far too easy to ask for the riches to bestow upon her mother, but she couldn’t deny that she was curious about the woman before her. She’d likely never get a chance like this again, so she asked for something more manageable. Something that wouldn’t leave her with regret.

“Then, can I ask about you? About where you come from, and what all your powers are?” she asked, excitement soon superseding any apprehension she might have felt. “Are you the only goddess in the area right now, o-or are there more like you?” When those glowing, wintry-grey eyes simply blinked at her, she couldn’t help but blush, wondering if perhaps her usual curiosity and enthusiasm was too much for such an ageless being.

A dark head canted itself. “Just so I’m not mistaken, you desire nothing material for the task of cleaning my altar? You merely wish for my company so that you might ask your questions?” When Leliana nodded earnestly in response, Niamh released a small huff of laughter. “Well, this is certainly a first for me. As you wish then.” She briefly looked over her own shoulder, focusing on a point beyond the horizon, where it seemed impossible to determine where the night sky ended and the starlit sea began. “You have until the sun rises to sate your curiosity. Mind you, I might not be able to answer every question you have.”

Leliana nodded, understanding there might be secrets that needed to be kept.

Niamh then gently pushed one of her familiars away from her. The wolf—a male from what she could readily determine—had been resting his front paws on her shoulder to better lave his tongue over the woman’s cheek in continual affection. At being deterred, however, he uttered a low huff of disapproval before grumpily brushing his side against Niamh’s leg. He circled once around her form after she gave him a few solid pats before he slowly trotted back to Leliana’s side.

At such a close distance, she was better able to tell the difference between him and his female counterpart. While they both predominantly had black fur all over their bodies, the underside of his chin held silver coloring that trailed down to his chest whereas the other wolf’s grey patterning extended from chest to belly. Both seemed remarkably intelligent as they regarded her with aurulent eyes.

Niamh motioned for her to sit, and she did so without question. Leliana gasped softly when the wolf near her immediately laid himself down so that he could curl himself around her body, likely as a way to keep her warm from the cold sea breeze. His counterpart did the same for Niamh, who then began answering a few of the questions she asked earlier.

Apparently, some of the tales Leliana had been told as a child were true.

Niamh was one of three children sired by a mortal warrior that her mother Eleanor—one of the most renowned sea goddesses—had fallen in love with. Her brother Fergus was the eldest and was a god of protection, and her older sister Saoirse was a goddess of victory. Niamh then went on to explain it was entirely possible for there to be multiple deities with the same responsibilities in a given area.

“Even for us, it is impossible to be in two places at once,” she further explained with laughter in her voice—the sound of it as ethereal as moonlight shimmering across the sea. “If one mortal has need of us somewhere, then it’s simply more efficient for there to have other colleagues of similar gifts nearby on the off chance a similar request is made.”

“And there’s never been an issue with sharing an area like that?”

“It happens on occasion. A stronger god might be able to force others out to establish a claim over territory, but it’s generally considered… uncouth to do so, especially if it was done without provocation.”

Leliana frowned. “Then why risk doing so?”

“To gain more worshippers essentially. I’m sure you’ve realized that it’s rare for any one of us to be seen these days, yes? Our ability to linger within this world stagnates the longer we go without worship. If there is no one to remember or believe in us, then we lack… presence here for lack of a better word. Eventually, it means the end of our time here on your world. Some of us might choose to stay here for whatever time we are allotted and simply fade into the ether, or we return home from whence we came.”

“Does this have to do with your Law of Equivalent Exchange?”

Niamh tipped her head, impressed. “You’re well-learned. Yes. As powerful as we are, for us to be here, we need you just as much as the opposite might be true.”

Leliana hummed thoughtfully. “There are still people who pray to gods of the sea and sky for a safe voyage through turbulent seas. I can’t imagine you’d be in danger of being forgotten anytime soon.”

“For the time being. That might fade eventually. While the requests I receive aren’t fleeting, they are made with hollowed hearts. The sailors I help guide may yet one day feel they have no need of me—that my name is merely superstition.”

“Surely not!” She felt indignation rise within her on the woman’s behalf, but Niamh merely chuckled.

“Your world changes at so rapid a pace that it even takes us by surprise.”

“Does it? Is it so different on yours?”

“It… is something I cannot reveal to you unfortunately.”

Leliana had expected as much, but she found another subject to latch on to easily enough. “Well, you also mentioned there were stronger gods before, yes? Is that a common matter?”

“Not entirely. We have a tiered system to judge our respective power, and it’s largely determined by how much we can affect the world around us. Imagine Thedas as a leaf resting atop a pond, and then consider the water’s surface area to be the power of a Sixth Tier god. By that same principle, a Fifth Tier god would be synonymous to a lake while a Fourth Tier would be more akin to a sea, and a Third Tier would be an entire ocean.”

“Then the first two tiers…?”

Niamh briefly pressed a tongue against her cheek in thought. “Hm. It gets a tad more complicated after that. Essentially, a Second Tier would be any combination of seas and oceans, but a First Tier would encompass every body of water mentioned. Again, this is all an extremely simplified explanation of our system.”

“And which tier are you then?”

Surprisingly, the goddess seemed reluctant to state her rank. “Let’s just say I… can’t readily determine the difference in power between a Fourth, Fifth, or Sixth Tier deity.”

Leliana’s eyes widened. “Truly?”

Niamh shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Yes. The power discrepancy between them all is too subtle for me to notice.”

Leliana was stunned at such a revelation, for save for the glowing eyes and a presence that exuded gentle, soothing power, Niamh seemed like any other woman. She was calm, self-assured, and—she waited until Niamh turned her attention down to her wolf companion and began petting it before finishing her thought—wonderfully attractive.

But Leliana chided herself for admitting the latter fact.

What goddess would be interested in a mere slip of a girl after all? Leliana had only lived a fraction of Niamh’s entire life. Surely someone of Niamh’s status would have her pick of any suitor—mortal or otherwise—over such a long lifespan. She was thankful Niamh was kind enough to indulge her with her questions, and she did have many of them.

As expected of her title, Leliana got to experience how the goddess could manage to change the weather around them to her whims. With a simple wave of a hand, Niamh effortlessly wreathed them all in warmth when a stronger gust of wind blew in from the sea, never once pausing in her explanation regarding her other abilities. She could switch between them with nary a thought, allowing ice to gather at her fingertips like icy talons before a simple flex caused them to shatter, allowing lightning to dance between them instead—a living cat’s cradle.

“They also call you the goddess of the night sky, don’t they? Are you only capable of appearing during the evening then?”

“It’s more personal preference. I like the quiet the night affords me; there is a different beauty to be found under the cover of it. When mortals originally saw me in the past, it was always in the evenings, so I suppose the assumption remained, but nothing prevents me from appearing during the day should I wish it. Ah.” Niamh turned to look back out to the sea. “And it appears our exchange has run its course.”

Leliana turned her attention to the horizon as well, and was surprised to see daybreak just barely beginning to crest it. She had been enjoying Niamh’s attention so much that she hadn’t realized so much time had passed.

“I’ll have Eimear—” The female wolf rose to her feet just as Niamh did. “—and Cillian escort you home, young one.” (Note: Eimear is pronounced “ee-mur” and Cillian is pronounced “kill-ee-an”)

“Leliana.”

“Hm?”

“My name.” She smiled as she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “It’s Leliana.”

“Ah.” Niamh nodded in acknowledgement. “Take care then, Leliana. I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation this long with a mortal. It was a new but enjoyable experience.” From her smile, Leliana could see that she was sincere in her words, and she felt wonderfully dazed at the fact.

“Likewise, my lady.” She had the sense to curtsy gracefully before the goddess. “Will… Will I be able to find you here again?”

Niamh blinked. “Perhaps,” she replied, raising a brow at her curiously. “You would have to give something in return again however.”

“Would you be opposed to exchanging stories then?”

“Stories?”

“Yes, you mentioned how much Thedas changes each time you return. I could tell you stories of things that might have occurred while you’ve been away, and perhaps you might tell me stories of your own—the ones that might have been lost through the ages.”

Her request seemed to interest Niamh, for her lips turned up into a smile. “A sensible exchange. Very well. Should you wish to see me again, travel upon the path to this altar and press your hand atop its stone. I will know to meet you here.”

--

And once a week, Leliana returns to the cliff and that altar—always escorted by the guardian wolf pair—to meet the goddess who has very much become her friend.

As promised, they exchange stories and even songs—much to Leliana’s endless delight—but sometimes their evenings together are simply spent having meals together.

Niamh had confessed that foods of the mortal world provided no real sustenance for her, but she could still taste them all the same. As such, Leliana makes it a point to find new things for her to try, and she discovers the woman liked sweets the best. She can always tell by the way those luminous eyes widen by the barest fraction each time she samples something of interest.

The exchanges rarely last as long as that first night they met, but Leliana doesn’t mind. She enjoys Niamh’s company, and—from those little smiles that always send her heart aflutter—she thinks the reverse might also be true.

--

A year later, Leliana turned 16, and she went to Niamh one night in excitement. Her mother’s employer was taking them to Val Royeaux for a soiree!

“Can you believe it? Oh, it will be my first one ever!” Utterly filled with glee, she did a little twirl in place, and Niamh was the epitome of patience as Leliana explained how fortuitous an opportunity this was. “Val Royeaux is the crown jewel of Orlais, and there will no doubt be so many people there! Mother says there are always patrons milling about, looking for new talent. Perhaps I might be lucky enough to meet one, and I’d be able to sing for them and tell them tales, but…Oh. ” Her excitement then dimmed somewhat as her voice trailed off, something that Niamh noticed immediately.

“But what?” she asked, beckoning her to continue.

“But there must already be some aspiring minstrels there, those who have lived there their whole lives! How could I ever possibly hope to make myself noticed among them?” she asked plaintively, and she momentarily began pouting when Niamh laughed in gentle amusement.

“Leliana, your songs and your stories are wonderful. I have no doubt a true patron of the arts would appreciate your talents,” she reassured, but when Leliana tried to protest, the woman merely arched a brow. “A false sincerity—no matter how honeyed—is still a lie, and I would never be so crass as to do such a thing to you. However, if you feel that you truly need to give others further incentive to listen to you…”

Niamh paused as she reached into her cloak, and Leliana could faintly hear the jingling of metal before the woman pulled out a brooch so beautiful that it took her very breath way.

Multiple pearls of varying size were inlaid into a sharply-curved bed of obsidian, which emphasized the opalescence of the gems arranged artistically into the shape of a crescent moon. Tiny diamonds decorated the scalloped edge as they hugged each pearl, and bisecting the widest part of the brooch’s arch was a simple silver pin. When the goddess proceeded to hold the piece of jewelry out for her to take, Leliana was taken aback.

“But I can’t possibly take this!”

Niamh merely smiled. “I can always make another like it. When you wear this, simply run a finger across each of the pearls, and its magic will take effect. As you perform, those within hearing distance of you will have no choice but to have their eyes drawn upon you. I have blessed this brooch sparingly, however, so while it may help to draw an audience, it is up to your own skill to further keep them there, Little Bird. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but I didn’t even offer anything in exchange,” she said worriedly.

“When you return from this soiree of yours, tell me of it, and I will consider that payment enough.” The cold winds shifted then, and Leliana found that Niamh’s brows had knitted together in consternation. When she turned to her again, those glowing grey eyes were apologetic. “I am beckoned elsewhere, but I have faith that you’ll be able to be able to succeed in your endeavors. Farewell for now, Leliana.”

--

When Leliana returned to Niamh’s altar several weeks later, she was fresh-faced and beaming with delight, dancing in a gown of absolute finery. It was a gift from her patron Marjolaine—a wealthy, widowed woman, who had taken quite a fancy to her talents.

“Isn’t it beautiful? Oh, Lady Marjolaine is so generous! She’s been all over Thedas, and she knows so many things! She’s even teaching me how to use a bow!”

“‘A bow,’ you say?” Niamh frowned. “Any particular reason why?”

“For bard training.” When that only drew a further look of confusion, she hastened to explain. “It’s like… being both a minstrel and a bodyguard to your patron. Still, the world can be a dangerous place at times, no? Marjolaine wanted me to also learn how to defend myself.”

“I see.” If Niamh had any concerns, she didn’t voice them. “I imagine such training would take place away from here.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and an ache filled her then, causing her to slowly wring her hands together. “It is a wonderful opportunity. It is probably more than I could have ever hoped for, but it will also mean that I may not return here again for quite some time.”

“As expected.”

“You’re not... upset?”

“You are a young woman of incredible talent and determination, Leliana. I doubt there is much that even I could say that might deter you even had I wished to. Perhaps it was well past time you spread your wings from here and find what awaits you beyond the horizon. I will not keep you from it. Still…” She turned her gaze upon her altar. “I feel I must at least offer you a parting gift.”

The goddess flexed a hand, and Leliana was shocked to see that a broken corner of the altar’s foundation flew directly into Niamh’s palm. As pale fingers closed around it, energies of black and silver—the night and the stars made tangible—twined around the woman’s fist before disappearing moments later into the ether as she revealed her handiwork.

The stone had been reduced to the size of a coin, and upon its face was the image of a wolf’s head—noble and proud—set against the background of a raging storm. It was an icon often associated with Niamh, who wore two silver medallions of the same imagery on her cloak, which were connected by layered chains, fastening the fabric around her securely.

“Keep this upon your person, and should you find yourself in immediate danger, simply think of me, and you shall be protected,” Niamh said, presenting the gift to her.

“And…” She looked to her curiously. “What would you want for this in return?”

The corners of her lips turned up. “Clever girl… I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask me that outright before. Well. Would you be opposed to offering me a memory of yours?”

“‘A memory?’”

“Yes. I suspect you’ll make many more away from here, so I merely ask for one of your most cherished moments thus far. Would you find that acceptable?”

“Yes. What would I have to do?”

“Nothing on your end. Simply hold still…” Niamh reached out to press two fingertips gently against Leliana’s forehead, and she felt the warmth of a summer’s kiss gathered there for a brief moment before the woman then pulled away, blinking consecutively several times.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“Yes,” Niamh said, looking at her with seeming consideration.

“Oh.” She didn’t feel like anything was amiss. “Which memory was it?”

Those lips parted briefly in an attempt to form an answer, but she soon shook her head, an enigmatic smile burnishing her features—one warm enough to ward Leliana against the cold of the winter sea. “It is irrelevant. Here.” She pressed the stone coin into her palm. “I thank you for the memory, and I wish you well on your journey.”

“I…” Leliana wet her lips as she clasped a hand against her chest. “I will miss you.”

“Likewise. Safe travels to you always, Little Bird.”

The woman turned on her heel and walked toward the edge of the cliff, and as she made to step off of it, her form simply dispersed like stardust scattering across the night breeze before simply fading before Leliana’s eyes.

--

Leliana learned and experienced much under her patron’s tutelage over the years, traveling from one corner of Thedas to the other, ever a faithful shadow. Beneath Marjolaine’s eye, her skills as a bard grew, honed well upon the battlefield and also in the depths of more private chambers.

Although she travels far at times, Leliana cannot keep her mind from the woman who is the night sky and storms made flesh. She dreams of eyes like moonlight—calm and ancient—watching her with warmth and then a smoldering fire of passion she wishes were true.

It’s a yearning that lingers in the back of her mind, and she finds that even with her growing infamy and riches, they bring her little joy. She begins to re-evaluate her life and proceeds to slowly distance herself from the Game—a fact that Marjolaine is too keenly aware of.

And from there, she learns of her lover’s final lesson: betrayal.

--

She returned to the stone altar by the sea a decade after she saw it last. Niamh appeared as promptly as always whenever she pressed a hand upon its stone, and Leliana saw those dark brows raised minutely in surprise upon seeing her, and she can’t help but smile.

Leliana was indeed much older than when they last saw one another although she feared she hadn’t grown quite as wise as she had hoped. Had that been the case, surely she would have learned of Marjolaine’s treachery much sooner. She explained as much to Niamh, who listened with quiet concern, as she detailed how everything went so terribly wrong.

“It was your coin that saved me,” Leliana revealed gratefully. “Without it, I would have been imprisoned and framed for treason by Marjolaine. If she is capable of committing such misdeeds against me—someone who she once saw as an ally—then she is capable to doing so to others. I cannot allow it to happen again. She will be brought to justice for her crimes.”

Niamh nodded in understanding. “And you came to me for help. Very well. Hold out your hands.”

Leliana did as instructed, and she saw Niamh’s dual-toned energy of black and silver forming before her, weighing down her palms. She kept them steady, and when the magic finally vanished, she found she was holding a new quiver full of arrows and a bow.

The latter was a thing of beauty, carved from ironbark so that it was lightweight but strong as steel. The grip of it appeared to have been made of white halla leather to contrast against the dark color of the weapon’s frame, and upon the widest part of the bow’s upper limb was Niamh’s personal icon engraved in silverite.

“Whisper my name upon the wind, and there shall be no manner of armor that your arrows cannot penetrate.”

“And in exchange?”

“A song sung under the night sky—one for every time you use the bow’s secondary ability.”

Leliana blinked. “Just songs then?”

“Yes.” Niamh smiled then. “I’ve found that I have missed them in all the time you’ve been away. Good hunting to you, Leliana.”

--

Leliana returns to Denerim to confront Marjolaine once more, and—with the blessings of a goddess on her side—she emerges victorious.

She takes a ship back to Orlais that very evening. While Marjolaine stews in fury below decks, Leliana is alone at the prow, quietly singing over a dozen songs up to the night sky. As the wind stirs to tousle her hair, she smiles, feeling like Niamh is there with her, listening in approval for the promise kept.

When she drags Marjolaine to the Orlesian embassy, Leliana informs them all of her former lover’s treason with evidence to back her claims. Marjolaine is consequently imprisoned—all titles and lands stripped from her name—and Leliana is hailed as a heroine. Empress Celene raises her name to nobility and grants her the title of Nightingale of the Imperial Court as her lead reconnaissance expert.

With the act, it becomes abundantly clear to the nobles of Orlais that while Marjolaine had once proven herself a consummate player of the Great Game, Leliana had bested her utterly. Some fear her skill while others hope to ride on the coat tails of her success, but whatever the case, Leliana is simply happy that everything is right with the world for once.

With her new title and riches, Leliana buys a new villa by the Waking Sea—closer to Niamh’s altar—and ensures her mother never has to work another day in her life ever again. Although her new profession involves a bit of underhandedness here and there, she does what she can to help and donate to various charities.

Even with such a busy schedule, she always finds time to visit Niamh, and they reconnect, establishing an old friendship between stories, songs, and meals.

--

Five years after revealing Marjolaine’s treachery, Leliana’s mother falls terribly ill. A combination of wasting sickness and cholera, the healers say. While Leliana assures them that money is no issue for any treatment they suggest, they regretfully inform her that with Oisine’s advancing age, there is little they can do other than to try and keep her comfortable over the next few weeks.

Distraught, Leliana turns to the one person she knows can help.

--

“And you understand the type of exchange this requires?” Niamh asked once more.

“Yes.”

Leliana had just neglected to inform the goddess she didn’t see herself finding another mortal to complete such a task. While she regretted her soon-to-be proposition hadn’t been made under better circumstances, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about something similar over the years. Even after a decade and a half after they first met, Leliana still found Niamh to be as enchanting as ever. She was intelligent, gifted in more than magical ability, and was remarkably sweet and kind.

Surely, with such coveted traits, she wouldn’t object to siring the firstborn the Law of Equivalent Exchange required?

“Very well,” Niamh said, unaware of Leliana’s thoughts. “When you return home tonight, your mother will be in pristine health once more. It will be like she never fell ill at all, and even the memory of her suffering will fade along with the memories of those who had interacted with her since then.”

Leliana sighed in relief. “Thank you so much. She means everything to me.”

“I’m aware.” The woman’s glowing eyes turned apologetic then. “I only hope you won’t find the price of this all too steep, but I suppose only time will tell. Again, you needn’t begin this process right away. As the matter regarding your mother was quite serious, you’re welcome to see for yourself over the next few days that I spoke true in keeping my end of the bargain.”

“I know you wouldn’t betray me,” Leliana reassured, smiling, before mischief filled her. “So when do we begin?”

Luminous grey eyes blinked. “Pardon?”

“You said you wanted my firstborn, no?”

“Yes, and you agreed, did you not?”

“I did,” she reiterated, her smile still present. “As I’ve said, when do we begin?”

Leliana watched—amusement suffusing her—as realization then dawned over the goddess, causing those pale eyes to widen comically.

“Oh,” she uttered, baffled. “I—This was not…I don’t think…!”

Leliana had to bite her lip to keep her laughter from spilling out. In all the years they had known one another, this was perhaps the first time she had seen the otherwise unflappable goddess at such a loss for words. “Is there a problem?”

“Not necessarily…” Niamh grimaced, trying to regain her composure. “This is admittedly quite the first for me. As such, I need some time to prepare. I’ve every intention of keeping my word, but I want to be absolutely certain I won’t somehow hurt you in the process. Would you be willing to meet me in the forest tomorrow evening?”

“Of course.” This was an odd situation for them both after all. If Niamh needed time to assuage her own concerns, who was she to stop her?

“Thank you. Eimear and Cillian will escort you to my desired location for this once you enter the forest. I will see you then.”

--

Niamh’s siblings found out about her latest plight the moment she returned home.

“Can you believe it, Fergus? Why, I never thought I’d see the day!” Saoirse crowed smugly while her little sister glared balefully between her and their brother.

“Indeed!” Fergus reached out to tousle Niamh’s hair playfully. “A human woman managed to outsmart our usually quick-witted sister! And here I thought the mortals figuring out how to cultivate seedless grapes would be the last thing to surprise me.”

Niamh rolled her eyes when both her siblings guffawed heavily at that, and she ducked between them both to speak with Morrigan—the only person she had actually given permission to be in her quarters with her regarding this.

“You’re certain this is safe then? I won’t somehow manage to hurt her with my powers?”

“Yes, yes. ‘Tis a simple enough matter,” she drawled for the third time. “I fail to see your concern regarding this. You have exceptional control over your abilities after all.”

“I’ve never laid with a mortal before, Morrigan,” she deadpanned. “Pardon my concern over potentially breaching the terms of an exchange by accidentally killing the other party involved.”

“So long as you remember mortals do not have the same amount of endurance as we do, and you allow her to catch a breath every few interludes during the act, I cannot foresee any issue that might occur.” She sniffed dismissively, continuing to sift through the many tomes Niamh kept in her private collection. “Truly, given how fondly you speak of this Leliana, I doubt you would be able to do wrong by her.”

Niamh immediately winced at Morrigan’s statement, knowing the reaction it would have drawn from her siblings, and she was rarely ever proven wrong when it came to them.  

“Wait, wait! It’s that human then? The very one she’s been talking about for the past five years?” Saoirse grinned, turning to her older brother. “Fergus, did you hear that?!”

Niamh sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with irritation as another round of teasing ensued. It was during such moments that she wondered—as she often did—why their mother couldn’t have just made her an only child.

--

The following night, Leliana’s wolf companions led her to a clearing deep within the woods, where Niamh was already waiting for her. Eimear and Cillian made themselves scarce once she had been delivered safely, but Leliana barely paid them any mind.

It seemed that Niamh had her comfort in mind, for in the middle of the clearing was a simple bedding of luxurious furs to lay upon, surrounded by gentle firelight. Bowls of fruits and other simple snacks laid off to the side along with bottles of various drinks to be sampled before or after the act. As she eyed the goddess standing in the midst of it all, Leliana was determined it would indeed be after as she took the hand offered to her.

Beneath the moonlight, they patiently explored one another upon disrobing together before proceeding to lay upon the furs and establish the beginning of their exchange.

Leliana was no the longer the bumbling, inexperienced child when they had first met. She had laid with others before in the type of hedonism that could only be experienced in a place like Val Royeaux, but as Niamh hovered over her, gently rolling her hips into hers, eyes aglow with such reverence like the full moon overhead, it was like she was experiencing such intimacy for the first time again. This time, however, it was with the woman—the goddess—she had always desired, who willingly worshipped her with caresses and kisses to flushed skin so sweet that it made her heart ache.

Her back arched as Niamh slipped inside her in gentle exploration. Like a musician, she expertly tuned herself to Leliana, testing rhythms and speeds to determine her preference, and when she discovered the perfect tempo, it was almost too much pleasure to bear.

She came undone beneath her, and Niamh swallowed her cries beneath tender kisses. As she was coaxed back down from her climax, all Leliana could wonder was, “How in the world am I ever supposed to let you go once the exchange is completed?”

Niamh proved quite the attentive lover.

Every few rounds, the goddess made certain Leliana kept herself hydrated and had a few bites to eat before continuing on. It was a long night of pleasure, however, and Leliana soon couldn’t discern whether the sweetness on her tongue was from food, drink, or more intimate flesh. For all of Leliana’s experience in intimacy, however, she couldn’t hope to match the immortal stamina of a goddess, but Niamh didn’t fault her need to rest. She merely encouraged her to curl against her side, which she did without complaint, resting her head on a slim shoulder. As she played with the pale collarbone beneath her fingertips, she sighed contentedly as lips pressed themselves against the crown of her head before one of the furs of their bedding was drawn up around them to ward off against the cold.

It had been a memorable night, and she had been sated, so she allowed Niamh’s warmth and the gentle crackling of the fire around them to lull her to sleep.

--

The light of morning washed over her, and as a warm beam of it crossed her face, her nose wrinkled with displeasure. She reached out beside her, but it isn’t fur, grass, or even another warm body that she felt.

No, it was cold sheets.

Leliana’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly to find that she was at home and in bed.

Alone.

Something within her proceeded to slowly break in painful increments, confused and bereft by such knowledge. Had last night been nothing more than an elaborate dream? She hissed gently as she shifted atop the sheets, attempting to rise from bed, and the sweet aching of her loins told her the prior evening had been no mere fantasy.

But then why had she been left?

For as much as she had heard about Niamh’s parents over the years, her mother Eleanor had elected to stay on Thedas for a time to raise her children with the man she loved. Was that not the standard among the gods at all then? Or did the exchange require a different perspective of what was to be expected of her?

“Lady Leliana?” a voice called from behind the door. One of her servants. “Will you not be joining Lady Oisine for breakfast this morning?”

She swallowed the lump down in her throat and wet her lips before attempting to speak, carefully making certain her voice didn’t shake. “No, I’m fine, Lydia. I’ve reports to finish. Please give my mother my apologies and have a plate brought to me later this afternoon.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Leliana heard the footsteps retreating, and she immediately wanted to bury herself in the sheets, but before she could begin to wallow in despair, she heard a caw at the window. She almost dismissed the sound. Ravens weren’t uncommon around the villa after all, but when she turned to shoo it away after another pointed cry, she paused immediately upon seeing the silver eyes on the bird.

It crooked its head, looking at her curiously. Whatever the raven was searching for, she didn’t know. It simply blinked once at her before turning toward the door, and—seemingly satisfied they wouldn’t be disturbed—it flapped its wings and proceeded to fly slowly toward her. As it did, Leliana watched in amazement as the bird shifted—the image of multiple animals flashing across her vision—before coalescing into the form of the goddess she knew.

Intimately now in fact.

Who was looking down at her in concern.

“Are you alright?” Niamh asked.

“You’re…” Leliana’s lips parted. “You’re still here.”

“Of course.” Dark brows furrowed, but she hardly seemed offended. Merely confused. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to carry our child for the next nine months without aid.”

“When I woke up, and you weren’t here with in bed with me after last night, I assumed…” she trailed off, remembering the dread she felt in her heart mere moments ago, wondering if she had perhaps been abandoned to carry the burden alone.

“Ah.” Niamh rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “I returned you to your villa just before the sun rose, and then I simply sat at your desk afterward, waiting for you to wake.”

“My desk?” she asked, voice raising incredulously.

“Yes.” Niamh seemed uncertain as she continued speaking. “When we made the deal for the exchange, it was agreed we would lay together to consummate the agreement. Nothing within our verbal contract stated that I would be allowed to lay in your bed, and I didn’t wish to seem rude by presuming otherwise, so I elected to just sit and read until you awoke. When I heard one of the other mortals come up the stairs toward your door, however, I made myself scarce so as to not be found.”

Leliana said nothing at first, her mind still trying to wipe the cobwebs of sleep from it amidst the rush of earlier fear, but Niamh seemed to take her silence as disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” Niamh said. “After so many Ages, it’s simply an ingrained instinct at this point. I normally don’t interact with mortals this close to their homestead, so I immediately just thought to hide myself.”

With belated shock, Leliana realized the other woman’s eyes weren’t glowing anymore in the daylight, but they were still such an amazingly pale shade of grey, which were filled with utmost sincerity. Leliana didn’t move when the woman reached out to cup her face, and when a thumb went to sweep itself across her cheek, she was surprised to see it come away wet.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying mere moments ago.

“I am new to relationships such as this,” Niamh continued, “but my need to prevent unwanted questions shouldn’t have superseded your comfort. I apologize. I won’t hurt you like this again. I cannot promise I’ll be perfect in every aspect of this, but I will do my utmost to do right by you.”

--

So—as expected—Leliana became pregnant after their night together, and Niamh inevitably gets pulled into Orlesian society while trying to keep the mother of her child safe. Every day seems to offer its own lesson as the goddess seeks to adapt to society without giving away what she is.

Thankfully, everyone tends to assume she is a woman of foreign nobility given how she dresses and carries herself, and Leliana doesn’t do much to dissuade such rumors. That those very rumors also pair the other woman with her in more romantic a fashion is much its own bittersweet pain, but if Niamh had ever been aware of them, she doesn’t voice them to her.

For beyond that first night, they hadn’t been to bed together. Niamh would hold her when she slept after discussing their respective days together, yes, and she’d still be there the morning after, but nothing intimate ever occurred between those moments. It’s... a comfortable enough routine, but Leliana always longs for more.

Before her pregnancy begins to show, she requests some needed vacation time from Empress Celene, who approves it without question, citing that while she appreciated her dedication to the empire, she worked far too much at times.

Leliana returns back to her villa by the Waking Sea before long, intending that to be where she eventually gives birth. Niamh, of course, is ever present at her side. Unfortunately, while the Imperial Court remained oblivious to the woman’s actual identity, her mother is not so keen to let the matter go…

--

“That woman…” Oisine began, looking at her daughter over the rim of her tea cup, “She isn’t what she appears to be, is she?”

Leliana’s first instinct was to lie, but her mother was always clever. Leliana had inherited the same brilliance after all. Still, she sighed.

“Her name is Niamh; that much is true. She is technically nobility—just not in the same way you and I would think of it.”

“What are you saying?”

“She’s the goddess of storms and the night sky, Mother, and she’s quite powerful even among her kind. She’s here to look over me since I made a deal with her.”

Oisine’s features immediately paled. “What? Leliana, I told you the dangers of entering into such things with them!”

“I didn’t have the choice!”

“Did she force you into this?”

“Mother, no!” Niamh was far too considerate a person—too tender a lover—to ever consider something so underhanded, but she could see that her mother couldn’t be readily convinced without more of an explanation. “I did it because you were dying, and there was no other option to save your life!”

“What?”

When she saw that she was only succeeding in confusing her mother, Leliana sighed, and did her best to explain the circumstances surrounding the relationship between her and Niamh, such as how long they actually knew one another, how the goddess had helped her over the years, and why she helped her again when she found her mother likely wouldn’t recover from her illness.

All factors that led to the culmination of her bearing the child of a deity.

“You’re with child,” Oisine breathed in shock.  

“Yes.”

“And Lady Niamh…?”

“Is the other parent, yes.”

“Oh, Leliana…” Guilt filled the other woman’s eyes, but Leliana didn’t want it. She would have gladly made the offer again in a heartbeat to save her. “You could have lain with anyone else to have a child, and the exchange would have still been fulfilled. Why do it in such a way?”

“Because it has always been her, Mother. I wanted to know her in such a way even if it was only once, but I’m still mortal. No matter what else I am, no matter my accomplishments, she wouldn’t be able to stay with me forever. I’m under no illusions that when the baby is born, she may very well just leave with them once the promise has been seen through.”

Disapproval was evident on Oisine’s features. “Surely you don’t believe that. Mind you, I may have been curious as to her actual identity, but have you not seen how that woman dotes upon you? How her eyes search for you as soon as you enter a room? She would give you anything you desire if you’d but ask her to stay.”

Leliana turned her head away. “Mother, please!”

She couldn’t afford to hope for this.

It would hurt too much if it didn’t come true.

--

Of course, as Leliana and Niamh adapt to the idea of being parents together, they realize their feelings for one another may not be as one-sided as they both initially believed.

They catch feelings is what I’m saying here, y’all.

Their relationship, however, isn’t considered official until a proper courtship ritual is done. Niamh’s not allowed to say what that all entails due to some old laws on her world, but Leliana figures it out anyway due to some old story she dug up thanks to her spy network and because she’s simply brilliant.

There’s also some political intrigue back in the world of the gods who want to close off their world from Thedas entirely, which makes Niamh super unhappy. She’ll have to do something regarding that obviously. Who are they to keep her from her beloved Leliana after all?

Then, some other issues might also occur when some individuals in the Imperial Court learn that Leliana’s pregnant. Players in the Great Game can be merciless.

So there’s action, but there’s also plenty of romantic fluff to round it out. The important thing is that Niamh and Leliana work through it together, and they have a healthy baby, and they all get to live happily ever after for a very long time!

--

So that’s basically it.

Again, like my other AUs, this isn’t as polished as I would like it to be, but your thoughts regarding it are always appreciated! Like it? Hate it? Think I can improve upon it? Is this something you’d like to see me write along with all my other AUs eventually? Let me know!

Seriously, just leave a like, a comment, drop a message in my inbox or the Tumblr messenger, or simply just let me know in an AO3 review. Until next time, guys!

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Falling From Grace- Part 1: The Journey

Calum, Ashton, Luke, and Michael have a prophecy to fulfill. They might not have always been Calum, Ashton, Luke, and Michael but they have always been brothers in the fight. Mythology!sos. Each guy is a God reincarnated from various mythologies

Calum- Tangaroa

Luke- Aengus

Ashton- Zelus

Michael- Bragi

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Find the ‘deleted scenes’ 

No one has my permission to repost this fic, including translations. All rights reserved. Copyright © be-ready-when-i-say-go.

____________________________

When they find him with half his body still submerged in water, they are not surprised. His body adorn, as always, in black ink, half his hair tied up into a top knot, the rest falling down over his shoulder blades down to the middle of his back. “Tangaroa! We must go.”

He lifts one hand from the water. They cannot see but his mouth moves as hushed whispers fall over his lips. The other three men wait at the edge of the ocean, toes licked by the push and pull of the waves crashing against the shore. Bragi watches, eyes fluttering close at the feel of the breeze against his skin. 

“If you start quoting some poem, I’m leaving you all here,” Zelus huffs. 

“You won’t make it far,” Aengus retorts. “You need us. All three of us. Remember what happened last time.”

Zelus turns his face from the baby faced, blue eyed, and blond curls man to his left back to the brown body still swaying in the ocean. He doesn’t need to be reminded of what happened the last time he tried to stray away from them. When he walked away, the Earth rumbled. The ground started to crack. All of the gods and Creators stood up in the darkening sky. Their voices boomed in unison, “The end falls upon us unless you reunite with your brethren.” Of course he was not selfish enough to let the world fall apart on his hands. 

 Zelus was just sick of fulfilling this same prophecy over and over, only for it to crumble yet again. The four of them, together, could only maintain the existence of life. Never mind the fact that Zelus knew that Tangaroa’s purpose was the biggest one. Water, from which everything begins and ends. The sea, a calm, almost forgetful body until it was angered. Water carried life and it could crush life too. Tangaroa never overestimated his rule. He never made himself the leader of this ensemble. He always lingered in the back, puffy brown eyes hidden but keen and he stayed quiet. 

He let the others be loud and he lingers, quietly laughing and smiling all the way through their time on earth. Zelus didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous. His role, in theory, was no less important. Without any feeling of eagerness, people would create nothing. Without a sense of drive, they would invent nothing, nothing would be propelled forward. But he felt partially responsible for some of the nastiness in the world. Tangaroa always told him it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t make them hold onto to such vile beliefs. He only simply told them to believe. And that’s all his job was but it never negated the doubt, never made him feel that much more at ease about the fact that sometimes people believed in the wrong things. 

Bragi pulls the hair back. It won’t stay this length or maybe even this color for long. First they must wait for Tangaroa first though. They always wait on him. Like a mother on the verge of birth, they wait patiently, with some huffed complaints, and wait for him to take the necessary time. He blesses the waters and the waters shall in return bless him back. There is a balance and in his human state, in this mortal host, he must praise it like any other man would. 

“Have we thought of names?” Bragi asks. 

“I like the sound of Luke. I haven’t had too common of a name in a while,” Aengus answers. He appeared first, quite unusual for him. But Zelus got caught up with Zeus and his siblings, Kratos, Nike and Bia. He didn’t quite fork over the details of the meetings and everyone knows not to pry for more than they are given. 

So Aengus cut his hair down, now the curls wrapping around his head and dressed in shorts and a short sleeved top. He’s forgone his sneakers as he waited for the others to arrive on the beach. “Alright Lucas,” Zelus teases.

“Just Luke,” comes the retort with a squeaky laugh. People lay eyes on him and are find himself falling deep into the blue of his eyes. Tangaroa likes to tease that if not for his waters he would have nothing to compare his eyes too. Even though it’s just a joke, the truth is not lost on them. 

“I like the name Michael,” Bragi says. “There’s something strong to it.”

“Then you are Michael, starting from now,” the newly dubbed Luke answers. The two other men turn to the brunette man, hair still long and blowing in the breeze from the ocean front. He watches Tangaroa’s figure wade up to sure. “Ashton,” he says. “And I like to think that this man knows how to take his damn time.” 

“Blessings are not rushed,” Tangaroa answers, taking the towel from Luke’s fingers with a nod. “Calum,” he states, naming himself, this next form. 

With the last man finally dry and decent, though he’s missing a shirt. He’s still wearing the cloth around his waist but ties the towel around, aware that here, now, the sight of his bare back will be frowned upon. “You’re bare ass never gets old,” Michael laughs. 

“Great language from the bard,” Calum quips with a smile. 

“I’ve sung about war and unimaginable violence. I’m allowed to use the word ass.” The four men trudge up the sandy shores. It’s easier to meet up here, in Australia. Strange things happen here. But their journey will take them elsewhere. It always does. “The house is set up here, for now,” Luke starts as they approach his car. Nothing flashy, just a black four door SUV. They need nothing to attract attention to themselves. 

Calum sits in the back with Michael. Luke drives and Ashton rides in the front seat. They wonder what chaos will be brought for thim this time. Who will they run into this time that’s the center of their mission. “I won’t leave this time,” Ashton says. 

“No one’s holding it over you,” Calum returns. 

“I am.”

“You always are. Let it go. New time here, new plans. Nothing old.”

He’s right. But it’s still not an easy pill to swallow knowing you’re the reason shit nearly went to hell. Not that it didn’t happen even when they weren’t here, looking at the currently political landscape. At least he didn’t necessarily fuck this up. It was not his hand that directly impacted that. Water, zeal, beauty, and poetry. They shall always be combined to each other. What is life without water? Life is not sustained without water and to some, life comes from water. What is life without zeal? Boring, life is pointless without an eagerness. What is life without aesthetic value? Bland. Life has no texture if there is no variance in appearance. What is life without words? Life is stagnant with the inability to share stories. 

Or at least that’s what the other gods and Creators have told them. And here are the four pillars humanized, able to walk amongst the new age. Ashton rests his head into the leather of the seat. How shall they fix the world this time? What will be the medium through which they must speak? Will they combine to make a circuit of poets again? Will they fight alongside activists in afros and bellbottoms again? See, that’s the unfortunate truth to their situation. No matter how many times they fix things they always fall apart. History repeats itself. Because those in power don’t change their hearts, they just change their mouths. 

Luke pulls into the lot of the apartment complex.  The men climb out, shuffling quickly into the entrance. People will start to talk soon enough and they will move on. The apartment’s and clothes are always picked out by various servers of the counsel. They don’t interact with them much besides their initial meeting. When the doors swing up, a woman’s already sitting at the dining room table. “Welcome back,” she grins. 

Calum recognizes her, she’s not just some server from the counsel.  “Ḥauḥet, nice to see you again.”

Her jeans are form fitting, the heels are new. “What are you doing here?” Ashton asks. She’s not one to get involved in such matters. 

She shakes her head, the tight braids falling around the sides of her face and the beads at the ends clicking at her gesture. “I’m here because I need to be. Now, I need names.”

They go down the line, all listing off the names they’ve chosen for themselves. She nods, noting them all down on a notepad. The three of them rest against the wall, accustom to the flash that it sure to come. It’s white walls perfect for most state IDs. They all slip into the either the white or black t-shirt provided. Luke went through this process earlier, but he’s yet to be told what’s happening exactly. With that, they excuse themselves to the back.

As they settle into the two bedrooms, each man notes the outfit laid out for them. Michael takes in the baggy cotton pants and oversized black t-shirt. He’s not upset by this select. Ashton takes in the skinny jeans, t-shirt and books. The jeans have a hole in the knee. He hooks his finger through the frays and wonders what is in store for him with attire like this. Calum thinks nothing of the dress pants, leather boots and button up. There’s a leather jacket hanging from the door. He’s not sure if it’s for Michael so as he slides the bottom into his pants, he notices the sweatshirt Michael pulls on. The jacket is his then, he figures. He’ll wait to put that one. Each man also as a spare tank top or undershirt. They all forgo the nice shirts until they’re settled with all the deeds ironed out. 

Ashton holds back the laugh, watching Luke slide into the suede chelsea boots. “I would ask what style choices you’ve made to wind up here, but I have a feeling not even you know.”

The jab is a tired one, but Luke laughs in an exhale. “Some sort of eccentric cowboy, I would guess.”

“That is one way to put it.” They finally gather at the dining room table. The apartment is mimial in it’s directions. A lot of blacks, gray, and blues. It’s homey with the chocolate brown accents. It’s best this doesn’t get too comfortable. 

“If we’re dressing like this, it is safe to assume that we are not clerks at a market this time,” Michael grins. 

Ḥauḥet smile, nodding her head at him. “Thank you for the obvious.” She slides a wooden box closer to them. “This time the stakes are a little higher.” Upon lifting the top, she reveals guitar picks and a pair of drumsticks. There’s no symbol or name yet. “Rather than taking the journey away from you, I left the name up to you all. But we’ve got to backtrack. Get you guys a name and story.”

A band, and if they’re famous enough, which they are bound to be, the stakes are high. They’ve got to keep quiet about their true forms. They have to keep a tight circle at first until they settle into their cover, until these names and stories because who they are, not who they are pretending to be; they must become one, much more so than before. They all glance to each other. Maybe they won’t be too big, maybe they won’t create too much noise about themselves. Maybe this is will be small. 

“How far back are we going?”

“Right now, the goal is to age you all to about 22. We won’t go all the way to the beginning, we’ve got childhood covered. But to fourteen at the earliest. Enough time to cover most the internet age.”

They all nod, grabbing at the manilla folders she hands to them, birth certificates, licenses, phones, some cash. “You have old skin; when you’re ready, I can take you back, I can make you new.”

They know not to waste time. As they slide wallets into pockets, Ashton speaks. “No need to wait.”

With a nod, she turns to the kitchen. Her lips move almost silently as she sprinkles the last herb over the clay like mixture. It glows for a moment as the blessing falls from her mouth. Luke beams. “Oh, I don’t need that.”

She quirks her eyebrow, mouth pulled up to the side of her face. It it a silent plea for him to say something else smart. Ashton speaks up, “Not every one’s blessed to have been conceived and birthed in the same day. Now hush so she can continue.”

She paints their faces one by one, first down the bridge of their nose, over their forehead, around the jaw, covers the chin and then finally she covers their cheeks. The mixture is cold, but warms with the touch of her hands. Calum hears the whisper of a splash in his ears. His eyes are closed, the mud tightening around his skin. But he knows the sound of the water anywhere. Ashton feels her grip on the back of his head and lets his muscles relax. Her touch is sure. His nose just barely brushes the water before she pulls his head back. 

A warning. He inhales deeply, expels that breathe and the nods, inhaling again. She dunks his face that time. The water is cold, ice cold. It makes his teeth chatter. But he grits his teeth, still failing at holding the shiver at bay. The fabric of the towel is soft as it swipes of his face. She holds it to his face for only a moment, before she wipes at his cheeks, chin, the outline of his jaw, over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. When his eyes flutter open, she’s already moving to Michael, giving him the same warning before his face submerges into the wooden bowl of ice cold water. 

Luke is dunked next. Then finally Calum. He needs no warning. She wipes his face clean. They’ve all been washed, brought to their age. Then she can go back. It won’t take them long to see what story to create. Her span is only a million years, forwards and backwards. Though most often, she only looks ahead. The past is done with her. There is no need to manipulate or review it. It does not matter if someone remembers it correctly, the history is written and it is final. She motions for all of them to take hands and as she pours all the used water into the same bowl that once held the mud mixtures, she pulls up a murky picture. 

Michael knows what she’s doing. She’s letting them see what they want in it. They physically won’t travel back, they will just implant memories. “Three of us meet in the same school. Luke starts posting covers. The internet is a hard place to gain traction, to many people all striving for the same thing. But we know we can defy the odds. So,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “word gets around, Luke and I start playing together. And then Calum record some covers and the three of us are a band. But what’s a band without a drummer? A band it is not. I message Ashton over..” the story is losing him. He needs something to stay current. 

“FaceBook,” she interjects. “Myspace is slowly dying at this point. FaceBook is gaining traction. You can make pages for bands up there, you can make a page for just about anything.”

Michael nods. “Yes, it’s just a simple message. Anything too flourished and wordy is not going to work. He agrees and it starts. I make the facebook page for the band. We don’t have a name, or at least one agreed upon. There’s a list. 5 Second Summer is a top contender.”

“But you make it 5 Seconds of Summer and ask us, after the page is made,” Luke jumps in. “I think that would add a nice touch.”

“We leave school. Record deals. Touring.”

“You get scooped up by another big band  of the time. It’s massive,” Ḥauḥet adds. Michael adds on. Studio records, live albums, EPs, merch, crowds, sold out arenas. Style evolutions, which winds them all here, right on the brink of their third studio album. They’re still in the midst of recording it. This gives them time; they can settle into these personas. They can become real. 

They beging work on their individual stories, the good, the bad, and the ugly. But do not make it very far. Ḥauḥet settles in behind Calum. Michael’s hair is now finished, a long fringed cut hidden under a beanie. The tattoos that once looked like graphite marking on his skin darken the tattoos becoming real against his pale skin. Calum unravels the knot. “Cut it.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods. “I am.” They move from the living room floor, a mess already of hair, into the kitchen. She draws a small bowl of water, as he bends of the sink basin, she covers the scalp with the water. Just once and he stands, hair dripping down his navy tank and holds out his hand. She cannot cut his hair, not without his explicit consent. He takes the first whack, pulling the hair over his shoulder and snipping through the mass. 

As it falls in black clumps at their feet, she prays over it. They let the fallen strands lay there and Calum hands her the scissors. “You can finish it.”

“How short?”

“Short,” is the only word he utters. So she cuts it short. Nothing too short, there’s still a couple inches of curls left for him. The apartment is put back together soon after she finishes making them over. She slides back into the black heels, clicking as she approaches the front door. This will be the last time she sees them until they return. She prays blessings over them.

“The water will stay good for three days,” she warns. “After then, the gates will close. Time will resume. You will have to go with whatever is imprinted.” Imprinted. It makes it real; it imparts into the universe and the universe does whatever it needs to make it so, photos, memories, people. Their fate will be sealed after three days. 

They nod. Three days isn’t a lot of time for a cover of this scale. But keeping those imprinting waters open any longer increases a lot of risk.  She continues, “You will have a little over a year. Here you will put together an album. Here you will embed yourselves into your lives. You will start here and you will go. I have faith.” 

“Your faith means a lot,” Ashton says even though he’s the most eager, he understands the gravity of the situation. This is more pressure than they’ve ever dealt with. They still have stories to sort, places to figure out. But they are smart. They will be able to pull together a good cover. 

They hold themselves up in that Australian apartment, sitting around a wooden ball with water and mud. They speak their lives into existence. Ashton dubs himself the unofficial dad of the band. And it works. He’s the one that pushes them constantly, wants bigger and better things. No one argues at the insistence. Calum is fairly quiet, they know that will continue on. Michael takes a chance on video games and anime, trying to find stories to connect with and finds himself entranced at the talent and worlds built. Stories come in many forms and he is not one to let any story go unturned. 

On the second day, Luke is the first to crack. “We’ve got to do something. I can’t stare at these walls anymore.”

“We can’t blow our cover. We don’t have a solid story,” Michael counters, the kitten shaped headphones resting around his neck now. He’s been spending half his time sucked into video games and the other half still working out the kinks of their story. They only have one more day. 

“Things don’t have to be perfect. They just have to be real,” Ashton says. “Whomever it is out there we’re meant to help just needs us to be real. Real people who hurt, who laugh, who cry.”

“How do you hurt?” Michael retorts. “What is your pain?”

“My pain is that I cannot save them all.”

“Everyone with an ounce of compassion hurts like that.”

Ashton sighs. Michael’s point is valid. They need stories, gritty and complex, not just soft generic ones. He remembers a small boy from many years ago, when they first started this prophecy. They sat on a grassy hill. They were all servants, but this boy was exceptionally young. He told Ashton how his father had left him. His mother was trying to find work, but every house she started to work for she would flee because someone in the house would make advances towards her. Ashton remembers from their time in the mid eighties towards the break of the 1990’s. He had found a kid, waiting on the corner, head covered with a hoodie. This boy, no more than thirteen, forced to sell, because he’s the man of the house due to his father’s death. Their pain is real. 

“My father leaves me at a young age,” Ashton starts chest already aching as he remembers those boys, staring down into the murky water. He can pay homage to them in this life. He wasn’t able to magically turn their lives around when he was there. He couldn’t completely blow his cover. He did do what he could for them, grabbing them meals when he was free, giving him a few dollars here and there. “It hurts, seeing my mother so down. But I step up. It only makes sense right. She eventually remarries, but there is a lot more alcohol in the house. She tries to hide it. But nothing is ever really hidden. We all see pain. Especially children. Children know pain but sometimes never have the words for it.”

“You can give them the words,” Michael assures. No one is sure why it has to be a band. But the more they research what’s happening in the world, the way the political landscape is filling with more and more hate, it becomes obvious. People need a thing that unites them. They need something, or someone, that shows them they are not alone.

Ashton squeezes at Michael’s hand. “Yeah, I can do that. We can do that. That is--” he pauses, watching his reflection distorted as it may be, in the water. He wants to say that is Ashton’s story. But he is Ashton, this is his life now. This is his truth. This is his history now. “That is my story, working in food service, desperately wanting a way out for my family. Knowing I’d fight heaven, hell, and high water for them. Only knowing music as a way out. Being in band after band and needing release, a breakthrough.”

Michael nods. “And that is your story.”

“Why make yourself carry pain?” Luke questions. “You could’ve had any story.”

Ashton shakes his head. He couldn’t have chosen any story. “If all of us have no pain, how do we connect? Pain is a part of every story. Without it, what do we compare joy to. How do you know your joy?”

Luke steps to the kitchen table, bracing his weight on his arm. The water shakes just a little. “People know pain. Even in a two parent household with siblings and nothing but love, people can still know pain. It’s a pain to prove oneself. It’s a pain to think you know someone and they strip you of everything you thought you were. I know pain because I know what it feels like to have no clue who you are anymore. Just a kid trying his best but makes maybe a few bad decisions along the way, tries to put too many people in his life that aren’t good for him, but too stubborn to see it.”

Calum walks over next. He’s been stewing on this, writing down the words that fail to cross his lips. But now is the time. He sees himself, Ashton, and Luke in the water. They are waiting on him. They need him. “I know pain from broken trust. I know pain from the harsh drop of reality. Not everyone that says they’re your friend is actually your friend. People will share your secrets, they will expose you. Someone breaks my trust. Someone violates privacy, someone, anyone, everyone shares a private moment. I know pain from my own quietness, trying to bury that in bodies and only making myself more distant. I know pain from alienation and being other, for being different.”

Michael stands. He knows pain, he knows violence from his lives previous. “Pain is sometimes sneaky. My pain sneaks up, makes me think I’m all alone, that sometimes I’m not worthy. It makes me think that things can go wrong at the blink of the eye. I worry sometimes about things most people don’t bat their eyelashes to, my pain is quiet and yet somehow the loudest in my own ears.”

The water starts to bubble. At first it might seem like someone’s shifting of the table is making it slosh. It becomes clear that’s not the reason as steam starts to billow. The water bubbles, threatening to spill over the edges, but never hitting the table. All four men watch for a moment. A chill runs through all four of them as all the water evaporates into steam. The mud bubbles too, thins and then disappears. They have no clue where it’s gone. 

“The gates closed,” Calum says after a few minutes of staring into the empty bowl. 

“We still had a day,” Ashton huffs. 

“She was listening.”

“So what next?” Luke asks. 

“We sing, we make music. We help the world,” Ashton answers. 

“We can’t do that here,” Michael counters. “We’ve gotta go somewhere else.” 

The bowl moves. It’s subtle but Calum watches the slight movement. Something appears under the bowl. Another manilla folder. He picks up the folder, it’s thicker than it appears. When he peeks inside he can see plane tickets, there are deeds, photos. There’s a small packet for each of them. Of course she wasn’t actually done with them. Of course she had another trick up her sleeve. 

__

 All of them have experience with music in their lifetimes, here on Earth and away. But it it still a little strange to know that just four days ago they were driving up the coast and to walk into recording studios with people smiling at them, like catching up with friends. But it is catching up with friends. This is their life. “Enjoy your time at home?” they’re asked repeatedly throughout the day as the work. 

The response is always the same. “Yeah, it was great to just relax. Got antsy though. Ready to work.”

But nothing prepares them for how hard this is. What’s their sound now? Where do they want to go? What do they want to say? What is their entire purpose? The play instruments is easy, it’s the putting words down that frustrates them. But they go out, they enjoy this newfound youth. It burns them of course. Like life does to everyone. Friends take advantage of their generosity, use them for only selfish gain. A couple of them strike out in love. 

Calum brings the cigarette to his lips. He’s not proud of the new found habit. But it helps. He always tries to stay distant from people during these moments on Earth. Even though they are long, he knows he will not be staying forever. He will not grow old with anyone, he can’t. And it sucks, because he sees his family as actually his and he loves them. But they will never know him. They will just have Calum, but not the man in the flesh host. Never the man that can trouble waters. That’s the part he hates the most about this. 

“Why do we do this to ourselves? Why are we the ones to do it?” Calum questions standing outside the recording studio. “Why can’t we have love? Why can’t we have real lives?”

This disease of uncertainty and frustration usually hits all of them at some point. Ashton is trying to not get hit again, knowing what can happen. Calum wouldn’t dare try to split. He wouldn’t leave them. He knows it’s too important that they actually go through with this. The other three would have nothing if not for him. What life would he give determination to if there was no life in the beginning? Ashton pats him on the shoulder before dropping the hand and tucking it back into the pockets of his jeans. “This is a real life.”

“It’s like, crashing into reality. We get no ease. It’s like if you took someone and suddenly dropped them in Japan. They’d wake up with no way about.”

“Saying everyday you wake up, it’s like waking up in Japan.”

“Yeah, and I’m alone. But not necessarily. Just low.” He’s mostly pissed at himself. He met a nice girl, they had a great weekend together. But he knows he had to cut it off before it got any bigger, before it got any more serious. It’s easier to save face that way. As his eyes flutter close and his lungs pull in one more drag, the room number, her room number flashes, 305.

“Talk to me,” Ashton urges, noting the far away glaze to Calum’s eyes. So Calum spills his guts, tells Ashton everything maybe even a little too much, down to the room number. Ashton leaves Calum to his vice, to the smoke billowing from his nostrils and walks back into the room. 

He’s got an idea. Ashton approaches Luke with the concept and with the help of a couple other writers, they conceptualize the rushed and dazed feeling of waking up somewhere new without even remembering how one got there. They put to sound, live in two takes, the bounce and electric feeling of a whirlwind life, of a life that keeps moving even when you’d wished for it to sit still. 

The months tick past, sometimes feeling like seconds rather than days upon days. While sitting at home, resting, there’s a knock on Ashton’s door. Luke stands in front of him, eyes sunken into his face, the bright blue that once lived in his eyes dulled. “It’s bad,” Luke whispers. Ashton wants to tell him no shit. But he bites back the comment and pulls him inside. 

It all starts with one night. And then one night turns into two. Then two turns into three. Luke knew ultimately, after the few few weeks, he should probably save himself. He wasn’t going nowhere. He was going downhill. But he wanted to make it last. He just wanted love, if only in the dark, if only it didn’t cause him so much pain. Luke cries into his hands, curled up at the foot of Ashton’s couch. “The worst--,” a hiccup interrupts him. Ashton sits next to him, gingerly  rubbing at his back. “The worst part is that I know I shouldn’t go back to her. She’s no good, but I’m no good at saying no,” he huffs, face red and snotty. 

The human existence is a rough one, not even gods are exempt from the pain. It is not a graceful descent into full humanity. They all hit their lows. “I wanted to trust her. I knew she was bad for me,” Luke sobs into Ashton’s shoulder. While Ashton may be known for his eagerness, his yearn to always be doing, sometimes Luke’s own stubbornness becomes his own undoing. This is not to say that achieving, or wanting, is wrong. But sometimes we want for the wrong reasons. We want the wrong things. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Ashton starts softly. “Pain is an indication of life. This is just life. Get knocked down seven times and stand up eight. We always get back up, okay? Even if it takes a while and even if our legs are unsteady, we get back up.”

“Am I alone?” Luke cries. “Is this all we’re destined for loneliness and pain? Am I crazy? Has this prophecy turned me insane?”

“You’re not insane. You’re not alone. You can never be alone with me. I’m always going to be here.” Always and here, what hollow words to Ashton’s ear. But he means them, deeply--truly. He means the essence of those words to his core. “You can stay with me for a little while. No one’s here but me. Bring Petunia over too. We’re family. By choice.”

It takes another twenty minutes for Luke to collect himself. The release of weight making him tired. Ashton watches for a moment as Luke lays, curled up on the couch cushions, a blanket thrown over his body. Tears sting behind his eyes. Why do their lives feel like they’re falling apart? This has never happened to them before. They’ve never been this high up it feels only to crash so far down. Ashton is grateful for a moment that walls cannot talk. They hear; they see. But if they could talk, they would have a lot to say, a lot of the dark corners to expose. 

__

They hit a wall. So many songs about pain and reflection, but how do they package it all together. How do they give it out to the world? “People want to know they’re not alone,” Michael urges. “All our songs. All the pain. It’s so they know they’re not alone. We’ve created something incredible. It’s not just sound, it’s color, it’s taste too.”

“We know that. It’s evident they need a connection. But how do we get them to connect with us?” comes the rebuttal from Ashton. He’s restless having spent the better part of the day, trying to wrap his own head around the question. He wants to be doing something, creating, putting to use the buzz in his gut. But he’s here, across from Michael instead. 

Calum has watched the exchange between Michael and Ashton for maybe off of a minute, coming in with some food for the three of them. Luke wanted something different, so he’s a couple minutes out from the studio. “We be honest,” he says with a shrug, setting the bag down. “We’ve got how many songs here that deal with heartache. Why shy away from the truth?”

Being vulnerable is a little dangerous for them. If they open up too far, if they say the wrong thing, everything could collapse. Calum is aware of this risk. But he knows it’s a risk they have to take. If they cannot even have an ounce of vulnerability, then the whole thing is for naught. It is just a waste if even in all their struggles, they attempt to hide that with their fans. Life is challenging just because they are in this position does not exclude them. 

“So you propose, we risk everything?” It’s not meant to be a question as it falls from Ashton’s lips. But it’s something about it that seems right, but he knows it’s very wrong.

“Without risk there is no reward. What do we teach people if we refuse to learn ourselves?”

“We teach them nothing. We teach by example,” Ashton concludes. “Isn’t that how the entire world has worked at this point? They’ve been led by someone, something.”

“Aren’t we led by something?” Calum counters. 

“But we’re led by the right things. So we let them, fans, anyone that listens. We tell them what drive us.”

Calum waves his hands around the room, even though it’s just the kitchen of the studio. “We are driven by honesty, intuition, failure, love, heartbreak, friendships, growth.”

“We are driven by our truest selves, the heartache and difficulting of making art. We driven by ourselves. We are driven by the fans.”

__

The dawn of a new year approaches them. The time of them huddle in away in dark corners, writing day in and day out are about to start paying off. Their risk, to be bare and vulnerable as possible, is going to start being real. Ashton sits, phone in hand staring out into sun just at it hits over the horizon The dark & light shared this year of my life in an incredibly unbalanced way. I had to further understand both sides of myself to continue becoming the songwriter & creative being I dream to be. It never ends & I don’t want it to x Ashton curses the character limit on twitter. It, without fails, always makes him go band and cut out some of the parts to his tweet. 

The days tick by faster than ever. The first single set to release in February and January feels like it’s whizzing by. The holidays do that, it appears every time they come back. Time feels shorter and shorter to them here, as humans, as people. But time stretches on forever as gods. Maybe because time matters much less to them. Ashton fiddles with his phone again. There’s some sort of solace in knowing he can type whatever he wants and there are people listening. It’s terrifying, but it’s connecting in a way. It’s not lost on him on how disheartening social media can be. There is a whole screen, time zones, countries that divide users. They are not getting the instant feedback of someone’s face, someone’s tone at comments. His finger draft another message, another reach into the void to see if the void will reach back. The worst/best part is everything good In my life originated from heartbreak 

They sit. They have to sit and they have to wait. But, even though the notifications are off, they can see the mess of their mentions. They can see the videos, people reacting to their return. Even though their hearts are filled with joy, they are not free from nerves. Radio interviews, magazine interviews, photoshoots, press comes at them with full force. They have to explain how the album comes to be, they have to explain that this is just an evolution, not discovery. But that feels inaccurate, incomplete. “We had to rediscover ourselves. We really had to ask ourselves what we wanted from this album and rededicate yourselves to this band.”

I wrote it for me,

I wrote it for you

I wrote it for us! Ashton concludes at the end of one tweet. The press isn’t easy, they are bounced around, like dots on a map. But the fact that they get to play shows keeps Ashton energized. He knows just on the other side of every microphone is the stage, the rumble of his bass drum shaking up his entire body. Just on the other side is the roar of a crowd excited to see him, to hear them, back at home, back at peace. 

That shouldn’t be his peace, he thinks. But the rush of adrenaline feels so familiar to Ashton. The memories aren’t just memories; they aren’t just mud and water, they are pieces of his soul. A year. A whole year trying to become one with this persona and it’s happening, when he least expected to with drumsticks in hand and a crowd screaming back at him. He watches the other three men on stage night after night, this is home for them too. For a moment, for a brief blink in the cosmos this is the only place they belong. 

________

“That flight was too early,” Michael mutters, pulling his beanie down over his face. He’s the first one to fall asleep on the couch. Luke nods off next to him, headphone cover his ears. Calum watches as the two guys doze off first and he shields his eyes as well. There are champagne flutes with mimosa’s littering the glass table in front of them, but they are almost too tired to celebrate. Tour is not easy, sleep seems evasive some nights and more cooperative during the day when they have things to do. 

Sleep evades Michael the most some nights. His fingers twitch to play his beloved harp, but his shoulders are tense. He’s still watching bodies gather. The mass of dead but soon to be undead still haunt him, the ruins of his tongue still scrap the top of his mouth as he sings. His throat still closes up on him occasionally, making him wake in a panic. The flight’s not too early, he just didn’t sleep. He knows the other guys know what keeps him up. He claims it’s videogames, claims his body is just tired. But he wishes for his mind to finally ease. Nearly two years here and his brain still has not forgotten his years prior. 

Michael wakes with a start, the tightness of his chest starting to burn. He’s still sitting on the couch with orange juice and champagne mixing in his nostrils. Ashton looks up from across the table, brow arched in silent questioning. Michael waves his hand. It is neither here nor there. Michael finds his phone, plugging in the cat eared headphones. He blasts YoungBlood into his ears. He hopes no more dead men walk after him.

__

“Youngblood wasn’t going to be next single. But it was just an extra song that you got when you pre-ordered the album. But we saw-we saw how people were reacting to it, so we decided to put it out.”

They know better than to hold their breath; they know not to watch those charts like a hound. But sometimes, that’s the only thing they know how to do. Youngblood smashes it way onto the charts and it stays, it climbs. It soars and with it go their hearts. How did they manage this? How did life reward them like this for all the shit they endured? But god are they grateful. 

Even when times feel at their darkest... think of the people you call home & be strong. He is home; Calum knows that on the road with the other guys. They are his family, by choice, by fate, by the cosmos. But something in him misses the water. He shouldn’t go back. He shouldn’t step foot on a beach, near an ocean. Not with the fighting that occured, not with the history there, the bad blood that gathered there. It shocks him he doesn’t have more trouble on land. The ocean was his only resort. But he thanks his mother that he’s able to walk her dirt, her earth, and be safe. He knows she’s still protecting him while he fulfills his duties.

“You miss it don’t you?” Luke asks, watching the way the bassist fiddles with his rings. They’re doing press, but it’s clear he’s not here. 

Calum nods. He was forced to sea, he was pushed away. But it provides him comfort. This is home to him but he has not forgotten what comfort feels like. “I only miss it when I’m not on stage or writing. I think it’s because I have too much time to think. Too much time to second guess myself.” 

Without much thought, Luke draps his arm around Calum’s shoulder. He knows that feeling, the dizzying spiral when all your thought collapse in on themselves. And you’re left with the weight and mess to pull yourself back together. “Hold on just a wee longer,” Luke whispers as the next interviewer steps in through the door. 

` Calum doesn’t miss the slight accent that falls through the sentence. “Next you’ll be pulling out your green tights, calling us laddies instead of mate.”

Luke can’t bite back the laugh that falls over his lips as he gently pushes against Calum’s shoulder. “You’re going to regret that, mate.”

When Calum opens to door and notices Luke dressed in shorts, compression tights and flip flops with a bag thrown over his shoulders, Calum doesn’t even open his mouth to ask why. He throws on his hoodie and sneakers. He makes sure his wallet and phone are with him and the men walk silently to the elevators. No words are exchanged in the back of the Uber either. Calum keeps his hood up and over his face, watching streets whizz by. He notes some seagulls. Sand. A beach. Calum turns to Luke. “What is this?”

“By some measures, it’s just a lake. It’s our day off, figured we earned the right to just relax.”

They thank their driver and slide out of the backseat. Calum settles onto the towel and slides out of his sneakers. It’s not barren, the shore, but it is definitely not packed. Though it’s not a shock in April on the East Coast. Once the socks are off, Calum stands and walks to the water’s edge. It’s freezing against his feet. It’s no sea, but he will take it. His lips start to move before he can stop himself. Blessings, blessings, and more blessings fall out of his lips. He thanks his mother. 

Luke walks next to the man, shivering at the first contact. Some white filters through both men’s vision. It only last a second and the watch the tail of the bird fly away. “Much of YoungBlood isn’t just about my life here, as a musician,” Luke offers. 

No one really discussed what past issues they were bringing to the table. They were just stories, things that had happened to them. Luke continues. “She flies for me, waiting for me to come back. She’s the one I want back.”

“And you tried to bury her in all the others.”

“Caer,” Luke whispers. Calum reaches out, holding on his shoulder. He’s never said her name out loud before, not to the guys. “My plan, before this happened, was to go to that lake. I would was going confess my love to her. I’ll never know could’ve happened between us. She’s kind of the inspiration Meet You There.”

Calum thinks of the lyrics, the chorus striking him. “Maybe one day you’ll meet her.”

Luke nods. “On that lake, where she still remembers me. Where I’m still able to reach her.”

_______

The pain is real, it is evident. They watch fans connect to song after song. They read the letters. This is what they were meant to to do, even with all the not fun issues, the fans showing up at their doorsteps, the sometimes cruel comments online. But the reward is much greater than the risk. Not just awards, not just another number one album, not just another chart topping song.  The reward to see a mass of diverse faces unite under one love. They’re whole purpose was to create something to unite people. It is incredible to see that night after night; it is awe striking to having thousands of voices singing back to them the songs they wrote with so much vulnerability. It is amazing to see their work flying, topping charts. But to hear and see the hearts it’s touch means a lot more. 

“Goddamn it, can I get the house lights on? I miss you guys so much,” Calum speaks into the mic. He continues his speech before inviting Luke to speak about the glittery blue blazer.  The crowd is a sea of phone lights in front of them. The mass continues almost to a point where Calum can’t even fathom the massiveness. He brings himself back to reality to joke about a matching g-string. He finally gets to continue after a pause for Michael’s thoughts. “So, uh, tonight is a very special for a couple of reasons, number one my beautiful sister is the room somewhere. Number two I got my best friends and my brothers on stage, playing with these guys.”

And he means it. Calum means it from the bottom of his soul when he says they are his brothers. Who else rides out centuries of resurfacing onto the earth? Who else rides out the insanity of their fate but your brothers? Even when they clash sometimes creatively, even when the vision had to change and evolve time and time again, they stood by each other. Calum strums his bass as Michael speaks, heart soaring at how much London means to the band, hyping the crowd out for the few songs that they have left. This is a band of brothers. Four spirits who are only trying their best:  Sea, youth and beauty, determination, and poetry. 

What is their story without words? What are words without determination to put them down? What is determination without an aim and a goal for something beautiful? What is something beautiful without it’s mere existence? 

Calum stands up on the riser, Michael mirroring him for a moment. Luke stands in the middle. Ashton builds up the anticipation before rolling into his drum solo. The lights are low, the red is flashing over them. The recording plays and the wind up begins. “Let me see you jump. Jump, jump, jump!” 

This is their existence, as Calum cocks his hips, hands sliding up and down the bass strings. Michael steps down from the riser, face screwed up as his moves up and down the frets. Ashton rocks his whole body into the drumming, the sweat already soaking through his shirt. Luke leads them through the chorus again, working his old golden nails over his guitar. Everyone attempts to pour past, present and future onto that sage. They don’t know what they will the next time they are brought back. They don’t know who it is they are trying to reach. All they do know is that each time they’re brought here, they need to pour out love, understanding, unity. 

Michael walks to the drum risers and Calum follows behind him, after getting the crowd ready to jump. They rip into their instruments, Calum twirls around, mic pack flying out of his pocket. Michael bows a little, letting the grooved metal slot against the grooves of his fingers. Luke bounces for a moment and there is a crowd shouting for them, but it is not just any crowd. It is a crowd brimming over with love. It is not their names they are shouting, it are all the other gods they are crying out for them. They are just the four chosen, but the four that need the credit. This is their second home, this is the place where they are putting everything out on the line. And the line is paying them back.

[amoralityplay]

I keep mentioning the way Audrey gains and then loses most of her money, so I figure I should tack down the details of that in a post.

Phersipnai is basically limitlessly wealthy. I'm not gonna say she's a billionaire, but she's had 2600 years to accumulate her wealth and she isn't a big spender. Inflation increases her fortune exponentially. Audrey doesn't want for anything as she grows up, but she wants to be seen as independent and wants to be able to say she has her own money, so she starts looking for ways to build up a fortune; this is the 19th century, working is not an option for her and the way Phersipnai and Lavinia built their fortunes--owning and farming land--isn't an option because she would have to borrow the money from them to buy her own properties (and Audrey has just about zero interest in agriculture, anyway). It's very common for vampires (especially young, female vampires...and tbh it's not even that uncommon for mortals to do this, either) to take mortal spouses that they plan to kill for the inheritance or insurance policy; the 1800's are RIFE with this sort of thing. In Audrey's case, the marriages are strictly legal and none of them are consummated (she never even kisses any of these men, despite rumours and vampire gossip to the contrary), though she can be very sweet and charming and each man genuinely thought she adored them.

So, when another vampire suggests this to Audrey, she agrees to be set up with a mortal man in the 1860's. He's very elderly, in his 80's (ancient by that period's standards), and owns a bank. He has no living relatives and isn't particularly well-liked by others, so he's an ideal target. He's not very kind but is in poor health and mostly seems to just wanted some company in his last days, which Audrey agrees to provide, and she thinks of his impending death at her hand as more of a mercy killing; he's also the first mortal she kills on her own. Keep in mind, she's very young at this point, only in her sixties, and hasn't really had to be on her own before. Of course, she'd fed on other mortals but never without another vampire (usually her mother or one of her grandparents) doing the bulk of the work.

Audrey smothers him in his sleep with a pillow after lightly drugging him three days after they get married, which seemed to her to be the kindest way to go about it, and she drains his corpse dry afterwards (vampires do need to be careful about drugs that get into the bloodstream, and she dosed him with laudanum since it was readily available at the time, but not enough to significantly affect her after she fed on him). After she liquidated his belongings and transferred his accounts into her name, she had a fair-sized fortune...by mortal standards.

By vampire standards, it was still a pittance, so Audrey does this two more times, with her final husband being an industrialist in the early 1900's. She's actually a little fond of that one; he's in his 60's, younger than the other two and a little more friendly, and initially seemed to take an interest in her mechanical prowess (he asks her to marry him after she is able to make a repair to his car). He ends up mocking her heron automaton, however, because it's a machine that won't actually produce anything (unlike the machines in his factories) and he thinks it's silly and novice and typical for a woman to make something to be beautiful but useless; to him, it's just a toy. Suffice to say, her feelings are hurt. So, like the others, Audrey kills him. By that point, mortal record-keeping is getting better, and the risk is beginning to outweigh the rewards, so Audrey doesn't marry any mortals again, although she talks about it in the 1960's (which is what spurs Phersipnai to find her a match). Combined with inflation and the fact that a significant portion of her wealth is literal gold, Audrey is doing quite well for herself by the mid 20th century and has purchased several properties (the brownstone in Boston, which is her main dwelling for most of her life after the 1860's, a lavish apartment in Kiev near her grandfather, and a large villa near Naples) and made some small investments in valuable antiques and art. She also collects rare books, though many of them are not initially considered collectable when she obtains them, it's simply as time passes books in her collection start to accrue value. This all comes screeching to a halt in 1987. Despite being warned against it, Audrey invested heavily in the stock market, converting much of her gold into stocks, and when the market crashed, she lost a massive amount of money. Most of it, even (again, she's hardly hurting by mortal standards, but to other vampires she's practically destitute). She's living in Kiev at that point and has to sell her apartment there and move in with her grandfather, and also sells the other properties except the Boston one. She also has to liquidate many of the items she'd collected over the years. The result is that her home in Boston looks pretty bare by the time she returns from Kiev; most of the antiques are gone, a fair part of her book collection, and the platinum pieces she'd had made so far for the heron automaton have all been sold off. Most of what's left is furniture (she refuses to part with the Federalist style furnishings that her mother had made in the 1700's), clothing, and select items with sentimental value or that were gifts. Part of why she chooses to live in such a terrible apartment in Tokyo is that she is desperately trying not to spend money and she is feuding with Phersipnai and refuses to ask for help. Then Nate happens and she goes back to California with Rowan and...well, waiting to see how that thread shakes out since it has already veered waaaaaaaaaaaay off from what I expected and had plotted.

[sunevial]

Directors commentary: What it’s like writing the various forms of inhumanity among the followers

For this, I’m going to be completely neglecting how I write Young Priest, because he’s still basically human for the purposes of the Follower’s universe. He thinks, acts, and behaves with human qualities, even if he’s really not human anymore from a physical standpoint. That being said, there are some things I have hinted on that I’ll touch on later. 

I’ll break this up into two parts

Those Who Were Never Human, aka the Old Guard (Old Priestess, Lieutenant, Advisor)

Old Priestess is probably the most difficult character for me to write in general. She is complicated and layered, probably moreso than any other character I have to write for this universe. Compassionate yet oh so cruel, manipulative yet still somewhat caring, vain and self assured yet a little fragile, never wanting to be vulnerable yet still wanting to keep her own close to her chest. She is a scorned immortal, fallen from grace and power, and it shows in her actions and her words and the very way she carries herself. Her hatred of humanity runs deep, and no amount of revenge will satisfy it, but she is so incredibly lonely and so incredibly wounded and so incredibly filled with a sorrow even she won’t admit. 

When I write her, I write her knowing she is old, she is bitter, and that she values nature and the natural world more than anything. She is always in control of every situation she is present in, and she makes her presence known. She never uses contractions, has certain words she calls certain people, and she can flip between being terrifying to sweet on a dime. You should never feel completely safe when she’s in the room, even when she’s not using magic, and every other character knows that.

Unlike Priestess, who knows humanity inside and out, Lieutenant knew nothing of humanity before his time with the Followers. He barely registers all five senses (sight and hearing being the easiest, followed by touch, with taste and smell being the most complex), and at the very start, he only really had a grasp of one emotion: fear. By the ‘present’ day, he has collected a couple more, including anger, a sense of contentment, and possibly a sense of displeasure (and that’s pushing it). That being said, he is not a creature that knows malice, and despite his cold words, he never acts out of spite or with ill intent.

Combined with that is him being someone that is barely used to having physical presence. He never walks when he can just teleport, though he might to humor his colleagues. Physical matter confuses him, so anything that isn’t a void construct is difficult for him to properly use (his aim is terrible with anything that isn’t his knife). He rarely relies on his shell to perceive the world around him, as only a very small portion of his actual self is contained within that body. Above all, through, he is a curious individual, wanting to better understand this world he now lives in. He asks questions that most mortals wouldn’t think to ask, and even if he doesn’t feel emotions, he has learned how to perceive them well.

Advisor splits the difference between the two immortals, having less direct experience with mortals than Priestess and having a better understanding of them than Lieutenant. In many respects, he seems the most human out of them, always cordial and polite and professional in his manner. He is genuinely kind when he wants to be, always open to teach others or give a helping hand because he is a researcher and he wants to see results. 

This also makes him the most unnerving at times, because his oddness is treated so casually. He makes remarks that are eerie in their simplicity, uses reality warping magic with the same care we take to breathe, and he can read emotions and minds and the future with no effort at all. I never write his magic the same way twice, because much of his powers are based in the fact that he is chaos incarnate and does not hide that. Advisor is not scary because of what he can directly do, though that’s scary in of itself, but he’s scary because you quite simply don’t know how much he can do on the sidelines. There’s a reason why I write him with a sort of surprising upbeat flair; he doesn’t have a reason to be anything but. 

Those Who Were Once Human (Witch, Bookkeeper, Huntress, Part Timer)

As we’ve seen throughout the story of the Followers, Witch used to be a perfectly normal and perfectly sane person, someone capable of truly loving and fearing the world like a mortal. She’s no longer that person. Margaret was broken and battered, reshaped and reformed into the image of the people who trained her. Her empathy and compassion were beaten out of her, replaced with a sadistic cheerfulness that rarely drops. They bound her loyalty with string and thread, made her scream until she could scream no more, and so she was stripped of fear and sorrow. She takes deals and sells to all who come to her door. 

I write Witch to be emotive but not emotional, because while you can always tell what she’s feeling or thinking based on her expression, she doesn’t feel those emotions much at all. Her words are always just a little too empty, and that’s by design. The only time that it comes through is when she’s actively trying to care, because some small parts of her still remember what it means to be human. She shows those around her daughter, and that’s why she sounds more complete when they’re talking, because it’s the only time she is allowed such a luxury. 

Bookkeeper, in many respects, is the exact opposite of Witch. Knowing she sold her soul and life for something so trivial weighs on Bookkeeper heavily, but she does her work and she does it well. She has put up walls, walls to mimic the cold exterior of an indifferent immortal while she internally suppresses all of the emotions she still maintains. Because she feels, even if she denies that she does, because that is the only way she remains herself. She has willingly remade herself before, and she’ll do it again, becoming petty, selfish, and a master of the passive aggressive arts.

There is not a word that leaves Bookkeeper’s mouth that isn’t at least partially an insult, though she may drop that streak for Witch. She will never admit to anything willingly, but she will answer at least in half truths if directly asked. Her opinions are strong and firm, unbending and unyielding because she has read enough to win just about any argument thrown her way. She hates getting her hands dirty, but she makes no secret that she will do the work that keeps her out of the line of fire because she is deadly efficient. And deep inside her, she occasionally allows herself to pity, to care, to allow herself to care.

Huntress is stubborn, stubborn beyond belief because while being mortal, no amount of physical or mental abuse could ever make her break. She is strong, she is angry, she is flawed, but she owns every aspect of herself she likes and every aspect of herself she despises. Because of that, Huntress will always be just that, herself and there is nothing the other Followers could ever do to change that. If Huntress wishes to change, that’s on her own terms and no one else’s. That doesn’t mean she is mortal, though, because she was always just a bit more than that even in life. 

Knowing this, writing Huntress becomes a balance of making her not wanting to play nice with the other Followers but more than willing to play along. Her heart is hard and cold, and she has no sympathy for the pain of the people she loves. She laughs loudly and brashly, her emotions and actions always a little more feral. Her first resort is violence and she relishes in it, because there’s only one Follower who has a true bloodlust. She is impatient, unyielding, always up to play and to hunt and to hurt. Her compassion is rough, but it is there, and she makes sure not to lose it. It keeps her grounded.

Of the mortals, Part Timer has retained his humanity the most, and that’s saying something. Each of his personalities retain thought processes are still incredibly human, each very distinct in how they act and how they feel. Some are more caring, some are more angry, some are more scattered, and some are more logical, but all still retain a fair bit of humanity when everything is boiled down. That being said, all but one of his personalities has accepted that they can’t retain that humanity forever, and the good doctor is fighting to keep what little sanity he remains.

Taken together with his condition, Part Timer’s inhumanity is written in a man who can never be whole. He has little control of who’s in charge. His actions are consistent within the personalities, but they switch so rapidly and so violently that it’s hard to predict. While he tries to keep things light and polite, he still fears his colleagues more than he trusts them, and so he refuses to let his guard down even for a second around most of them. He resists learning magic, resists accepting its use by both the people around him and himself, because the more he leans into the use of magic, the more he loses his grip on his sense of self.

Now, for Young Priest, the challenge is to write him in a way where the hints of inhumanity are starting to creep in. He’s an artist, first and foremost, and already he’s starting to get a little lost in that world. His transformation is fueled by a desire to save his sister, so he needs the ability to do magic well. Something I’ve been trying to show how much magic tempts him, how much learning tugs at his morals and at his sense of humanity. His discomfort keeps him grounded for now, but it’s starting to lessen with every step he takes. It won’t break for a long time yet, but Priestess chose him well.

She knows that the temptation will someday outweigh his humanity, and she intends to make sure that as it happens, he stays loyal and true.