#lofty kin

[frankensteincest]

bsd, tma, spn, oscar wilde. bestie you have immaculate (derogatory-affectionate) taste, congratulations <3

so real. glad you’re vibing with it <3

[baeshijima]

— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.

(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)

INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations

A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)

various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.

After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?

You?

Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.

Honour? Integrity? Justice?

What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.

You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.

And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.

Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.

In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.

But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.

Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—

“What have I said about overworking yourself?”

At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.

With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.

“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”

He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.

“Training, Your Majesty.”

…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.

You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)

With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?

But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.

“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.

“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”

“Very. Past dinner, no less.”

Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.

Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”

At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”

“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”

You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.

"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."

Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.

Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.

Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.

Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—

Clang!

Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.

Silence.

“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”

Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.

“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.

Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.

But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.” 

“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”

“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”

“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.

“Come drink with me.”

You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”

He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.

“What else?”

“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of�� ow, ow, ow!”

Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”

“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”

As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.

“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”

“Just use my private bathroom.��

“But what about my clo—”

“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.

That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.

With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.

Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!

Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.

---

A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.

…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.

And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,

“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”

And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.

While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.

His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.

And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.

In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.

Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.

(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)

From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.

Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart. 

Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.

Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him. 

(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)

Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.

(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)

Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.

(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)

Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.

(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)

Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.

(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)

Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.

(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)

Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.

(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)

Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.

But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.

Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.

He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.

And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.

“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”

(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)

It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.

And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.

“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.

But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.

Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.

(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.

Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.

Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—

“Fancy seeing you out here!”

…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way. 

Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—

“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”

…Darn it.

A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.

“...Hello, Commander.”

A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”

“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”

The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”

When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.

Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.

A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.

This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.

While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.

Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.

“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.

You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”

“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you. 

Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?

(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)

Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.

“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”

His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.

“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”

Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.

When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.

You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.

“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”

You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”

A beat of silence.

“I see…”

Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.

You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.

Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?

…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?

With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position. 

“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”

And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.

---

Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.

When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.

When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.

When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.

When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.

When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.

When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.

When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries. 

When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.

And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.

Phainon can still remember it. All too well.

Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.

Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.

In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically. 

It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.

It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.

And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.

Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.

But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.

And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.

King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.

“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”

Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.

The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.

(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)

The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.

The following days gave way to a few discoveries.

One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!

Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)

And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.

But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.

Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)

And for a while, he believed it.

He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.

(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)

He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.

(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)

He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.

(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)

He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.

(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)

He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.

At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.

Mydei.

Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.

That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?

He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…

And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before. 

Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.

Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.

Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.

If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?

(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.

First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.

(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)

And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.

Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)

Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?

Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.

“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.

“Ahem.”

Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.

“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.

“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”

“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”

“I see. So you were.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”

“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”

As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.

Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.

Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.

After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?

As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)

“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.

You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”

“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.

Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—

“So, have you considered my proposal?”

Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.

You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”

“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”

“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”

“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”

You frown. “Don’t—”

“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”

Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.

“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”

“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”

“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”

(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)

“...You talk too much, my lord.”

“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”

Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.

“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Anaxa.”

“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”

…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.

---

Anaxagoras was no fool.

He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.

He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.

He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.

He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.

Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.

Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.

His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.

Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.

(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)

And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest. 

(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together… would their lives be a little easier?)

Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.

Anaxagoras believed her.

Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.

Anaxagoras believed her.

And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.

At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.

Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.

When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—

And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.

He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.

He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.

When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.

The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.

And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.

Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister? 

It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.

Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.

Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.

His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.

The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.

And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.

He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.

He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.

But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.

Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.

(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)

He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.

(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)

He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.

(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.

…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)

And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.” 

(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)

His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.

It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.

It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.

Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.

 Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.

Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.

Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.

Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step. 

Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.

Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.

(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!

well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!

anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^

Amphoreus = empire

All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy

Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

@milk-violet heres ur tag <33

[merrysithmas]

legolas is a combination of aragorn's elvish upbringing and his chosen home of the Wilds with the remnants of his Dunedain kin, the Rangers.

he is elvish but wild, mirkwoodian, connected to the land and real, present. sharp and discerning, cold and clear like a river, strong and soft as the warmth of the sun.

&

aragorn is a combination of royal blood (legolas' sheltered royal upbringing and duty to legacy) but also represents legolas' dreams and appreciation of nature and goodwill and purpose beyond immortality.

aragorn is bound by duty but also has his own agency and strives to do good beyond expectation and at his own expense, he inspires legolas.

!!!

they were one another's companions for scores and scores of years and accepted one another, were each other's battle partners and emotional support. whereas aragorn only saw arwen a few times in twenty years and she represented the lofty ideal of his potential, legolas was the every day brass tacks partner in aragorn's life, and represents the reality of love vs. the ideal of love. legolas is the one who helped aragorn form his identity and accept himself & vice versa, essentially eclipsing and remolding the fantasy of love with the beauty of the grounded reality of it.

they are perfect for each other

[winwin17]

I want to talk about a particular shining moment Legolas has that never gets talked about

In The Return of the King, Legolas and Gimli briefly reunite with Pippin and Merry when Merry is recovering at the Houses of Healing. During their discourse, the Hobbits asked Legolas and Gimli to tell what they'd been doing since they'd last seen each other, and Gimli goes on to tell about how the Paths of the Dead scared him out of all pride and senses. He says he was held to that road only by the will of Aragorn.

But Legolas points out, "And by the love of him also, for all those who come to know him come to love him after their own fashion."

And here's the part that really stands out to me.

Legolas continues:

"All those who come to know him come to love him after their own fashion - even the cold maiden of the Rohirrim.

"It was at early morning of the day ere you came there, Merry, that we left Dunharrow, and such a fear was on all the folks that none would look on our going, save the Lady Éowyn, who lies now hurt in the House below. There was grief at that parting, and I was grieved to behold it."

The narrative notes earlier, when the event he is describing takes place, that only people like Legolas and Gimli, who were close to Aragorn, could see how much the interaction pained their leader. It's always evident that Aragorn felt compassion for Éowyn. But here, Legolas notes that he, too, was grieved at the parting.

There was no reason Legolas had to have compassion for Éowyn. She was none of his kin. He had little to no reason to be personally invested in Rohan. He wasn't the one who had to reject her pleas and turn down her love. He could've sat there watching and thinking, "Man, this is super cringe, when can we get out of here and get this crazy woman out of our hair?" Even Gimli admitted that he was too busy freaking out about the Paths of the Dead business to notice.

But Legolas noticed, and his heart cared even though he didn't have to. What was this woman to him, but another of the race of Men, just another human being who would be here and gone in what amounted to almost nothing of the Elven lifespan.

Yes, he felt for Aragorn and the pain this interaction brought him. But I think he was grieved for Éowyn, too. Because that's the kind of person Legolas is. He's not so lofty and arrogant about his race that he can't invest in the quest of rustic Hobbits, or befriend a Dwarf, or fight for the race of Men, or hold out for years against his own innate sea-longing to help build Aragorn's kingdom. And it's that same heart that was moved to see Éowyn so sad and lost and rejected. His Elven mind could've been wandering off to Battle or some beautiful Elven land during that interaction between Aragorn and Éowyn, but instead, he was present, and he noticed, and he cared.

Even after the fact, Legolas could totally have chosen to confide in his Hobbit friends about how pathetic Éowyn was with her unrequited love and her passion to follow Aragorn.

But he didn't say that. He didn't paint her in a negative light. He didn't say, "Crazy women, amirite?" No, he revealed a heart just as caring and compassionate as Aragorn's himself, and he said, "I was grieved to behold it "

People, this is one of the most underrated Legolas moments, and yet it's this small glimpse into his inner heart that makes me admire him the most.

[redelliavalentinos]

Disconnection

Yes, it's on YouTube too.

.....

I long for a slumber

And I crave just to hunger

I want time to wear me down

I want my number to be up

I want my ticket called

Wanna ditch this eternal crown

See the soil, it's so soft

See the heavens high and lofty

Wonder what the angels say

As they watch me bury more

Watch me add bodies to the hoard

And throw myself back in to the fray

My home, I leave in ashes

My kin, I leave in Graves

My flesh hasn't aged a day

The sun has fallen down

The frost settles in

Trust me, it's better this way

To mourn is to cry

The waterworks are dry

The blood in my veins is sand

I don't want to hear you beg

I don't want to hear you weep

Pay the ferryman when you can

...put a good word in for me

There are lessons that I crave

There's knowledge that could save me

If only I could wither away

Wither, to and hither

To scatter my bones thither

And finally fade away

...one can dream...

I've lost count of the friends

That I've seen to the end

Lost interest in making more

My token is void-bound

As the numbers astound

And nothing can settle the score

My home, I leave in ashes

My kin, I leave in Graves

But my flesh hasn't aged a day

The sun has fallen down

The frost settles in

Trust me, it's better this way

To mourn is to cry

The waterworks are dry

The blood in my veins is sand

I don't want to hear you beg

I don't want to hear you weep

Pay the ferryman when you can

...put a good word in for me

One century!

Two centuries!

Here we go again!

Dig the hole

Mark the plot

We're just around the bend!

Ding dong dead!

Hear the church bells chime!

Ding dong done!

Tear the fabric of my mind!

And again

And again

Til the sun burns out

What

A

Waste

Of

Time!

My home, I left in ashes

My kin, I left in Graves

But my flesh hasn't aged a day

The sun has burned itself out

The frost settles in...

Somehow...

Disconnection...

It'll be better this way!

To mourn is to cry

The waterworks are dry

The blood in my veins is sand!

There's no one to hear me beg

No one to hear me weep

I'll bribe the ferryman if I can...

No one's left to speak for me...

[thedwarrowscholar]

Hello, I'm rewatching LotR and I was wondering what phrases would one say to flirt in the dwarf language with Men?

Something like...

"I would share the last piece of my bread with you"

"All my stones/metal are yours to hold"

...Maybe?

If this would pass as a flirt line, how would it be like translated?

Thank you and sorry to bother you!

Well met!

Ah, a delightful question — and certainly not a bother at all. On the contrary, it’s one of those charming topics that allow us to explore both the language and the culture of the Dwarves.

Let's dive in. Firstly though...

🪓 Would Dwarves Flirt the Same Way?

The short answer: not quite. Dwarves are famously private and reserved folk, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. Flirtation, as we might know it among Hobbits, Men or even Elves — with flowery compliments and bold declarations — is unlikely to be common in Dwarvish culture.

If we look at Tolkien’s inspirations for the Dwarves (namely Old Norse and Hebraic cultures), we find that expressions of affection are often subtle, practical, and rooted in acts of service or shared prosperity, rather than open praise of beauty or lofty romantic declarations.

A beautiful real-world example comes from an Old Swedish runic inscription on the stone found at the estate of Hassmyra, in Fläckebo parish, Västmanland, raised in memory of a man’s deceased wife. Part of the inscription reads:

“Never will come to Hasvimyra a better mistress to manage the house.”

It is an expression of love and respect, not through flowery praise of appearance, but through admiration of skill, shared labour, and the life they built together. Such heartfelt and practical sentiments feel very Dwarvish indeed.

Similarly, in Hebraic tradition, the concept of Yichud encapsulates this beautifully. Yichud — meaning “together, alone, with no one else present” — refers to the privacy and sanctity of the bond between two people. In fact, "Ahavah," the more common Hebrew term for love, is often used in the Torah to refer not to romantic affection, but to friendship, loyalty, and familial devotion. Even David, in mourning Jonathan, said:

“Wonderful was thy love for me, passing the love of women.” (II Samuel 1:26)

In both these cultures, we see love expressed not in boastful declarations, but in quiet moments of unity, shared burdens, and loyal companionship. And if love is customarily expressed this way, why should flirting be any different?

A Dwarf, rather than saying “Your eyes are like stars”, might say:

“Your work shines bright in my hall.”

Or, as you so well suggested:

“I would share my last bread with you.”

Such gestures, grounded in generosity, loyalty, and the sharing of crafted goods or hard-earned wealth, feel far more natural to a Dwarven suitor.

🧝‍♀️ A Note on Dwarf-Non-Dwarf Relations

Now, this deserves a special mention.

While The Hobbit films openly flirted with the idea of Dwarf-Elf romance, this would be extremely unlikely within Tolkien's Middle Earth and the Dwarvish culture. Dwarves are deeply insular and loyal to their own kind — they would not look outside their kin to find their partner.

Two important points on this:

Dwarves would not naturally find non-Dwarves attractive. Their standards of beauty are very much rooted in their own culture — resilience, craftsmanship, endurance, and the beauty of their own people. Not to mention the lack of beards in many other races would be a major issue.

Cultural taboos would strongly discourage cross-species unions. The notion of a Dwarf marrying an Elf or a Man would be not only rare but almost unthinkable, and very likely not be accepted culturally.

Gimli’s famous admiration for Galadriel is often cited as a counterexample. But this deserves closer inspection.

Rather than romantic love, Gimli’s reverence mirrors something quite different — an almost sacred admiration, akin to the veneration of saints. Tolkien, a devout Catholic, infused his work with reflections of his faith. Galadriel, in many ways, is constructed as a saintly figure: her beauty, power, and grace possess unmistakably Marian qualities.

Tolkien scholars have observed this parallel too. Though Galadriel is not an exact replica of the Virgin Mary in Middle-earth, she embodies elements of saintliness and purity, especially in Tolkien’s later writings. In Letter 353, Tolkien even acknowledges how some readers, like his proofreader Father Robert Murray, S.J., perceived Galadriel in these terms — and this perception may well have shaped Tolkien’s evolving depiction of her. Initially seen as a flawed, repentant character who fell into pride at the Kinslaying, Tolkien later elevated Galadriel to an almost unstained figure: a guiding light for others, not unlike the role of Mary in Christian tradition.

In this way, Tolkien crafts Galadriel’s image to inspire reverence, not romantic desire. Thus, Gimli’s feelings toward Galadriel are not of worldly love, but of deep respect, awe, and devotion to an ideal of beauty and wisdom. His gift-request — “a single strand of her hair” — is not the plea of a suitor, but rather, the respectful homage of a craftsman to a paragon of light. It is admiration, not courtship.

In short: a Dwarf may admire the skill or grace of another race, but when it comes to lifelong partnership, their loyalty and affection remain firmly within their own halls.

🧱 Some Dwarvish Flirtation Lines

That said, within their own circles, here’s a small collection of lines a Dwarf might use to express interest (in the below examples, directed at a female individual) — short, sincere, and true to their culture:

Zâskhari yazi karfu hamdê nutut. (“I would share the last piece of my bread with you.”)

Sullu 'abbanê ra ritîhê tâtîn azi d' akhlut. (“All my stones and metals are yours to hold.”)

Zasamkhihiya gâra 'unsasul undu markhê. (“You’d find no safer shelter than beneath my shield.”)

Ni zinanîn, zâthrigi rathkh-kheledulkhud khamazi. (“In the dark places, I would carry a lantern for you.”)

Sâti azafr sanzigil: hudukh ra binhulk. (“You are like mithril: rare and without equal.”)

💡 A Cultural Note: Actions Over Words

It’s also worth noting that for Dwarves, actions often speak louder than words. While such phrases certainly would exist, a Dwarf might more likely show affection by:

Gifting a finely crafted token (even a simple one, like a clasp or brooch)

Offering aid in tasks or protection

Forging something by their own hand specifically for the person they care about

The spoken word is secondary to deeds — but still, a well-placed compliment never hurts!

Ever at your service (and happily the scholar, not the suitor), The Dwarrow Scholar

[mylackoffaith]

Dragon's Dreamer - Part II

Summary: Daemon does not like Hightowers. Especially the perfect little hightower bastard girl, who was sleeping in his bed.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x modern!reader word count:1497 words

previous

Daemon always believed the Hightowers were the epitome of dullness and arrogance, parading around as if they owned the Seven Kingdoms with their highborn noses reaching the heavens. The memory of the day he encountered the insufferable cunt—right after the death of his father, Baelon—still lingers vividly in his mind.

The day had been gloomy, the kind that matched Daemon's foul mood on the occasion of his father's funeral. The cunt had been going around, collecting congratulations for his new position as the Hand, and offering condolences with the same fake smile.

Daemon's patience, already as short as a summer night in the North, reached its breaking point. Frustration brewed within him like wildfire, and in a fit of dragon-worthy impulse, he decided it was time to put an end to the Hightower's act.

So, with the grace of a storm, Daemon did what any Targaryen worth his dragon would – he took Otto down, fists descending on the cunt's face.

His grandsire had been furious, as had been Viserys, but Daemon wore his rebellious spirit like armor. The scuffle became the talk of King's Landing, whispered in the shadows and shared over goblets of Arbor Gold in the Red Keep. Otto Hightower, the lofty Hand of the King, humbled by the Rogue Prince in a brawl.

The twit strutted around the Red Keep sporting a black eye like a badge of honor, and Daemon? Well, he earned himself a new moniker—The Rogue Prince. And that marked the beginning of the brewing feud between Daemon and Otto.

The feud continued, each encounter turning into a play. Daemon, with his smirk as sharp as Valyrian steel, takes a certain pleasure in needling Otto.

To this day, Daemon has no idea what his aunt Viserra had seen in the Hightower prick to bed him, but he figured it must have been some twisted sense of humor.

Now that he thinks about it, his aunt was fond of charity. Perhaps, in her charitable moments, she thought the Hightowers needed a dash of Targaryen blood to liven up their dull, highborn lives.

That charitable act resulted in the birth of the eldest daughter of Otto Hightower, a bastard by name but cherished enough by Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and Viserys to be deemed trueborn. So much that the Hightower girl, while in Viserra's womb, was gifted a dragon egg from his grandsire.

Her arrival, however, bore a bitter sweetness. On the very day this Hightower girl opened her lilac eyes to the world, the realm mourned the loss of Daemon's beloved aunt, Viserra.

The girl's motherless fate left an ache in the hearts of the Targaryens, but Alysanne and Jaehaerys, in their grief, found solace in the babe with ginger locks and white streaks.

It had stung when there had been no celebrations for Daemon claiming Caraxes, but when the girl's egg hatched in her cradle, the old King and Viserys didn't put her down for days on end. The small room echoed with the laughter of a king and the coos of an infant dragon.

Daemon, still young, didn't quite warm up to the girl. In fact, he harbored a dislike for her. She seemed to steal away the attention that was once solely his.

Before her, Daemon was the youngest Targaryen, the darling of the family, and now, this Hightower girl had shifted the spotlight. It wasn't just his favourite aunt Viserra he lost; it was the undivided focus of everyone around him.

Days melted into nights, and the halls of the Red Keep echoed with the laughter of a king and the coos of a dragon-blessed child. While Daemon brooded over the lack of attention, the little Hightower girl grew up under the watchful eyes of her Targaryen kin.

Jaehaerys, in his grandfatherly pride, declared her the "realm's jewel" when presenting her to the people of King's Landing. But for Daemon, she remained a constant reminder of what he was compelled to share—his place in the sun, his family's gaze, and the undivided attention he once claimed as his birthright.

Pious and pretty, she was the ideal princess of the Red Keep, a vision that Jaehaerys delighted in showcasing. To the people, she became a prized possession, a radiant gem adding luster to the Targaryen legacy.

Yet, for Daemon, her brilliance cast shadows over his own accomplishments, leaving them diminished in the face of her grace.

Whenever Daemon voiced his discontent to Viserys, his brother's response was a dismissive eye-roll, steadfastly aligning with the girl. Daemon found himself pitted against the perfection she effortlessly embodied, his protests falling on deaf ears.

To make it worst, Caraxes, Daemon's dragon, seemed infatuated with the girl's dragon, Stormsong—a stunning, pure white dragoness with hints of pale blue that could steal anyone's breath. Painfully, Daemon found himself conflicted, for, despite the rivalry, he couldn't deny the beauty of Stormsong.

It was downright comical how Caraxes would gallantly soar across the skies, hunting for prey like a knight on a quest, all to lay the spoils at Stormsong's feet.

The absurdity reached its peak when Stormsong, regal and nonchalant, would casually accept Caraxes' offerings. No grand displays of gratitude—just a quick nibble, a dismissive flutter of her massive wings, and a return to her stoic disinterest. Caraxes, the poor love-struck fool, was stuck in a loop of hunting, presenting, and being ignored.

"She's just one dragon, Caraxes, not the damn Queen of Love and Beauty." Daemon had tried to convince his blood wyrm.

Caraxes rumbled in disagreement, his gaze never wavering from Stormsong, who was being groomed and licked by her mother, Dreamfyre. Stormsong was a dragon version of the little Hightower, if there ever was one.

The peace was short-lived as Stormsong grumbled at her mother, pulling away. With a soft thrill, the dragoness took flight, her wings cutting through the air with grace that made even Daemon paused momentarily.

But he quickly shook off his distraction, turning to confront his blood wyrm. "Do not even think of—" Daemon's words were abruptly silenced as Caraxes took flight in pursuit after Stormsong.

Caraxes was nothing if not determined. It was embarassing to see his dragon reduced to one of those pitiful lovers in those books Aemma reads.

Everything in Daemon's life was affected by the girl. A constant thorn in his side. The Hightower girl, despite being a bastard by name, had the uncanny ability to steal the limelight.

Stumbling in after a night of indulgence in the finest wines, Daemon was greeted by a scene that would make even the most seasoned warrior question reality. There she was, the little Hightower, lying in his bed like she owned the place, completely in the nude.

Daemon, not one to be easily flustered, blinked a couple of times, wondering if the wine had played a trick on him. But no, there she remained, sprawled across his bed in all her ginger-haired glory, softly snoring like a dragon who'd had a few too many sheep for dinner.

A mix of confusion, irritation, and a hint of amusement flickered across Daemon's face as he surveyed the unexpected guest. Can he have one day where this girl doesn't create havoc in his life? Apparently not."

"Did you lose your way to the sept and mistakenly wander into a dragon's lair?" he quipped, his tone a blend of sarcasm and genuine curiosity. The girl remained blissfully oblivious, undisturbed by the chaos her mere presence was causing.

Daemon considered waking her with a nudge or a shout, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation or the wine still coursing through his veins, but he found himself oddly captivated by the sight of the girl in his bed.

Just for tonight. He can deal with her for one night.

taglist: @justaproudslytherpuff @naty-1001 @juskonutoh @ammo23 @beebeechaos @fabimaou @w3ird11 @pet1t3 @moongirl27

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 5 (20th Sep)

Here with me — @lotrweek

All of Rohan stood at the ready in and around Edoras, eager to behold their new king. Everything was prepared and cautiously measured. Banners, flags, food, drink. Hardly any flowers or garlands, but that did not matter to them. The Rohirrim wore their shiniest armour or most fancy dress, their blond heads plaited and adorned with the most intriguing hairstyles for whomever was foreign to Rohirric customs. And there were many who attended from outside the kingdom too.

As Éomer insisted, he would first pay tribute to the funeral mounds of his predecessors, then climb the capital while mounted on his horse, solemnly making his way through his people up to the Golden Hall and his throne, where the crown would be placed upon his brow by his sister. A simple ceremony, despite the symbolism behind it. He was a man of simple taste, like most of his kin. There was no wish for any luxurious display typical of Gondorian events, even though Aragorn’s coronation did impress him greatly.

Éowyn was waiting outside Meduseld by Faramir’s side, dressed in her most formal gown. She nervously fidgeted with the trimming of her sleeve, casting several glances towards the city. She could merely catch a tiny glimpse of the Barrowfield, so crowded were the steps to the Hall. But there was nobody to be seen by the graves. No silhouette, no cloak, nothing.

She let out yet another sigh and flattened her cuff again, realising that she messed it up by tweaking it. Her nerves were getting the best of her.

‘He is late,’ she murmured. ‘I saw that he was clothed on time, so why is he late?’

A hand cupped her shoulder, alleviating some of the weight that she placed upon them.

‘My lady, do not fret so much,’ Faramir whispered to her in his honeyed voice she had learnt to cherish. ‘It is not unusual for ceremonies to run late, either in Rohan or Gondor, I am sure. Whatever is keeping him from the ceremony must be justified.’

Éowyn nibbled on her lower lip, absent-mindedly covering his hand with her own. The warmth of his skin temporarily soothed her, but she could not prevent the whirlwind of possibilities to take over her mind. What if her brother was ill? What if something crucial was missing? What if the blade of his sword had not been polished well enough for his taste? What if he was injured? What if the preparations for the ceremony now seemed too dull to him, and he preferred a Gondorian celebration? What if somebody snuck inside and attacked him?

Another look thrown towards the mounds. Another answerless inquiry.

She shook her head and tugged at her skirt.

‘I must check on him. I just want to make sure that he is alright.’

Before Faramir could seize her hand and hold her back to comfort her, she stormed towards the doors and nodded at the guards to open them. Inside the hall, there were only servants and maids arranging the last details for the coronation, bringing in benches and setting up pelts upon them, as well as on the throne itself. Banners were hung from the lofty arches, bearing the colours of the realm and Éomer’s arms. The mere sight brought some balm to her heart. She could already tell that her brother would be loved by all, as he deserved to be.

But that relied on his presence at the coronation, which was still uncertain. Where could he be? Éowyn searched the kitchens first, wondering whether her brother would feel peckish if he felt anything as nervous as she did. None of the kitchen staff had seen him.

Then, she moved her quest to the King’s Quarters, inspecting the office, the archives, but he kept eluding her. So, as her last resort, she gathered up her skirts and ran towards the royal quarters. As beads of sweat manifested on her forehead and trapped the few flyaway hairs detaching from her hairdo, she nearly sprinted down the corridor to reach Éomer’s door.

When she stood there, she softly knocked but earned no response. Frustrated and stressed from the delay, her fist slammed harder against the wood. Nothing. Yet she would not accept it. She instantly forced the door open and scanned the room. A sniffle from behind the bed caught her attention. She snapped her head towards the source of the noise and followed it.

Huddled up on the floor with his back pressed to the bedframe, Éomer was painfully pressing his knees up to his chest, despite the stiffness of his ceremonial armour. Tears stained his reddened cheek and drowned his unfocused eyes. He looked an utter mess, right when he should not.

Éowyn sank to the floor by his side and held him by the shoulders, trying to bring him to look into her eyes as they bore into him.

‘Éomer, what is happening?’ she whimpered helplessly, taken aback by the alarming sight. ‘Everybody is awaiting your arrival.’

He roughly wiped his cheek, not bothering to look at his sister — or perhaps he felt too ashamed to do it — and sniffed again.

‘I cannot do it, Wyn.’

Her brow furrowed. She could not imagine how her brother, renowned for his bravery and strength of will, would yield to the promise of the throne. Now that their family had been robbed from them, she was most likely the living person who knew him best, and she never had seen him in such a state since the passing of their parents.

She sat down beside him and nudged him with her shoulder.

‘Why is that, Mer?’

He gathered himself up, regaining enough strength to explain his anguish when words so fleeted him. Despite his state, he sensed the urge to spare her from the harshness of what tormented him, in the same way that he had sought to protect her ever since she was born. But there was not much that he could hide from her now. She had eyes, and it was about time that he stopped infantilising her. She had proven herself worthy of the greatest honours; he could no longer confine her to the image of a helpless child.

As if she had ever been that.

‘I never meant for any of this to happen,’ he sighed. ‘Théodred’s passing, the war, our uncle’s passing… I was never educated to become king. I was never taught state affairs. I am a soldier. That is all I have ever been. What legitimacy do I have as a king? I deserve none of it.’

‘Mer…’

Éowyn wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. Oh, how it pained her to see him in such a state. Her thumb traced soft lines on his arm at a soothing pace, helping him relax by the minute.

‘You are underestimating yourself,’ she murmured. ‘You have much to learn, as does every king accessing the throne, but that does not mean that you do not know anything. You were a prince once, before our uncle became king. You received the education of a prince by your old tutor. Surely Théodred spoke to you about some things he learnt. You two were close.’

‘He did, but what legitimacy does it give me?’

‘The blood of the royal house of Rohan flows through your veins as it does through mine. You have spent your youth, your whole life defending the realm. You are a war hero. How would you not be the ruler that our kingdom needs?’

Éomer scoffed and planted a brief kiss on her forearm, clinging to it.

‘We have hardly had any time to mourn Théoden and Théodred. Everything happened so fast… My heart is still aching.’

‘War brought much torment to our family and continues to do so even now that it is over. Do not keep the pain at bay. Embrace it, but acknowledge your duty as well, Éomer. Today is yours to seize as our new king. You can grieve for as long as you need to once the crown has been placed on your head.’

‘Will it not alter my capacities to carry on my responsibilities?’

She shook her head and shifted closer to him. This time, their eyes met, and for the first time since everything went dark for them both, they saw the child within themselves and the other. Two children, almost left to their own devices, alone against a hostile world that threatened to annihilate everything they knew and held dear.

For a long time, they only had each other. Théoden and Théodred, as much as they cherished them, hardly understood the extent of their loss. For years they hid their pain to keep up with their uncle and cousin and accommodate themselves into the new roles bestowed upon them. And when Gríma planted his rotten fangs under the king’s skin and poisoned him, the siblings were alone against the world again.

And they would always find each other in the end. Despite Éomer’s banishment, despite Éowyn’s narrow escape from death.

Éowyn tightened her grip around her older brother. She had too often overlooked the simplicity of a fraternal embrace, words of encouragement towards each other. They mattered now. More than ever.

‘You will be a just king, Éomer. I just know it. And I believe in you.’

‘But…’

Tears flooded his eyes anew and spilled onto his beard as he let out a gasped and trembled.

‘But you will not see any of it. You will not be around. I am about to lose you too,’ he wept.

‘Lose me?’

He shrugged and clutched her arm.

‘You are leaving for Gondor. You will settle down there, build a family and a life there. Will I even see you again?’

Éowyn’s eyes widened at his words. Never had she imagined that she had caused part of his strife. She had been elated about her engagement, which was to be announced later on during the celebrations, but she had no clue that Éomer would resent it in any way.

Her thumb wiped away his tears.

‘You are not losing me, Mer, nor will you ever. My marriage will never come in the way of our bond, I promise you that. I will visit as often as I am able, and you will know your nieces or nephews. They will know your name and your face, and their eyes will light up with joy whenever your name is mentioned. I will make sure of that. Besides, you will always be welcome in our home.’

‘Do you really mean that?’

She laughed and ran a hand through his hair to tame the knots that he had created by clutching tresses of it when nobody was looking.

‘Of course I do! You are my brother, Mer, and I do not want a life where you are estranged.’

‘Mh.’

At last, he allowed himself to smile, despite the brevity of the display. She grinned and kissed his cheek.

‘I will always be with you,’ she intoned. ‘Today especially. I am here with you, and I have no desire to turn away.’

Éomer sighed and held her against his heart.

‘Here. With me. Alright. Perhaps I can do this.’

They parted and stared at each other for a few seconds, before chuckling together. She stood up and held out her hand.

‘Come on. Your people are waiting.’

He took it without thinking and allowed her to straighten up his appearance. Before they walked out the door, he halted her with a hand on her back.

‘Before we go…’

She looked up at him expectantly, wondering what he had to say. He was never one for emotional or affectionate displays. Éomer inhaled deeply and smiled at his little sister.

‘You look beautiful today. And you will be the most gorgeous bride in history. And I love you.’

[and-come-to-dust]

Rings of Power WIP

This is a piece of a longer fic I have planned out where Elrond visits Númenor post-season 1 as an emissary from Gil-Galad. In this scene, Elrond is on Elendil's ship, just arriving in Númenor's harbor. The dialogue between them (and the whole fic, really) grew up out of my desperate desire for someone in the show to acknowledge that Elendil is Elrond's great great great (great great great great great...) nephew, which for some reason is both hilarious to me and holds enormous potential for angst.

Enjoy!

“Beautiful, isn’t it?" Elendil said. "I’ve lived here all my life and the view still takes my breath away.”

“I have never seen it before,” Elrond said, nodding towards the statue of Eärendil. The statue of his father, Elendil realized with another one of those strange jolts he still felt every time he remembered that he was standing beside a figure from his childhood storybooks come to life.

“I thought you had visited Númenor in the past?”

“I have,” Elrond agreed. “But the last time I was here, construction had only just begun on the sculpture.”

Elendil said nothing, reminded yet again that this elf who looked barely older than Isildur had already lived many human lifetimes by the time this ancient kingdom was founded. 

“I promised, at the time, that I would return to see it finished,” Elrond went on. “But time moves so differently for my people than it does for yours, and it seems to be a particular fault of mine to forget that. By the time I thought to return, my promise was already long past due and I found that the way back to Númenor was closed to me. My kind were no longer welcome in what was once my brother’s kingdom, and I lost contact with his descendants. That is why I am so pleased to have met you, Captain. I am glad to know that I still have kin.”

“Kin in Númenor, you mean?”

“Kin anywhere.”

Elendil paused, thinking of all the lofty tales he’d heard told about the house of Eärendil. There were grandparents and great grandparents, aunts and uncles, many distant cousins, all dead before the beginning of the Second Age. There was a father who set sail, never to return, and a mother who cast herself into the sea in his wake. There was one brother who had chosen mortality and death, and another who had chosen otherwise. It occurred to him then, sudden and startling in its obviousness, that for all the greatness of Elrond’s family he was very much alone in this world.

Finding himself at a loss to articulate his sorrow for the terrible loneliness that must bring, Elendil looked back to the statue. “Is it a good likeness?” he asked, the change of subject sounding clumsy in his own ears, but Elrond seemed to take it in stride.

“I believe the sculptors have captured his features well,” he replied slowly. “But it is not as I remember him.”

“In what way?”

“In my memory, he smiles.”

Elrond wasn’t looking at him anymore, and was instead staring up at the monument with an expression of such naked wistfulness on his face that Elendil felt compelled to look away. He turned instead to the statue and tried, for a moment, to imagine that it was an image of his own father; that the great stone face high above was the same one that had laughed as they splashed in the waves together in Elendil’s earliest memories and looked at him with such pride the day Elendil passed his sea trial; that the outstretched carven hand was the same one that had held him as a baby and guided him as he learned his letters. The thought was such an absurd one that Elendil almost laughed. But he mastered the urge, and said instead:

“It must be very strange, seeing your father like that.”

“I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to it,” Elrond said, smiling faintly. “Everywhere I go, I am known first for my father’s accomplishments, and second for my brother’s. My own come in a rather unimpressive third.”

“You have time enough to match them. You’re young still,” Elendil said, and immediately felt like a fool. It was something he might have said to Isildur or Eärien when they spoke with ambition untempered by patience, and it had slipped out now with the deep-ingrained habits of fatherhood. But speaking like that to an elf hundreds of times his own age – the high king’s emissary, no less – was ridiculous to the point of insult. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Elrond was already laughing.

“I suppose I am,” he said. “As are you, captain, if we measure by elvish standards. Perhaps the both of us still have our greatest deeds ahead of us.”

“Perhaps,” Elendil said dubiously. The future he expected for himself was a simple one: to live and die as a captain of the sea guard and a loyal servant of Númenor. Honorable, perhaps, but unremarkable in the long view of history. It was not the kind of life that would result in monuments being built in his honor, and Elendil was quite content to be forgotten. 

He opened his mouth to say as much to Elrond, but was interrupted by the approach of his lieutenant. 

“Sir,” the young man said. “We’ll be dropping anchor soon.”

Elendil nodded, then said to Elrond: “Excuse me. Duty calls.”

“Of course.”

Elendil turned away and followed the lieutenant, pulling his attention away from thoughts of ancient heroes and back to the work of the present. He glanced back once, though, and saw Elrond still waiting at the prow, standing in the shadow of his father’s outstretched hand.

[damnhamsam]

The Flammifer of Westernesse (lightbearer of the western lands) (evening star) (lucifer) (venus)

Eärendil was a mariner

that tarried in Arvernien;

he built a boat of timber felled

in Nimbrethil to journey in;

her sails he wove of silver fair,

of silver were her lanterns made,

her prow was fashioned like a swan,

and light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,

in chained rings he armoured him;

his shining shield was scored with runes

to ward all wounds and harm from him;

his bow was made of dragon-horn,

his arrows shorn of ebony,

of silver was his habergeon,

his scabbard of chalcedony;

his sword of steel was valiant,

of adamant his helmet tall,

an eagle-plume upon his crest,

upon his breast an emerald.

Beneath the Moon and under star

he wandered far from northern strands,

bewildered on enchanted ways

beyond the days of mortal lands.

From gnashing of the Narrow Ice

where shadow lies on frozen hills,

from nether heats and burning waste

he turned in haste, and roving still

on starless waters far astray

at last he came to Night of Naught,

and passed, and never sight he saw

of shining shore nor light he sought.

The winds of wrath came driving him,

and blindly in the foam he fled

from west to east and errandless,

unheralded he homeward sped.

There flying Elwing came to him,

and flame was in the darkness lit;

more bright than light of diamond

the fire upon her carcanet.

The Silmaril she bound on him

and crowned him with the living light

and dauntless then with burning brow

he turned his prow; and in the night

from Otherworld beyond the Sea

there strong and free a storm arose,

a wind of power in Tarmenel;

by paths that seldom mortal goes

his boat it bore with biting breath

as might of death across the grey

and long-forsaken seas distressed:

from east to west he passed away.

Through Evernight he back was borne

on black and roaring waves that ran

o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores

that drowned before the Days began,

until he heard on strands of pearl

where ends the world the music long,

where ever-foaming billows roll

the yellow gold and jewels wan.

He saw the Mountain silent rise

where twilight lies upon the knees

of Valinor, and Eldamar

beheld afar beyond the seas.

A wanderer escaped from night

to haven white he came at last,

to Elvenhome the green and fair

where keen the air, where pale as glass

beneath the Hill of Ilmarin

a-glimmer in valley sheer

the lamplit towers of Tirion

are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

He tarried there from errantry,

and melodies they taught to him,

and sages old him marvels told,

and harps of gold they brought to him.

They clothed him then in elven-white,

and seven lights before him sent,

as through the Calacirian

to hidden land forlorn he went.

He came unto the timeless halls

where shining fall the countless years,

and endless reigns the Elder King

in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;

and words unheard were spoken then

of folk of Men and Elven-kin.

Beyond the world were visions showed

forbid to those that dwell therein.

A ship then new they built for him

of mithril and of elven-glass

with shining prow; no shaven oar

nor sail she bore on silver mast:

the Silmaril as lantern light

and banner bright with living flame

to gleam thereon by Elbereth

herself was set, who thither came

and wings immortal made for him,

and laid on him undying doom,

to sail the shoreless skies and come

behind the Sun and light of Moon.

From Evereven's lofty hills

where softly silver fountains fall

his wings him bore, a wandering light,

beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.

From World's End then he turned away,

and yearned again to find afar

his home through shadows journeying,

and burning as an island star

on high above the mists he came,

a distant flame before the Sun,

a wonder ere the waking dawn

where grey the Norland waters run.

And over Middle-earth he passed

and heard at last the weeping sore

of women and of elven-maids

in Elder Days, in years of yore.

But on him mighty doom was laid,

till Moon should fade, an orbéd star

to pass, and tarry never more

on Hither Shores where mortals are;

for ever still a herald on

an errand that should never rest

to bear his shining lamp afar,

the Flammifer of Westernesse.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The Torment of Maedhros

Rating: E

Pairing: Melkor x Mairon x Maedhros

Themes : Dark

Warnings: Captivity | Injuries (briefly mentioned) | Non-con  

Wordcount: 800+words

Summary: Maedhros opens his eyes and finds himself in Melkor’s halls.

Inspired by this amazing art by @saintstars

Minors DNI | 18+

“He opens his eyes at last!” Melkor cried. His voice was like stone crashing against stone, booming and harsh and unyielding, and filled with cruelty and malice. It startled Nelyafinwë and brought him back to the world of awakening with an agonizing rush. “Hail and well met, Nelyafinwë," the Lord of Angband added, "Prince of the Noldor.”

The prince opened his eyes. He first discerned the cold floor pressing against him, the cracks in his lips and the aches in his limbs, and the white-hot agony wrought from the wounds along his sides. Then he dared to lift his gaze. Seated upon a lofty throne hewn out of dark stone and adorned with the bones of the slain was none other than the greatest among the Exalted Ones himself, his fair form garbed in robes and armor of the deepest, darkest black. A crown sat amidst his hair, the bleakness of its iron hidden by the radiance of the three jewels that adorned it. They burned as bright as any star, their light cascading onto columns and walls in a breathtaking waterfall of silver and gold.

They were the Silmarils, the greatest creation brought forth by his lord father’s hands. And they were taken by force, taken by the one who had set them upon his crown, no less. Nelyafinwë was wroth.

“You have no right to them,” he growled. “You have no right to the hallowed jewels. Return them to me, Morgoth, Black Foe of the World. Return them to me, and allow me to go back to my kin.”

Melkor threw his head back and roared. “Return them to you? Allow you safe passage to your kin?” He stood and descended the many steps leading to his throne, the light in his obsidian eyes burning like a scorching flame. “Oh my prince, do you truly believe I would willingly yield what I had been so hard-pressed to gain?”

His prisoner did not even deign to answer. It amused Melkor, this defiance from a creature he could crush so easily. Presently, he said, “The prince has lain overlong on the cold floor, beloved. We should aid him to his feet.”

They were not alone in the cavernous hall that served for a throne room. There was another with them, one whom Nelyafinwë had not yet seen. They came to him, light of foot, nary making a sound as they walked over polished stone. Their arms went around him, lithe but powerful, and lifted him up from behind like he was nothing more than a feather in the hand. Heat pulsed against his skin like a living thing, a sign of the power the one who held him wielded. It frightened him, for he knew who it was.

“Mairon,” he murmured.

“I see those who were born long after I pledged myself to my master know me,” Mairon returned. His voice was as tender as a chaste kiss. “This pleases me, truly, for who yearns to be forgotten? Now fix your eyes, my prince, on the hallowed jewels that rest even now upon my beloved’s crown. Savor this moment, for the gift of gazing upon them is all you will ever receive.”

As Melkor drew closer, a strange hum slowly arose, filling the prince’s ears. Beneath it, he perceived, were a hundred hushed voices in his kindred's tongue. Each word rippled through the air over and over and over again; they seeped into the very marrow of his bones and urged him to reach out and take the blazing jewels and fulfill, once and for all, the Oath he swore alongside his father and his brothers. Nelyafinwë moved to obey this call, and Melkor thwarted his attempt to do so. He seized the prince’s arms, his hands as tight as vises. He was rewarded with a cry of pain.  

“You may behold the Silmarils,” Melkor warned, “as Mairon said. But that is all you will ever be allowed, Nelyafinwë, prince of the Noldor.” He looked over his prisoner’s shoulder and smiled at his most loyal servant and companion. “Fëanaro’s shining heir is now ours to do with as we please. Pray how do we begin?”

“I will never yield!” Nelyafinwë cried, ashamed of the weaknesses of his flesh. “You will find no easy conquest with me!” 

“In whatever manner we wish,” Mairon replied, his smile a mirror of his master’s own. His hand streaked over Nelyafinwë’s exposed form, greedy, possessive, and far from gentle. It sent an unwelcome shiver down the elf’s back. “This one is comelier than all of the others," the Maia declared, "and stronger. He will not waste away as quickly as they did. And look! See how he is already aroused! We must indulge as much as we can from what this delectable morsel has to offer.”

“We do not seek easy conquest,” Melkor said, “certainly not with you. Come, my love. Let us take our prize to our chambers. It is time he became acquainted with us in a more intimate fashion.”

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

[precious-little-bhaalbabe]

This post took me so long to actually write down all of I ended up sketching the swapped companions before finishing it

Behold!

More detailed descriptions and musings under the cut

Jenevelle the Shadowheart

Forever seeking to serve her Queen and to prove herself among her adoptive kin. Prove herself worthy of the silver she wears and perhaps one day grace the back of a mighty red dragon as Kithrak, should her Queen allow it.

Paints her spots on every day along with her war paint

Her long braid is decorated with a headpiece paying tribute to the Undying Queen, though of course never as resplendent as Vlaakith herself

Lazelle, Daughter of Shar

With her blade, she will cut Selûne and her wretched Tears from the sky and blanket Faerûn in the Nightsinger’s perfect darkness, whether the Mother Superior permits her to become Dark Justiciar or not

If not for her nose, it would be hard to pin her as Githyanki and not a strange looking wood elf. No spots and the shells of her long ears lacking the usual frills (inspired as an artist by Ptaris not having those features in game). A harmless malformation as the result of being raised in an unnatural environment, or something more sinister at play?

The name Lazelle was gifted to her by the Mother Superior, though something about it always felt slightly… off.

Karlach Cliffgate, Mage of the Heartlands

Chose her title saying there were far too many lofty heroes already claiming heritage from Baldur’s Gate, and she wanted her legend to show she fought for all the innocent people of the Heartlands her city calls home, like the heroes of sword and sorcery that inspired her to study magic as a youth.

Far fewer scars but nearly as many tattoos under those robes as the Karlach we know. Runes imbued with protective wards, magic symbols, dedications to her parents and to Mystra.

Her rough cut and dyed hair is woven in with silver disks with the symbol of Mystra

Even having fallen out of her favor recently, the Mage of the Heartlands wears her tabard emblazoned with the symbol of the goddess of magic still.

Naturally quite tall and heavy set, she still keeps an impressive musculature for a mage. Claims there’s no use for more mages who just sit in their towers reading all day. The Weave is meant to be touched, used to protect and assist people. Would far sooner cast a new spell to see the effects than study it in theory.

When you first meet her, she explains the softly glowing orange mark on her chest to be a scar of one such use of experimental magic. Perhaps after some trust is built, she will reveal the true nature of what caused it.

Gale Dekarios, the Black Flame of Avernus

A guard trained in picking off threats with his trusty longbow long before they could reach him or the one he protects, the Blood War has seen him far closer to the center of the action than he would prefer.

I didn’t draw them because it was hard enough designing new outfits for him and Karlach but he’s got tattoos. And scars.

The black flame and smoke from the infernal engine in his chest waft from the vents on his shoulders, the deep ominous glow from under his ribs never ceasing.

Wears a single earring of the crest of Waterdeep, the home he has sought to return to all these long years. Now, he’ll finally have the chance. If his heart doesn’t burn him from the inside out first.

Astarion Ancunín, the Blade of Frontiers

Handsome, heroic, and the talk of the land, the Blade of Frontiers will be a storybook hero in times to come

His dashing smile and golden eyes, handsome figure fitted in beautiful embroidery, are protected by his rapier and the healthy green glow of Fey magic

The armored chest piece he wears emblazoned proudly and loudly with the crest of Baldur’s Gate, a reminder of the people he’s sworn to protect

Wyll Ravenguard, the One-Eyed Warrior

A handsome and unassuming man at first glance, apart from his missing eye. Closer look is even more intriguing, his remaining eye a striking blood red.

Dressed in courtly garb, hardly the outfit you’d associate with an adventurer, but his skill with the blade quickly squashes any doubt he’s fit for the task at hand.

Upon first meeting him, he says the missing eye is the scar from a battle and nothing more. When you learn about his past and his history with the vampire lord Cazador Szaar, he reveals the scar is one of the last injuries he suffered as a mortal man. Taken out in the fight with cultists of the dragon that resulted in his death, before Cazador claimed him as his undead spawn.

[cirithechildofdestiny]

🎼Ciernan and Aenyell ✨🐍💛Blood of Blood

Read manga here: https://ciri.the-comic.org

Manga on Russian language : https://ru-ciri.the-comic.org/

Also you can support the project on Patreon : https://www.patreon.com/yagihikaru Or Boosty : https://boosty.to/hikaruyagi

lyrics:

In Aen Elle's forests, where nights are long, Two elves shine bright, like the moon's silver song. Brother and sister, like blades of one knife, Their bond is unbreakable, one blood, one life. Her gaze like sunlight, golden and bright, His eyes like violets, purple twilight. Blood of Blood, Ciernan and Aenyell, two faces of one fate, In destiny's patterns, their paths integrate. Trees whisper softly, waters perceive: Where brother goes, sister won't leave. In noble pursuits or in shadowy deeds, They're each other's strength, whatever life feeds.

Let the world judge, they care not a bit, By sword they've sworn, their oath firmly knit. Beautiful faces, with souls full of guile, For their kin they'd go the last mile. In lofty halls or forest's deep shade, Their bond stronger than any chains made.

В лесах Aen Elle, где ночи длинны, Два эльфа прекрасны, как свет луны. Брат с сестрой, как два клинка, Их связь крепка, их кровь одна. Взор у неё – как солнца свет, У брата – фиалок лиловый цвет.

Кровь от Крови, Кирнан и Эаниэль, два лика одной судьбы, В узорах судьбы сплетаются их пути. Шепчут деревья, слышит вода: Где брат – там сестра, вместе всегда. В делах благородных и в тёмных делах, Друг другу опора, развеют весь страх.

Пусть мир осуждает, им всё нипочём, Клятву давно скрепили мечом. Прекрасны лицом, но лукавы душой, Готовы на всё за свой род родной. В чертогах высоких и в тени лесов, Их узы сильнее любых оков.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 27

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Don't you hate it when talk about Feelings has to wait because you've got an archdevil to take down. ***

In the many centuries that followed the Fall of Netheril, the Blood War raged on as it had for time immemorial. In that time as Steward of Avernus, Raphael witnessed all manners of events across the Hells and many other Planes. 

Most were mundane, some unusual, some extraordinary; very few, however, compared to witnessing a mortal coming within a hair’s breadth of godhood, the blinking out of existence of all magic, the destruction of an empire in a matter of moments - all made possible by an artifact of immense power and potential, now collecting dust in the Eighth layer of the Hells.

All in all, until a couple of decades into his seventeenth century of life, Raphael could quite safely say he had yet to witness anything that came close to that. Until he witnessed a blindfolded Solar with a glowing sword in hand, charging into Avernus atop a golden mastodon, leading a mounted charge of thousands of Hellriders against demonic hordes. 

That, he had to admit, did fit the definition of an extraordinary event… and it was as much a folly as Karsus’ bid for godhood had been. There was a reason why Celestials had long stopped waging war against the demons of the Abyss: those of them who were sent to do so had been changed beyond recognition, taking on characteristics of their enemies to better vanquish them.

In the end they became something altogether different, ever caught in-between demon and celestial: the first devils. Sworn enemies of demons and yet reviled by what had once been their own kin and by the gods - the very some who had sent them forth to be their scourge and their shield, the only bastion against the hordes of the Abyss. 

So many eons had passed that history had turned to legend, and a little known one at that. But it was the truth. Raphael would know; Lord Mephistopheles had been one of those first devils, after all. He had never willingly spoken of that distant past to him or anyone as far as he was aware, but Raphael had made it his mission - one of several - to learn all he could about his sire, so he could spot any gaps in his armor.

While he did learn much, he had not found any such gaps. None large enough to let a figurative dagger slip past, at least. But Raphael had also learned to be patient, and he had time in abundance.

“Apparently, they intend to chase the demons into the Abyss, and slaughter them all,” Lord Bel had muttered, unaware of his thoughts. He had been watching the charge through a telescope atop the Bronze Citadel. On top of the outer rings of its defensive walls, much of the garrison was watching the events unfold too. “What does my steward make of it?”

“I think it’s the epitome of idiocy,” Raphael had replied, gaining himself a chuckle. 

“And my steward is correct.”

“I have been known to be.”

“Don’t get complacent, boy,” Lord Bel had replied, as though Raphael wasn’t quite past the age to be considered one even by hellish standards. He’d lowered the telescope before speaking again. “It is idiocy. She will fail. Her mortal friends will die and she’s likely to suffer a worse fate yet. But as long as she’s fighting demons, she can be a useful idiot.”

“A strategic alliance?”

“If she’s so inclined, which I doubt. Celestials are usually too righteous to do the clever thing. More likely than not, she will refuse the alliance and make some lofty oath to take up her sword against us should we intervene - with the unspoken implication she will do so either way once all demons are dead by her holy hand, of course.”

Raphael scoffed. Demons were close enough to infinite in numbers, and anyone with half a brain knew that defeating them for good was impossible. They could be held back, never destroyed; they were as eternal as the chaos they had spawned from. 

“Does she truly believe her quaint cavalry can succeed where all of our forces could not?” 

“Don’t underestimate a celestial’s arrogance. Still, the remote possibility exists that this one may see reason.” Bel pulled away from the telescope, and turned back to look at him. “It would be foolish of me not to make an attempt. As soon as this battle is done and they make camp, you shall go as my envoy. Do try to return in one piece.”

He did go, and the meeting was short as it was unpleasant, with the solar doing most of the talking. As Bel had predicted there was the refusal of any cooperation, the promise to destroy their forces should they approach, the silent threat that they would be next once the demonic hordes were crushed. He’d returned to Bel in one piece, at least, and the Lord of the First had laughed when he heard his report. 

“She thinks she can destroy demons and then us in one fell swoop? Well then, let her try. Let us see how many demons they can slaughter for us before they’re felled.”

It was many; hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands and more. Zariel fought furiously, if recklessly, and she fought well. So did her host, which lasted longer than Raphael had thought it possibly could - but they were mortals, and they fell far more easily than a celestial would; more easily than a fiend, too. More and more fell, their numbers dwindled, and the demons kept coming - wave after wave, horde after horde, shattering spears and shields, disemboweling horses and riders alike. Battles turned to indiscriminate butchery and no legion of devils intervened one way or the other. Their offer for help had, after all, been quite rudely rebuffed and Zariel, sworn sword of the Morninglord Lathander and herald of dawn. 

She had made plain that she was their enemy, and few things are quite as convenient as two enemies making one another bleed. So the troops of Avernus retreated, took advantage of the rare lull to reorganize their numbers, repair weapons, and prepare for the fighting that was inevitably going to resume once the Ride failed. 

Because it did fail. When a group of terrified Hellriders finally broke away over the course of a particularly bloody battle, Raphael knew it would seal their fate. They fled back to the portal they’d opened up from the Material Plane, went through it… and such was their terror the demons may follow, they closed it behind them, leaving the rest trapped.

Of those who remained some broke, turned on one another, tried to seek escape where no escape existed. They died, almost every one of them, until a small gang was left, closing ranks alongside a wounded mastodon and a solar who still held her head high, still attempting a last stand. It was brave, and it was futile. Raphael was there to see Netheril fall; he bore witness to the fall of Zariel, too. 

But unlike Karsus, Zariel did not stay down for long. She was alive when a delegation of bone devils sent by Asmodeus himself came to retrieve her from beneath the pile of corpses, to take her all the way to Nessus. They came quickly, a little too quickly for Raphael not to suspect the Lord Below had been expecting precisely that outcome before making a move.

Raphael assumed she would be tortured, or made into a trophy; he was dreadfully correct, but not in the way he’d thought he would be. When Asmodeus announced Zariel - now an archdevil, corrupted by the Hells down to her bones - was to be the new ruler of Avernus, leading their forces against the demons of the Abyss, saying it was an unexpected development would have been a severe understatement. It surprised and angered many, but none dared voice that anger - especially not Bel, who publicly accepted the decision without protest even as he schemed, from the beginning, to regain his lost throne. 

Losing the position of Steward of Avernus did not bother Raphael nearly as much. All things considered, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise - too many centuries in one position can make anyone complacent, dull the edge of ambition. But he’d prepared for that chance: over the centuries he’d set aside enough souls to his name, enough warlocks and connections. 

He could not retain the title of duke, but he was allowed to remain in Avernus, in a dwelling he may create for himself, as long as he paid a quota of souls each year. Simple enough, truly.

As Zariel rose to power Raphael, servant of none at last, was ready to strive out on his own.

***

The first time Karlach had seen Zariel, there was a moment when she’d almost been relieved.

Surely, none of that was truly happening. She had not been grabbed and thrown through a portal to the Hells; she had not heard Gortash say she would make the perfect specimen for a prototype, whatever that meant. She had not been dragged inside a flying fortress of iron and basalt high above Avernus, sulfur threatening to choke her at every breath. 

None of it was truly happening, she’d reasoned, because she was having a nightmare. She had to be dreaming. The creature standing before her with a burning halo over her head, ashen skin and burning eyes, could only be a figment of her imagination. She had a few precious moments to take solace in that.

Then the pain started - her chest sliced open and ribs spread apart with an iron instrument, something torn out and then replaced by what felt like molten lead - and she knew that if this was a nightmare, it was one she would never again wake from. Until she did wake up ten years later, under the sun amidst the remains of a nautiloid, swearing to herself that she was never, ever going to set foot in Avernus. 

Things hadn’t precisely gone according to plan, because she actually set both feet back in Avernus in the end, just so that she wouldn’t… well, die. But she would have never gone back alone, of that she was certain. She would have never been able to survive half a year there, never been able to find out that there was a chance to replace her engine with one that could function outside the Hells. In choosing to come with her, Wyll had saved her life.

And he still thought I’d let him get himself grab the sword and get fucked over again for my sake. As if. As fucking if. 

She could hear the sword in question humming faintly at Halsin’s back. Actually, the hum kept growing less and less faint the higher up they went. Reacting to Zariel, Lulu had whispered when Karlach asked about it.

“We’re close, I can tell - I feel her, too!” 

“Shouldn’t she be able to feel you and the sword approaching, too?” Wyll asked, causing Lulu to frown. At least, it looked like a frown. Discerning the expressions of a hollyphant really wasn’t easy. 

“... Yes, she should feel my presence too, shouldn’t she? And she hasn’t come to meet us.”

“What were you expecting, miserable little thing? A hug?” Mizora muttered, but she looked thoughtful as they made their way further up, among turrets at the slit windows and other infernal machinery. One good thing about the earlier fight was that they met no one the rest of the way; clearly, whoever was supposed to occupy the few highest floors had responded to Flo’s call to come and fight them. 

Still holding the chain they had attached to Lulu for show, Halsin had frowned. “She has not called upon any forces to stop us, either.”

Mizora hummed. “She may very well wish to keep that pleasure for herself.”

“No, she wouldn’t hurt me. And you know that. You had to kill me because she wouldn’t, even if she kept coming to see me every day,” Lulu had replied, and it seemed Mizora had nothing to retort to that. She only scoffed, and Lulu spoke again. “She will listen to me. I know it.”

“... I am sure you still mean a great deal to her,” Wyll said, not unkindly. “But in the event she does not take up the sword--”

“You’re not picking it up. If we have to fight her, we do it without that thing. No one’s getting changed beyond recognition on my watch,” Karlach cut him off the same moment Lulu huffed, shaking her head.

“There will be no such event. I know her, I’ve known her forever. And it’s only been… less than a century and a half since the Ride. That’s not long!”

Wyll chuckled. “It sounds like a long time to me, but I am certain Halsin would say otherwise,” he said, and Halsin smiled. 

“That’s a very kind way to call me old.”

“Oh, come now. You’re barely a middle aged elf.”

Lulu fluttered closer to Karlach, who was still frowning. “I know you don’t understand - I know she hurt you - but please-- she is still there. She must be.”

It’s all the hope she has to cling to. If she’s beyond saving, what will Lulu even do with herself?

It was a sad thought, and Karlach forced herself to chase it away. No, she couldn’t think that way. She had to hope that the hollyphant was right; that enough of the old Zariel was still there within the monster. Honestly, that was one fight she’d happily do without. In the end, she sighed. 

“If the Zariel you knew is still there, we’ll do our best to bring her back out.”

“Yes! And she’ll apologize!”

Low bar to step over, that, but well. They were in the Hells, and it would still be one step up Gortash. I’m sorry you felt wronged, the bitch had said. The absolute bitch, pun fully intended.

“She had better,” Karlach said, making an effort to smile. Up and up they went, until they finally were at the very top of the Fortress, before the metal trapdoor leading to the roof. From there, Zariel would survey their surroundings while the Fortress’ engines got their soul refill from the Styx. 

She’s right there, right beyond this door. And there is no way in all the Hells that she does not know Lulu and her sword are here.

Karlach swallowed, stared at the door a moment, and turned to Wyll. “Just in case something goes wrong, I just… I wanted to… er…” she cleared her throat. “I mean--”

He smiled, and reached up to cup her cheek. “This is not the day we die,” he promised, and brushed a thumb over her cheekbone before he stood on his toes to kiss her. Karlach kissed him back - oh it was so, so nice - and almost wanted to cry when he pulled back. Almost, because he was smiling again and he had that look on his face, the one he got when he made a promise he’d do anything to keep. “This kiss wasn’t our last.”

A sigh. “Delightful, truly. I believe you just rotted half of my teeth,” Mizora muttered, and vanished the chains on Karlach and Lulu with a single gesture. “Well then. I believe I shall let you go forth.”

Halsin glanced over. “Are you not coming?”

She did not reply right away. First, she looked at the closed trapdoor with an expression Karlach couldn’t quite place, but which seemed infinitely bitter. “If you do succeed in redeeming her, I don’t relish the thought of finding myself face to face with her.”

“And if it comes to a fight?” Wyll asked. Mizora sighed, the way a parent does when faced with a particularly slow child asking a particularly dumb question.

“In that case, I’d have all the more reason to make myself scarce.”

“It won’t come to that,” Lulu declared, and bodily slammed into the door before any of them could add a single word, throwing it open and flying outside. “Zarie--”

There was a burst of flames, and she barely managed to duck beneath it. Lulu let out a yelp, wings beating furiously after dodging the attack. “Hey! That wasn’t nice! It’s me!”

That wasn’t nice, she said. Oh gods, they were so screwed. With a groan, Karlach climbed out, a hand ready to fly to her greataxe, which had been silvered for the occasion. She heard, faintly, the sword's humming growing stronger as Halsin followed her and Wyll outside… to be met with no more attacks. The roof was empty but for one being.

At the apex of her fortress, cutting a fearsome figure against the red sky of Avernus and with her only remaining hand still lifted, Zariel stood alone, looking at them all with flaming eyes.

***

Raphael’s face was still wet when the notes of the Song of Rest rang out. 

It was a small respite, far less than the long rest he clearly needed - and Haarlep, truth be told; Durge wouldn’t have said no either - but it was all they could afford now. They sighed at the relief the spell did provide, and tilted their head towards Raphael. They had to rein in a frankly ridiculous impulse to reach out and wipe his face dry, brush back his hair. 

Later, perhaps. We have precious little time. The others may yet need us.

“Thank you,” they said instead. There was much more they wished to say, but that too would have to wait. “I am sorry the circumstances don’t allow for the kind of rest you need.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Raphael’s voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Which will be very soon, I suspect,” he added, in the same tone one may use to make observations about possible rainfall later in the evening. Durge had to admit he was doing an admirable job at pretending he had not been sobbing his heart out against their chest until minutes earlier, in a breakdown that had been… nearly a couple of millennia in the making, from what they’d gathered. 

“Oh, thank you kindly. We really needed a little bit of doom and gloom, to balance out the insufferable cheery surroundings,” Astarion huffed, gesturing to the wasteland all around and the towering fortress above them. All seemed business as usual; the others may not have gotten to Zariel yet, which meant they may very well be still on time to help. 

A couple of steps away, having taken on the glamor of a bone devil, Haarlep sighed. “It would be inconvenient,” they lamented, in the raspy voice that left the skeletal jaw. “And after we took such pains to keep you alive.”

Raphael scoffed, putting the lyre on his back. “Regardless of convenience, that is the most likely outcome if we attempt to walk through the fortress’ front door.”

“Oh, not if I walk you in as prisoners while wearing this form.” Haarlep bared the bone devil’s fangs, causing Raphael to pause and turn slowly to look at the glamor. “See, I had a plan and everything, before I spotted you fighting for your life and had to make a detour. I figured that if I took the form of one of the fortress’ guards, no one would question me going in.”

“And when did you get--”

“About an hour ago. Poor thing was so pent-up, he couldn’t resist. Gave up his body soooo readily, it was almost a shame to push him in the Styx.” A sigh. “Ah, well. Couldn’t let him show up while I was using his form, could I now? It may have been a little embarrassing, one of us would have had to change. Or he’d have killed me on sight. Anyway, I never went into the Fortress, clearly. I checked on Raphael’s sending stone, and saw it was suddenly outside, so I rushed to the spot and not a moment too soon.”

Raphael stared for several moments, looking all the world like he had a million questions he’d rather pull out teeth than ask. In the end, he only asked one. “Dare I ask what you were planning to do once inside? Fight Zariel?”

“I mean, I’d rather not. But I could have cheered from the sidelines, or snatched you if things went wrong and tried to make a run for it. Or I could have distracted her. I’m good at that.”

“I doubt she'd be particularly vulnerable to your idea of distraction.”

“I mean, with the crossbow.”

“I doubt she’d be particularly vulnerable to your crossbow, either.”

“Well, that’s why it was Plan C. But surely, right now what matters is getting in the fortress, and then we can… well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, no?”

“Cross it. You cross a bridge when you get to it,” Astarion corrected them. “But that slip aside, I say we go for it. It’s the kind of plan I could have come up with myself, really.”

“It’s hardly even a plan,” Raphael pointed out, gaining himself a toothsome grin. 

“Precisely,” he said, and that was that.

***

“So, you have come to cut me down. It took you more time than I was expecting. You’ve longed to do it for a very long time. I can always tell when someone thirsts for blood.”

Zariel’s voice was raspy as Karlach remembered it, as though fire had scorched her throat once and the burns never healed. She sounded calm, but that could change at the drop of a hat; Karlach had seen it happen more times than she could count, a quiet façade burning away like flash paper to leave behind seething fury, bottomless hatred, a thirst for blood and war nothing ever seemed to quench.

And if that happened there would be no turning back, no getting her to calm and listen. So she ground her teeth and forced herself not to say that yes, actually, she’d dreamed of sticking a blade where the sun didn’t shine more times than she could count and part of her still really fucking wanted to go ahead and try to do just that. She might have, if she’d been alone. But she was not - Wyll was there, and Halsin too. They had risked too much already, for her sake. 

As though the bitch had just read her thoughts, Zariel’s eyes shifted from her to Wyll. Her lips curled in a humorless smile. “The warlock who’s been aiding you. I see, now. I can sense Mizora’s mark all over you. It was her to betray me, then. She’ll pay the price for this, once I’m done with you.”

“We’re not here to cut you down! We’re here to help you!” Lulu called out, immediately fluttering between them and Zariel. It was almost painful to listen, all that hope in her voice. “We have brought--”

“Silence.” The flail secured to the wrist missing a hand was raised and brought down to the floor. It cracked the stone, but she made no move to attack. Not yet, at least - she’d just given a warning. It wasn’t like her to give warnings of any kind, but Karlach found she was not overly surprised. One thing was clear: Zariel, archdevil of Avernus, was unwilling to harm Lulu.

If not for her, she’d have attacked on sight, or called for a legion or two to back her up, or both. And now she wants her out of the way so she can do just that. 

“Whatever foolish notion you have of saving me, you are wrong.” She took a step forward, the blood red feathers of her wings glistening as they shifted. Karlach reached for her weapon and so did Wyll, and they took a step back - but Zariel ignored them entirely. Her gaze was fixed on Lulu, and on her only. “I let you leave once, you stubborn creature, and you keep returning time and time again, seeking what is no more. Can’t you see there is no use?”

“No! I’ll come back again if I have to! You kept coming back, too!” Lulu dared flutter closer, that desperate hope still in her voice. “When I was locked up in the dungeons, you came to see me almost every day. And you got so mad, but you kept coming. And you never struck me even if you screamed, even if this was all my fault.”

That struck a chord. Zariel paused mid-stride, and the look on his face turned to something much closer to confusion. “Your…?”

“I am sorry I couldn’t get to you on time-- the battle was so fierce, I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you fell. Please, let me--”

A scathing laugh, the confusion burning away in the brightness of the flaming halo. Zariel lifted a hand in the air. A black warhammer, the very same one she’d ripped from the grasp of a demon lord, appeared in her grip in a faint cloud of mist. It was called Matalotok, but Karlach had heard it referred to as the Maul of Brutal Endings. Not very reassuring, that.

“I did not fall, Lulu. I rose, so that I may shoulder a burden none in Celestia was ever willing to take on. Asmodeus and his angels were right from the beginning. You cannot stave off the bottomless hunger of the demons of the Abyss with virtue .”

Karlach scoffed. “Oh, so we’re supposed to thank you now?” she spat, and Zariel’s flaming glare turned to her for only a moment before Lulu spoke again, high and desperate. 

“This isn’t about that anymore, Zariel! You know it! This isn’t you, this--”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Zariel cut her off, and bared her teeth in something that could have been a smile, or a snarl, or both. The halo of fire around her head seemed to burn hotter. “When demons die, they cry out my name in terror. This is who I am.”

“How many times have you told yourself that, so that you could believe it?” Halsin’s voice rang out before Lulu could retort, and it caused Zariel to stop in her tracks. Halsin had stepped forward, and in his hands was the Sword. Even in a scabbard, it hummed and shook as though alive. “I know what it is, to dedicate one’s life to a mission. I know what it is to lose oneself to the pursuit. But if you were indeed lost, you’d have struck already. Us, and her. ”

Zariel stared, and the corners of her mouth curled in a sneer of disdain… even as something in her gaze faltered, as the flames of her halo burned somewhat less brightly. Then the moment was over, and she bared her teeth again.

“Fools. I shall take that sword from your cold dead hands, the last remnants of my shame, and shatter it to pieces. You should have wielded it when you could. ”

There was no time to think of a response, much less to utter it. The next thing Karlach heard was a scream that seemed to shake the sky itself, Wyll’s shouted warning, Lulu’s own cry of dismay. Then Zariel charged in a wave of flames, warhammer and flail lifted.

End of diplomacy. Oh well. We tried, Karlach thought, and let out a cry of her own before she lifted her blade to meet the attack, the engine in her chest roaring with her.

***

“Hah! See, I told you it was going to--”

“Haarlep!”

“Hush!”

“Gods above, shut up !”

Now that was rather rude, Haarlep wanted to point out, but they did not, mostly because they might have a point. Dropping the ruse of marching prisoners inside the fortress as a bone devil - enforcers of Baator’s laws, and arguably the most feared devils by anybody below a pit fiend -  was probably not a good idea while still within sight of guards. So they bit their tongue, quickly regretting it because oh those teeth were sharp, and kept going.

There were a few glances their way, but the chains the dragonborn had pulled out from their bag of holding were pretty convincing, as well as a really interesting item to just carry around. That, and the general fear of bone devils kept anybody from coming to take too close a look, which was good news.

Haarlep’s glamors were good enough to fool other devils, certainly… but this was probably not the moment to test that assumption. So they shot a few glares around, waving the tail and stinger, and proceeded undisturbed deeper into the fortress. 

“Prisoners for Zariel,” they snapped once or twice, when someone dared ask, and that was it. They kept going - up and up and up, until the elevator ran its course and they were left with only a few more levels to go up on foot. They only stopped a few moments when they came across a room full of corpses; Haarlep could only assume that was where Raphael had been when the bearer of his ring had been found and he was forcibly ejected from the fortress.

“We’re close to the top,” Raphael spoke, nudging a corpse with his boot. “Surely, if Zariel is up there, the others would have reached her by now. And yet, nothing seems to have happ--”

A scream rang out suddenly, somewhere above and yet everywhere, shaking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It caused them all to still, and exchange a glance. 

“Remind me to make a sarcastic remark about your timing after we’re done,” Astarion said, and Raphael only sighed before they rushed up the last flights of stairs, not wasting their time or breath on more words.

***

Karlach was honestly holding her own, fending off most blows and even working in a few good hits of her own, until a lash of the flail took out her right arm at the elbow. 

Not that she realized what had happened right away: at first there was only the sound of her weapon hitting the ground, along with a thud she didn’t quite place; then there was Wyll’s scream, and the realization that she was falling back. Then her back hit the ground, and there was pain. 

Laughter, too - Zariel’s laughter, above her own scream. “You should have known better,” she snarled, and lifted Matalotok above her head, ready to end her or at least come pretty damn close to it. She never got the chance, because suddenly Wyll was there in a burst of swirling mist, between her and Zariel, and pressed a hand against the archdevil’s before crying out. 

“Dolor!”

At such close range and without warning, the blasts did exactly what they had to do - throw Zariel back. She did not fall, a powerful beat of her wings saw to that, but she was pushed back enough that Wyll could turn and cry out. “Halsin! Help her!”

Ah, right. She was missing an arm and bleeding out, which was really not ideal.

“Wyll--” Karlach tried to call out, but he was off, head to head with the archdevil of Avernus. He had no hope of defeating her on his own, and he knew that. He wasn't trying to down her: he was trying to hold her back, away from her. 

No, no, no, no, no. Not him.

Karlach groaned and tried to sit up, despair overriding any and all pain. She felt for her weapon with the remaining hand, and just as she grasped the handle there was a touch on her back, helping her sit up. She heard Halsin speak, not far from her ear. 

“Don’t move. I think I can help,” he said, and Karlach groaned. 

“No, no. Wyll, he-- wait-- the sword…?”

“Lulu has it.”

Out of the corner of her mind Karlach could see her, hovering a short distance away. She was holding tightly onto the sword, trembling, and staring at the unfolding battle with wide eyes. The very picture of a broken heart; Karlach would have felt sorry, had she not been distracted by the sight of Halsin holding up her own severed arm. She had seen some nasty shit, but looking at it still made her puke a little in her own mouth. 

“The fuck…?”

“Hold still. I never tried this before,” Halsin replied, and held the arm to the bleeding stump, murmuring some incantation Karlach did not grasp. She sure as fuck saw the effects, though: under her stunned gaze the shards of bone in the stump shifted, set themselves straight again - and then there was tissue growing, stretching, knitting itself back together. Within moments her arm was hers again, with only a tingling sensation in the nerve endings that had already faded by the time she stood and picked her greataxe up. She laughed, incredulous. 

“Well, that was horrifying, but really damn useful. Could you always do it?”

“I learned recently. Traveling with you never fails to broaden my horizons,” he replied, and Karlach took a mental note of paying for his drinks at the next occasion before she turned back to the most pressing matter - Zariel. Wyll fought viciously and he fought well, but against an archdevil… well, he was going to need a little extra help. 

Good thing she was there with a big fuckoff axe, ready to provide that help. 

“Hey, handsome! Need a hand?”

“What-- how--?”

“Halsin’s got new tricks!”

Wyll had a deep cut on his forehead, turning his entire face in a bloody mask, and his right horn had broken clean in half, but he still smiled. “Oh, thank the gods.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but it would have to wait. First, they had an archdevil to deal with. 

And they did just that, the two of them and Halsin, in a blur of magic and fire and blows. Karlach wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but soon enough she was locking blades and eyes with Zariel. The engine in her chest roared, and so did she. 

“Take a good look at me while you’ve still got eyes! You’re going to pay for what you did to me!”

Her fury was met with a sneer. “I made you stronger, and instrumental in a war upon which the safety of all Planes rests. You ought to be thanking me. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You  never made a willing sacrifice.”

Were you in my place, would you risk it all to save others?

The memory of Zariel as she had been once, seeking to protect rather than destroy, caused Karlach to grind her teeth. “Didn’t have to, did I? You made that fucking choice from me! Took my heart! Made me a weapon! YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”

Zariel sneered, again. It was really starting to piss her off.

I could stem the tide of chaos and save many lives, the memory of her had said.

“I had every right to do what was needed. Would you rather have the demons of the abyss run amok across Planes?” the archdevil she was now snarled instead. “Would you rather--”

“Oh, fuck off!” Karlach pulled back, ducked under a vicious swing of the flail, and caught the falling hammer with her greataxe. The metal vibrated on impact, but it held up, courtesy of the improvements in Bel’s forge. “What of the innocents you were supposed to protect? What of them? The ones this bullshit was supposed to be all about!”

Yeenoghu slaughtered those I swore to protect.

The sneer of Zariel’s face froze, and for a moment she looked stunned, as though she had no idea how either of them had come to be there. Karlach sneered, and took advantage of the lapse to push back with all her might before ducking out of the way. 

Wyll’s blast caught Zariel in the chest, causing her to stagger back; she unfolded her wings and took flight, only to cry out in surprise and pain when Halsin’s lighting spell hit the mark, and she fell back to the ground, snarling. 

“You--!” 

The already boiling air of Avernus seemed to waver, shimmer, and it was the only warning they got before a wave of fire burst forth from Zariel with a cry of blackest fury. It burned hot, but fuck it - Karlach already had an infernal engine in her chest. She knew hot. She could withstand it. So she charged through it, not caring if it scorched her, and swung her greataxe in a wide enough arc to cut, deep, into Zariel’s shoulder.

There was a crack, and a scream; the flail attached to her wrist hung limply alongside her entire arm. Zariel was barely able to hold up the warhammer to block Karlach’s next blow and there they were again, locked in combat, their faces so close Karlach could see each flicker of flames in those eyes. They saw her, and hated.

“I was a fucking kid! I was dragged here and forced to fight! Was I not supposed to be protected from this bullshit?”

“You? A bodyguard idling her life away! I gave you a greater purpose! What is one life compared to--”

“And Elturel! The entire fucking city!” Karlach screamed, straining to push her back. The engine roared, blood rushed in her ears. “Were they not innocent? The very people the Hellriders were sworn to protect, too! The ones who followed you! The ones who died for you! Don’t give me bullshit about greater good! This isn’t about protecting anyone!”

“Enough!”

“No! You’ll listen to my every fucking word if I had to cram them down your throat!” Karlach disengaged, ducked under the blow. She heard Wyll crying out some incantation, felt the air shimmer around her - some sort of protection spell - one moment before Halsin summoned a wall of thorns right where Zariel stood.

Thorny vines reached up to grasp her and she cried out in fury. She incinerated them, of course, but they held on just long enough for Karlach to strike. The silvered blade cut through the air, and then through the wrist where the flail was attached. The bloody flail fell onto the ground, and Zariel screamed.

But not loud enough to cover Karlach’s own scream. 

“They died because they followed you, and you failed, and you tried to take Elturel! Yael died hoping you could be saved, and you tried to take her fucking city to the Hells!”

“I SAID ENOUGH!”

The warhammer fell, and this time Karlach was not fast enough to entirely avoid the blow. She was able to roll with it and avoid getting her every rib shattered, but it still hurt like a bitch and sent her tumbling across the ground. Zariel may have been on her the next instant, if not for the barrage of magic from Wyll and Halsin keeping her at bay. Karlach groaned, and forced herself to stand with a grunt. 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Lulu was still motionless, as though paralyzed, holding onto the sword with all limbs and her trunk. But all her attention, again, was for Zariel. So she met her gaze again, and sneered right back as one of Halsin’s healing spells hit, allowing her to breathe more easily, the pain in her ribs abating. 

“You can take your bullshit about a greater purpose and shove it up your ass. You don’t give a damn about protecting the Planes anymore. You only want the excuse to keep slaughtering demons because you like it, and it’s all you’ve go--!”

There was another shriek and the hammer fell, cracking the floor, causing the entire fortress to shake and all of them to fall back. Fury and hatred was a tangible thing now, coming off Zariel in waves, the most burning hatred and deepest despair. Pain, too, cutting through the very soul, almost unbearable - but just almost. Karlach could bear pain. She’d borne plenty already. 

So she stood, downed a potion, and back into the fray she went.

***

“I take it that diplomacy did not achieve the desired results.”

Raphael’s voice was barely audible beneath Zariel’s agonized shriek, and beneath the crack of thunder as Durge immediately stepped in, striking her before she could so much as try to deliver a blow to Halsin. Astarion was right behind them, bow drawn and some sort of shimmering arrow ready to let loose.

Raphael almost followed - if he had to get himself killed, he may as well do it properly - when Haarlep lay a hand on his shoulder and spoke. “Huh. What’s wrong with her?”

“Wh--” Raphael turned, and there she was - the hollyphant, silent at last. Well, not entirely silent: she was muttering ‘no, no, no’ repeatedly to herself, hovering in mid-air and clutching the sword they had gone through such pains to obtain, a distant cast to those beady little eyes. All in all, she was a wretched sight. A shattered mind; Raphael had seen plenty of those, many shattered by his own hand. He was always rather good at that, as many of the broken souls wandering across the House of Hope would have confirmed, if they could. 

He supposed he may as well try his hand at the opposite, if he did still have a powerful enough restoration spell left in his arsenal. As Zariel landed a devastating blow on Halsin’s summoned Myrmidon, Raphael took a few steps towards the madness-stricken hollyphant. 

He lifted his hands, and she did not react when they glowed, nor to his words. “Te curo.”

The light flared up a moment, engulfing the hollyphant. It faded quickly, and before it did she was already gasping, recoiling as though awakened from a deep sleep. 

“I-- what--” She looked around, eyes wide. There was another cry of fury and she turned - they all turned - to see that Zariel was unable to move, her legs having seemingly turned to stone. Ravengard’s doing, no doubt; he was staggering back just as Zariel beat her wings to try free herself, only for Astarion to put an acid arrow through one, and for Karlach to bring down her blade on the other. 

Zariel screamed again, and lifted the handless arm, began crying out words - a summoning , for her legions to come aid her. That would certainly mean their end, and Raphael didn’t pause to think: he stepped forward, and cast another spell. 

“Silentium!”

To Zariel’s fury and Raphael’s relief, it took effect before she could complete the summoning. She let out another cry of anger, or at least so the silent twisting of her features suggested. On the other hand, Durge turned back and grinned at him, all fangs. 

Good one, they mouthed, and lifted Mourning Frost. A sorcerer’s subtle spell required some more power but oh, wasn’t it useful to cast with no need of words. Above Zariel there was the spark of lighting, so bright it almost turned the red sky white, and then--

“NO! PLEASE! DON’T!”

Everything happened too quickly for Raphael to react, let alone to try doing something. The hollyphant darted forward, still clutching the Sword, and came between Zariel and the descending bolt of lighting at the last moment. Raphael saw Durge snatch back their hands, but it was too late.

The spell was cast, and lightning struck.

***

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, and in utter, eerie silence. Lighting came down, and Lulu rose to meet it; it went precisely as one may expect, when one takes the full force of a powerful spell. It threw Lulu back, and she fell some distance away; the sword clattered by her, skidded a few more paces before coming to a stop. It still glowed.

Lulu, on the other hand, remained motionless. 

Shit, Karlach said, or tried to. She went to the hollyphant without thinking, out of the sphere of silence Raphael had cast, and crouched by the stricken celestial. Why did you do it, she almost asked, but she did not. She knew exactly why she’d done it.

“Hey! Say something!” she called out instead, reaching to shake her. Lulu let out a groan and shuddered, but didn’t lift her head. Karlach was reaching for a potion of healing when a bone devil she could only assume was Haarlep, if anything for the fact they stood next to Raphael without trying to kill him, spoke.

“Huh. You may want to look behind you.”

Karlach did just that, and for a moment she could only stare, her mind blank of all thought. Zariel had broken free of the spell that had turned her legs to stone, but the battle had not resumed. Under her companions’ stunned gazes, she was walking slowly, almost tentatively, towards Lulu. One of her wings had been almost hacked off, and she left bloody footprints in her wake, but she did walk. Her eyes were fixed on the hollyphant, the fire in them faint in a way Karlach had never seen. The flaming halo, too, seemed to be petering out. 

“Fool,” Zariel rasped, and stepped closer, her face a mask of agony. Karlach backed off quickly, ready to attack if need be, but the archdevil of Avernus did not so much glance her way. She made it to Lulu, and fell to her knees. "You utter fool. What have you done?”

“I promised Yael-- I promised, ” Lulu gasped out. She tried to move, but her head fell back again, and she could only look at Karlach, at the sword a few feet away. “Please…”

Zariel lifted her gaze to look at the sword, still glowing within the scabbard, and Karlach put her greataxe away to pick it up, in a daze. She was vaguely aware of the fact her companions were approaching, ready to fight again if need be; for a moment, all that existed in the world was herself, her tormentor, and the sword that may put an end to the archdevil Zariel with no need to risk lives, no need to risk more of her life.

Then Karlach looked up, staring Zariel in the eye - it seemed so wrong, that lost look on those features - before she stepped closer, and held up the sword. 

It’s not just any sword, it’s sentient, Lulu had told them, and she had not been joking. The Sword of Zariel glowed brighter and slid out of the scabbard, lifting itself into the air before her old wielder. Celestial runes seemed to draw themselves into thin air around it, and the vibrations almost sounded like a song. 

Beyond the glow of the sword, Zariel was shedding tears like molten lava. Her only hand reached for Lulu, hovered a few inches from her golden fur, but she hesitated to even touch her. At last, she looked up at the sword, then at Karlach. “This,” she rasped, “is your chance to cut me down.”

For a moment, Karlach’s fingers twitched; for a moment, she almost did reach for her weapon. But then she saw it again, Gortash’s corpse in his silk robes, laying on a marble floor and somehow still smirking at her, even in death. 

He's dead, and he's no fucking sorrier than he was before. What was the point?

A rhetorical question, that. If she could go back, he’d kill him another dozen times. She’d help Astarion kill Cazador another two dozen times, too. But now that Zariel knelt before her willingly, she balked. Of fucking course.

Maybe she was tired. Maybe she wanted to find out if she’d really get an apology for all the bullshit she had to go through. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, she pulled her hand away from her weapon. 

“... No. Fuck this. I didn’t claw my way out of the Hells to hand you a coward’s way out. So take that thing, and deal with what you’ve done. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past ten years.”

For a few moments, there was only silence and Karlach could almost believe someone had cast another silencing spell. Then, slowly, Zariel stood. Karlach found herself taking a step back, holding her breath, as Zariel's fingers brushed the hilt of the sword. There was a sound like sizzling flesh, and Zariel let out a pained gasp, but that pain seemed to break all hesitation at last. Her only had closed on the hilt and held on, tight, even as it seared her flesh. 

When she spoke again, her voice was a cry of pain, and sorrow, and yet something that was much like hope. “I, Zariel, supplicate myself before the holy light of justice. If it should accept me, I vow to take up this blade once more in its service.”

For a moment, nothing happened, her words echoing in the silence. 

Well, Karlach thought, that was a whole bunch of noth--

And then there was light. It cascaded from the skies, the same light they had encountered in the Citadel. Karlach stepped back, ready to call out for Astarion and Haarlep to get back, but there was no need: the light only fell on Zariel, and on Lulu - bright, so bright, Karlach had to close her eyes against it. Then the glare faded and she opened her eyes again, blinking. 

For a moment, all she saw was a wall of golden fur. “You’re back! You’re back! Oh, I knew it!”

It was odd, really, listening to Lulu’s voice coming from the immense golden mastodon standing before her. And hovering in the air on gold-feathered wings, her eyes covered by a blindfold, was the Solar she had seen in the stained glass at the Citadel. She remained in mid-aid for a few moments before slowly descending to the ground before her. 

She looked at Karlach for a moment - could she see, with the blindfold? - before she bowed her head and sank on one knee.  “Karlach,” she spoke, her voice a melody so unlike the rasping voice she knew. “You have my thanks, herald of dawn.”

Karlach opened her mouth to speak. She closed it. Opened it again. She heard voices, faintly, felt Wyll’s touch on her arm. In the end, she spoke with a voice that didn’t feel like her own, either. 

“I'm the herald of nothing. Just say you’re sorry.”

Zariel lifted her face, and again she seemed to be looking at her despite the blindfold. Her skin was flawless, unmarred by fire, the way Karlach’s own would never be again. Such a stupid detail to get fixated on, but she couldn’t help it. Those beautiful features twisted in sorrow.

“I am sorrier than words can ever express, for a wrong I know words alone cannot atone,” she spoke, and that was it. Karlach closed her eyes, leaned back against Wyll, and for a time she just cried and cried and cried. She wasn’t even sure if crying helped, to be honest. 

But the several pairs of arms around her sure as hell did.

*** One archdevil down, one more to go. ***

[Back to Chapter 26]

[On to Chapter 28]

[Back to Start]

[theangelwokestiel]

❤️ - What's your favorite memory from this kin?

💥 - What skills or abilities did this kin have, if any, that you can't do now but wish you could? (ie superpowers, languages you don't speak, skills you don't currently have, etc)

🌌 - Do you ever experience astral limb sensations with this kin? (IE feeling your wings, tail, something your kintype has that your current body does not)

For the ask game!

Thank you for the questions. Fair warning, this may be a tad long.

❤️ - What's your favorite memory from this kin?

Difficult to say. There is good and bad in my life, as there is good and bad in every life, sentient or otherwise. The bad has historically outweighed the good, yet I still cling to those positive, favorable memories. I particularly find myself looking back to the times where I would share more personal, almost domestic moments with the Winchesters. I could not place them on a timeline if I tried, which I apologize for, but there were countless times between hunts and in motels where our shared existence bordered on a similar experience to a few friends on a road trip, as opposed to the boundless horrors we all saw.

Witnessing Sam and Dean existing as brothers was certainly a highlight of my former life. There was so much ... baggage, to put a simple term on it, between them, so many wrongdoings and half-apologies, to the point where I sometimes doubted they could ever come back from it. I should have had more faith; they always did bounce back, and before long, they were back doing what siblings always do: giving each other a hard time for minor things, arguing about the most nonsensical of topics such as the ontology of a burger versus a sandwich (they never did reach a consensus, by the way), and playing harmless pranks. To have a family like that, to have siblings who cared and loved you even if they never said those exact words, it was incredible to me. I find myself thankful in the present day to have a sister in my life, to where we have those same moments. Growing up (or a close approximation of it, given the differences in angelic upbringings to humans) with thousands of siblings meant I never had a relationship with them, or at least not a meaningful one. I am glad that this time is different.

There are other memories, of course --- ones more embarrassing in nature, ones I hesitate to mention because romance is embarrassing to discuss --- that I hold dear to my mortal chest, these days. Naturally, they all include Dean.

💥 - What skills or abilities did this kin have, if any, that you can't do now but wish you could? (ie superpowers, languages you don't speak, skills you don't currently have, etc)

Oh, the list is endless. To make a long story short, I primarily long for my healing abilities again. To undo the pain and misery of others with a simple two-finger touch to the forehead would be a wonderful gift. So many of the ones I love deal with pains and ailments that doctors either do not know a solution to or do not care to find one. I am among those people who suffers, and yet I would take all of their pain in an instant if it meant they would feel even marginally better in their day-to-day.

Similarly, I wish I could teleport again. It wasn't teleportation, necessarily --- the cosmic plane is not unlike a "plane," if you will --- but I still long to travel anywhere with a flap of my wings. I would visit so many places and people. It would be wonderful.

🌌 - Do you ever experience astral limb sensations with this kin? (IE feeling your wings, tail, something your kintype has that your current body does not)

On the topic of wings. I feel them constantly; I did in my past life, considering they were shielded by my own efforts to appear human, and it took a great toll on me physically which I was able to mask easily, but I feel them doubly in the present day. They were lofty things, capable of toppling over anything if I were particularly clumsy (I am not), and had a sheen to them not unlike the oil of a car. Even if I could not physically carry them with me, I would love to see them in reflections again, in shadows and in dangerous situations. Wings were a sign of power. I want that power again.

[headmate-ideas]

Hello dears, this is Bug's co-host request~ He is a fallen angel who fell due to committing the Sin of Sloth. He helps us to sleep at night by cuddling those in front, rocking as a stim, and humming lullabies. He also enjoys relaxing video games like Stardew Valley and cooking/baking. He is very associated with the aesthetic of glowing stars that children put on their ceilings and he regresses to around 5, but is usually body age (23). He loves sheep and rabbits and the color blue.

[Brought to you by: Mods Klaus and Capriel!]

🐇 HEADMATE TEMPLATE 🐏

✦ Name(s): Terriel, Glow, Elian ✦ Pronouns: he/him, they/them, it/its, x/xs/xself, e/em/eir/eirs/emself, ae/aer/aers/aerself ✦ Species: fallen angel ✦ Age: ageless adult; identifies with body's age and age regresses to between 5-7 ✦ Role(s): co-host, caretaker, destressor, paichmate, chef, sysregressor ✦ Labels: demiguy, luxine, unlabeled orientation ✦ Xenos: angels, comfort, food ✦ Interests/likes: soft things, going for walks, video games ✦ Dislikes: capitalism ✦ Music taste: vaporwave, indie rock, dream pop ✦ Aesthetic(s): gamercore, kidcore, cozycore ✦ Objectum attraction(s): plushes, technology ✦ Kins: sheep, rabbits, cornflowers ✦ Emoji proxy: 🐇🐏 ✦ Details:

Terriel is a fallen angel who fell due to committing the sin of sloth - specifically, he didn't agree with Heaven's promotion of 24/7 productivity, rebelled against its culture, and got several other angels to fall with him. He is very opposed to the idea that people have to earn the right to rest or be respected, which helps the system in situations where they are feeling bad for not being productive enough. Terriel is the kind of person who doesn't have lofty ambitions, instead preferring to enjoy every day as it comes. This can be helpful if the system are in a period of time where they don't know what they're doing in life or are focusing more on survival than achievements. If the system are in a situation where they don't have a clear life direction but want to find one, Terriel would likely not lead that pursuit, but he would be on-board with it. Terriel enjoys relaxing games and plays them to destress for the system. He is also good with syskids and age regressors, as he is a regressor himself who sometimes regresses with other system members as well. He is comforting at night, helping the system sleep, and he enjoys daily routines of any kind. He also likes cooking and baking and frequently prepares food for the system.

[These can be edited and changed as needed, and headmates will almost definitely not turn out EXACTLY as described.]