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toappreciatelife · 7 months ago

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Thoughts on The Tartar Steppe by Dino Buzzati

At first sight life in Fort Bastiani doesn’t look hard at all. It’s true that Drogo and his colleagues are cut off from the rest of the world and deprived of some of life’s pleasures—the warmth of love, friends and family, city life, rivers and trees—but the food is good, the scenery is breathtaking, military tasks are relatively easy, and there is always people around to talk to. Nevertheless, there is something sinister about the place. Here is an immense and complicated architecture deliberately built to defend a territory against enemies, but for decades there haven’t been any enemies in sight, only the emptiness of the desert and the silence of the mountains. Nothing much ever happens up there; days follow one after another almost without variation, sentries endlessly pacing to and fro along the ramparts, scanning a vacant landscape. What, then, would be the purpose of a place like this? And what would be the purpose of the renunciation that life in the fort demands of those soldiers? In vain is the answer no one can tolerate.

And so maybe it’s no coincidence that in such a forgotten environment, face to face with the abyss, the men living in the fort should embark on the task of sustaining a sense of purpose at all costs, some shred of meaning to hold on to. In the absence of any real enemies, they will project them upon the desert, almost draw their black contours on the distant horizon as if on a blank canvas: the Tartars are coming! Yes, they might be coming soon! Those bored men will use the desert as an empty surface upon which to project a grandiose meaning, inventing their own particular type of oasis and promised land: a future epic battle where each will have the possibility to become a hero. And so now they will have something to wait for, now it won’t seem all in vain. And they will stick to their strict regulations, hierarchies and detailed routines, even when it’s not necessary, as if their life and sanity depended on it, because in a way it does (probably no better way to give consistency to a life than the daily repetition of actions). Face to face with the desert, the fort will finally become a fortress against an enemy, but one much more insidious and invisible than they think: meaninglessness.

And aren’t all social institutions, deep down, fortresses created and daily reproduced to protect us from such a lack of meaning? In the novel, Fort Bastiani stands as a real place, but it might also function as a symbol of the precariousness of human constructions. All of them built on top of nothing, suspended above the desert, trying to keep the absurd at bay through the reproduction of their seemingly reasonable—but actually contingent and arbitrary—rules, hopes, values and meanings. All of them fortresses overlooking the desert. What a powerful symbol!

Social construction of meaning. I think the novel explores very subtly how meaning and value are socially constructed. We don’t follow here an individual who relates to the world in isolation. Drogo’s relation to the fort and the desert is always mediated and affected by the presence of others. His hopes and his fascination with those yellow walls, with the distant horizon, are not his alone; at least in part, they are dependent upon the social world that he has around him, upon what he suspects other officers in the fort secretly think and hope for. Most of our illusions are sustained collectively, and if we were to hold them on our own, they’d probably die out very quickly.

Little by little his hopes grew fainter. It is difficult to believe in a thing when one is alone and there is no one to speak to.

When no one seems to place any value in the fort anymore, so it loses value for Drogo. When no one else believes in the probability of war, his hopes wane too and the meaningfulness of the fort seems to crumble. Why? Why stay there? At that point, Drogo gets the closest to an experience of the absurd, the falling of the stage set. But he recovers quickly and hope builds up again in his heart when he meets Simeoni, who has a telescope which allows him to see little lights and black moving spots in the distance, and who is convinced the northerners are building a road and preparing a future attack. It is through Simeoni’s conviction that Drogo will keep his own sense of purpose alive again, almost as if by contagion. It might take only two to preserve a hope from vanishing, a hope flickering in the distance like the little lights they see with the telescope, growing stronger or weaker depending on what others believe. And I think the novel shows that if it weren’t for the social milieu of the fort, it is unlikely that Drogo would have been able to sustain a sense of purpose alone and stubbornly stayed there all his life.

And of course one of the main tools to create meaning is language. Lots of stories and rumors circulate in the fort regarding the desert, all the men too eager to fill with something its bare and desolate expanse, even with words. But also loose names have strong symbolic power, turning a meaningless and inhuman territory into something meaningful and human. And so the men call the desert “the desert of the Tartars”, which evokes something mysterious and enchanting, something ancient and exotic, for even in the time of the story the Tartars seem to be something legendary and of the past, not being very clear who they were or if they existed at all. The name is ambiguous enough to open up space for dreaming about the possibility of a war with a different people, an exciting encounter with a cultural other who will bring about change, at the same time reinforcing their own identity through the evocation of a glorious empire about to be invaded by barbarians. But the name also has its dark undertones, as it suggests the Tartarus of ancient Greek mythology, that underground place of torment where the Titans were imprisoned. And Drogo sometimes does feel that the fort is a place of punishment and a prison, though he can never understand why.

"So," Drogo went on after a silence, "so all that excitement, these stories about the Tartars? So no one really hoped they were true?"

"They not only hoped!" said Ortiz. "They really believed."

Drogo shook his head.

"I don't understand, I assure you I don't."

"What can I say?" said the major. "It's a bit complicated. It's a kind of exile up here but you have to find some sort of outlet, you have to hope for something. Someone began thinking about it, then they began to talk about Tartars—who knows who was the first?"

"Perhaps the place has something to do with it," said Drogo, "seeing that desert."

"Yes, the place, too, of course. That desert, the mists in the distance, the mountains, you can't deny it. Yes, the place has something to do with it too."

In love with a place. Alain Roger claims that high mountains and deserts were the last territories to become a landscape in art, the last to become aesthetically graspable. Before the 18th century, mountains and deserts were seen as too inhospitable, too inhuman, too excessive and full of dangers, and they were not a subject for landscape painting, which preferred to paint peaceful fields, rivers, amicable hills, and domesticated lands. Mountains and deserts didn’t fit in any of the categories Europeans had for relating aesthetically to the world. A desert isn’t necessarily beautiful, nor picturesque, nor a marvel. It is with the rise of the category of the sublime—a pleasurable and delightful horror— that the high mountains and the desert will be appreciated as a landscape to be explored in art.

And it’s curious how in many parts of the novel, Drogo has an aesthetic appreciation of that which is seeing, no matter how desolate or rough it may seem. It’s not only the allure of the natural landscape, but also of the fort’s architecture and the activities that take place in the fort in relation to the landscape—the melancholic beauty of the trumpets sounding among those mountains… He is fascinated by the place, hypnotized, like under a spell, so much so that one wonders if he is not simply in love with it. Can someone be in love with a place? Not with a living person, but with a place? We are entitled to think so, when we recall that during Drogo’s meeting in the city with Maria, his fiancée, his mind wandered every now and then to the life in the fort. If that encounter failed despite Maria’s good intentions and her willingness to resume a relation with him, it could be because the pull of the fort, with its mysterious desert and its immense surrounding mountains, was too strong in Drogo’s heart. He simply couldn’t relate to the hospitality and innocence of a city garden anymore. By now his body and heart had been shaped by the desert, worked by the barren rhythms of the fort. After four years, he had gotten used to its walls and labyrinthine corridors, he had learned how to extract little pleasures from that very same place which the first nights was totally strange for him. Humans are weird animals with the capacity to adapt to many different environments. There is no environment which would be specific of the species. So although Drogo had been raised in the city, now the fort in the desert had become his home and his true element. It wasn’t simply the thirst for glory which kept him up there for thirty years; it was also the way the place had become a part of him. And how could he part from what had become a part of himself…?

Some landscapes seem to disorient us and pose more questions to human existence than others. Camus said of the desert that it was the landscape par excellence to have an experience of the absurd: the sudden recognition of the meaninglessness of life. And one could claim something similar regarding high mountains, with their huge dimension and their indifference to our little human existence (or the infinite pampas, where flatness is taken to such an extreme). So if the fort is a post in the frontier, this frontier is not only the border between two kingdoms, a frontier in relation to a human other, but also the frontier of humanity in relation to nature in what it has of inhuman and irreducible. All of which could help understand the fascination that Drogo began to feel ever since he approached that landscape for the first time, leaving behind the human-all-too-human city. Fascination cannot grow in a soil where everything is clear and explained, where everything is definite, manageable and known. It needs a certain amount of elusiveness and allusiveness, of questions unanswered and shadows. And in the desert there is plenty of that, with mist sometimes covering the entire horizon and other times partially clearing away, revealing some mysterious lights and tiny black dots, enough to fire the soldiers’ imagination.

But although fascination can set in motion and have a positive effect, it can sometimes have a paralyzing flipside…

Waiting as transcendence. Drogo’s journey to the fort and the desert is structured like a succession of attempts to go beyond. Every time he reaches a point, he then feels the need to know what’s beyond it. When he gets to the fort for the first time, he wants to see what lies behind its walls. When he gets to see the valley beyond the walls, he wants to see what’s beyond the valley. When he finally gets to see the desert in all its empty expanse, he wonders what’s beyond the horizon and who lives behind the mist that blocks his vision. And so his imagination is always moving spatially further away, towards an unknown beyond. And the same thing happens temporally. The spatial journey has a temporal correspondence: Drogo is never situated in the present moment, but constantly waiting for the big event that will take place in the future, beyond the moment he is living. Hope and waiting seem to involve the same transcendent orientation, the same movement that carries him out of the here and now of his own experience towards a future beyond, through the belief that the real life, the happy life, the meaningful life is yet to come, but not right here at the point where he is.

But if his eyes are constantly fixed on the distant horizon, he cannot pay attention to what’s immediately around him; he is barely living his life. What is the future? A nothingness. A mist. Events imagined but not real. The future has the consistency of indecipherable mist. Drogo’s life is spent trying to penetrate that mist through a telescope, and in the meantime time passes. The cistern keeps dripping. The seasons keep succeeding one after the other. It may give the impression that time has stopped up there, because the fort behaves almost like a rock and is so well integrated to that mountainous landscape, fusing its own time to the slow temporality of the rocks surrounding it, but time is certainly passing. Inexorably. And the proof of that are the changes in the mortal bodies of the men living there, who get older every year. The changes may be gradual, almost imperceptible at times, but one day they become noticeable and Drogo realizes that his hair is grey, his face full of wrinkles, and he can’t no longer run up the stairs two steps at a time. One day thirty years have got behind him, and all he did was waiting.

‘Stop, stop,’ one feels like crying, but then one sees it is useless. Everything goes by – men, the seasons, the clouds, and there is no use clinging to the stones, no use fighting it out on some rock in midstream; the tired fingers open, the arms fall back inertly and you are still dragged into the river, the river which seems to flow so slowly yet never stops.

Being worthy of the event. But then, at last, the event they have all been waiting for—including us readers— finally arrives. The enemy is approaching, it’s declared war. But poor Drogo is by now too sick to fight and they send him away in an elegant, quite unsoldierly carriage. All his life spent in the fort waiting for a future epic war and when the war comes, he just has to miss it! That is some bad luck and another proof that one cannot trust fate at all. But if he nevertheless dies happy and with a smile on his face—all alone in the dark room of a strange inn—it could be not only because he imagines himself to be in the middle of a battle as death approaches, a battle which demands of him the same courage and dignity as any other battle, the same heroism, but also because he has, for once, stopped waiting and is finally living a moment in his life, although the last one.

Face to face with the grey, measureless sea of death, when there is no more time left, all excuses vanish and there is no point in waiting anymore. No better future to hope for, no more attempts to escape beyond. This is it. The present of his life. Pure immanence. If Drogo dies peacefully and smiling, I think it is also because at that point he is able to fully embrace that moment, whatever it is, certainly not what he was expecting, but his own singular life after all and his own singular way of dying. And isn’t that what life ultimately asks of us, that we become worthy of the turns it takes, worthy of the wounds it inflicts upon us, worthy of what it gives…?

It might seem that Drogo has wasted his life by living in the fort, as opposed to a life that would have been worthwhile in the city, like that of his old friends, dedicated to their families and careers. But I don’t think his life was wasted because of that. Family and career are full of the same traps as any life path, and they could easily become a wasted life if they are spent merely waiting for something other and racing towards the future. With its spatiotemporal indetermination and fable-like character, the novel wants to be a cautionary tale applicable to all ways of living, not solely a critical commentary about military life (which it also is, and rightly so). If Drogo’s life was wasted, it was because of how he lived it—or didn’t live it. Moments in a life become epic not because of their content, but because of how they are lived, with what intensity. Life could become epic in many of its insignificant instants—watching a streak of light move in a corner of the room, listening to the notes of a faraway piano, dying alone in a dark room—if you are ready to sink into it…

After a life of waiting and postponing, Drogo was finally ready. And he sank into it.

Giovanni makes an effort and straightens his shoulders a little; he puts right the collar of his uniform with one hand and takes one more look out of the window, the briefest of glances, his last share of the stars. Then in the dark he smiles, although there is no one to see him.

All the images in this posts are stills from the film The Desert of the Tartars, by Valerio Zurlini (based on Buzzati’s novel and shot in the ruins of an ancient citadel, the Bam Citadel, located in what is now Iran.)

Many of the thoughts in this post came to existence thanks to the discussions in our Literature and Philosophy reading group, which you can join here:

https://discord.gg/K64taCUD

And you can read the book here:

https://archive.org/details/TheTartarSteppeDinoBuzzati

#the tartar steppe #the desert of the tartars #dino buzzati #valerio zurlini #existentialism #borges #time #waiting #the absurd #meaninglessness #camus #nietzsche

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impossiblycolorfulpanda · 2 years ago

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Atla - the truth

Azula: You were the son of the greatest fire lord and firebender that ever lived and a prince of a rich and powerful nation who validated equality for all. How do you walk away from that?

Zuko: For starters, what was asked of me was too much.

Azula: Showing our father respect? That’s too much to ask?

Zuko: He wanted us to stop being individuals. We’re all just soldiers to him. He doesn’t care about us as people, let alone his children.

Azula: Oh boo-hoo. You made a dumb mistake, dad got mad at you and instead of taking accountability and expressing some dignity, you whine, you cry your eyes out and throw a fit. Grow up! Face it, Zuzu, you got what you deserve!

Zuko: He was willing to sacrifice a division of new recruits and lashes out at anyone who disagrees with him and you’re gonna lecture me about growing up? Even you can’t claim that’s right.

Azula: You think those new recruits didn’t know what they were getting into? They’ve spent years preparing for the fact that they might die horribly. Every one of our soldiers, experienced and amateurs alike, go out into the battlefield, risking their lives to make a difference. What do think happens during war? But we don’t act melodramatic about it because we were sure that their sacrifices would not be in vain.

Zuko: Was Lu Ten’s sacrifice worth it?

Azula: It would have been if uncle used his death as a motivator for vengeance and prove father wrong about him. I would’ve understood that he needed to regroup for now and formulate a plan. It was bad enough that he abandoned the battle completely. Turns out, he’s been conspiring with the enemy the whole time!

Zuko: Maybe at some level, he knew, the whole time, that what we’re doing is wrong and everything we’ve ever known was a lie.

Azula: What are you talking about?

Zuko: I’m talking about the fact that the other nations are not the monsters we were told they were. The air nomads didn’t even have a form of military, they were slaughtered by ambush.

Azula: You don’t know what you’re saying.

Zuko: I do, I’ve spent time with our victims, learned a lot from Iroh. They all showed me the error of our ways.

Azula: You idiot! They are all conning you! Especially the avatar! Those scoundrels are not capable of real love! Think, Zuko, think!

Zuko: I have been thinking for the first time of my life. And I think that even if we had won our war, the consequences for throwing the whole world out of balance would be catastrophic. Zhao learned this the hard way.

Azula: A group of waterbenders trapped admiral Zhao in a ball of water and drowned him.

Zuko: That’s what they told you? I was there, Azula. The north tribe housed two powerful and important spirits, the ocean and the moon. Zhao killed the moon spirit and almost threw the world into chaos. It was fortunate that the moon blessed the north’s princess, she gave up her soul to become the new moon.

Azula: Why should I believe anything you are saying.

Zuko: You claim to know be better than anyone. If that’s true, then you know that I’m the worst liar ever.

#atla #zuko #azula

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sirthisisa-wendys · 4 years ago

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The General (part 10): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: this is it. this is what the end looks like.

wc: 1.5k

tw: none

a/n: WOW. This is the end. We’ve come a long way in... ten days! IT REALLY FEELS LIKE IT’S BEEN WEEKS. This is the end of Lady y/n’s and Geto’s journey... It has been SUCH a pleasure writing for you all.

masterlist

Three children come tumbling out of the carriage, tripping over themselves to be the first to dart past your mother and father to hug you. You look upon the faces of Nobara, Junpei, and Yuji with astonishment; the tears leaking from your eyes are not ones of sadness any longer. Giggles and kisses and hugs are exchanged between you all as you stoop down to greet the overexcited bundles of joy.

You look up just as Gojo and Nanami are exiting the carriage, eyes on the children with gentle smiles. Your father instantly recognizes Gojo, and holds his hands up in celebration.

“Welcome back, Gojo-kun!” Gojo begins to chatter with your father and the three children descend on Megumi, who looks helpless as they ask him too many questions to keep up with. Haibara appears seconds later, flanked by Yuta, and they greet you and Kaori with a fondness you relax into, their faces blending back into the bright paintings of your memory. It was all beautiful - Nanami, Haibara, Yu, Yuta, the children… but everyone knows that one person is missing from the environment.

“Gojo, whe--” Just as you turn to Gojo to interrogate him about Geto’s whereabouts, a large shadow passes over the sun, blocking your eyesight for a moment. When your vision returns, you watch an enormous golden dragon descend from the sky. It’s scales shimmer in the sunlight and toss reflections of rainbows around, almost blinding you to the man sliding off of it’s back.

When you see the General, it’s as if there had been a dam in your heart. The flood of emotions overwhelms your body, and you can only stand among your family and friends in shock as he approaches you, dressed in illustrious fabrics and smiling like the world was his.

“Y/n,” he whispers as everyone watches your reunion. The entire thing was too beautiful - too sweet. When he envelops you in a deep hug, you feel the weight of the world transfer over to his shoulders and ease your burden. You were no longer alone. The tears you shed fade into the silk of his purple haori, and you’re enveloped by the sweet words and tender forehead kisses of your lover.

“I thought you were dead…” you murmur into his chest, and Geto shakes his head, his hair tickling your face. You look into his onyx eyes and ask the obvious question without speaking, and his hand comes up to cup your chin.

“Let me tell you the tale over dinner, my love. It is a story that requires some nourishment.”

“Yeah, because I’m starving!” Gojo announces behind you, much to the chagrin of Kaori, who rolls her eyes at the outburst, despite there being a small smile painted onto her face.

_______________________________________________________________________

“It wasn’t an easy battle,” Gojo begins, shoving a piece of sushi into his mouth. “First of all, we were outmanned four to one. Then, when we were pushed back to the base of the mountain,” he continues, mouth full of food. “It’s like we don’t have anywhere to go but up. And that meant a slow, freezing death for a lot of soldiers.”

“They took their charge seriously,” Haibara interrupts, attempting to preserve their honor. “Their sacrifices weren’t in vain.” Yuta nods, hanging his head a little as he consumes the bowl of soup silently.

“But Prince Geto here tried one last trick that very nearly got him killed,” Gojo growls, pointing his chopsticks at Geto, who is watching his friends animate the tale of their escape and not saying a word. “Releasing all of those curses at once,” the white haired man mutters, stabbing a fish eye with determination. “That almost cost us our General.”

“You what…?” you look over at Geto, who is chickling softly.

“I released quite a few of my curses to attempt to overwhelm my younger brother, Naoya. He did quite well fending them off, but by the time he was finished, Gojo and Haibara had escaped with a little under half of our forces. I lost my way up the mountain and was sustaining a pretty large gash from the fight… but that’s when Mei Mei and Utahime found me.”

“Mei Mei? Utahime?” Kaori questions, but Gojo pats her hand, trying his best to soothe her.

“Listen, they were mountain women. Healers, really.”

“In any case, they healed me, but it took about a month before I could recover from my wounds. By that time, the Court had already pronounced me dead. However, Gojo and Haibara weren’t too far from the Imperial Palace, intent on cutting down my younger brothers and my father.”

“Your father did put up a nice, long fight,” Yuta murmurs, still not making eye contact with anyone at the table. “But it’s never enough, is it?”

A tiny hand sneaks it’s way from the bottom of the table, patting around the wood for something beside your mother’s elbow. It seems that only you notice it, but your mother looks over and notices the hand, takes a piece of fish from the spread, and hands it to the gremlin beneath the table. The hand slinks back to where it came from, disappearing beneath the wood as Gojo rambles about his trek up the stairs to the Palace doors, and how Yuta had already wounded the Emperor by the time they arrived.

“I just think it’s interesting how…” That meant Gojo did not find anything about that interaction interesting.

You look over to Suguru and place your hand on his underneath the table. He looks back at you and grins widely, gripping your fingers tightly as he leans over to whisper in your ear.

“I told you I’d come back for you. All you needed to do was wait.”

“But how did you make it back to Palace, Geto?” your father asks, frowning. Geto’s eyes look up at the group’s collective gaze.

“I made it down the mountain with ease, and rode my rainbow dragon curse all the way there.”

“How long did that take?” Toji wonders, and your mother is holding her hand over mouth, obviously trying not to laugh as another small hand appears next to Toji’s elbow.

“A day.” Toji hands the little fingers a rice ball from his plate without bothering to look, and it disappears just as quickly as it appeared beneath the table. “It was the longest day of my life.”

“And you made it back just in time to save me from a pretty nasty fate,” Yuta laughs.

“Basically, Geto promised to not wipe the whole Imperial Court out if his father would reinstate him as the eldest son, give him his birthright, and…” Gojo thinks, tilting his head back to find the final piece of the puzzle.

“And give him control over the villages he had acquired.” Nanami finishes for him, surreptitiously sliding a piece of tonkatsu underneath the table, and Gojo snaps his fingers in response to the addition.

“Right, that. So, the Emperor said ‘yes’ because it was either that or die, and then we had the camp join us in the compounds surrounding the Imperial Palace. Geto was crowned Prince pretty quickly after that, and then presented to all of the villages one by one as the next in line for the throne. And here we are,” Gojo pauses, frowning suddenly. “Can someone tell me why I feel little fingers on my legs?”

Children snickering echoes from underneath the table, and you try to hold in a laugh, pressing your lips together tightly and feeling little fingers pat your feet, then slide up to pat the table beside you in search of another morsel of food.

_______________________________________________________________________

The night comes quicker than you expected, and you find yourself standing in front of the moonlit window, held from behind by Suguru. He’s littering kisses down your neck and you’re relishing in his touch, your skin feeling like it hadn’t been caressed in ages.

“You’re even more beautiful than I dreamed you would be,” he breathes into your ear, and you shudder, leaning back into him even more. “I spent so long thinking about your face...” He presses a kiss to your cheek. “... your soft body...” His hands drift over your hips. “...the way you feel pressed against me like this.” You smile at his words, and he turns your face to him, blinking slowly. “I fought heaven and hell to come back to you.”

“I’m glad you did,” you whisper before pressing your lips to his, feeling your mouth part almost instantly. Suguru grips your hips and turns you to face him, pulling you closer than you thought possible. You slowly follow him to the bed, still connected by the lips, and when he sits back on it you follow, straddling his half-clothed figure in the moonlight.

“I’ll have to make up for the time we lost,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip tenderly.

“That’s three long months, my Gen- I mean, my Prince.” Suguru laughs at his new title, mouth latching onto yours again as he unties the fabric at your waist and pulls the shoulders of your kimono aside.

“I’ll make it up to you for the rest of my life,” he speaks against your neck, sucking hard at the skin there. “That is... if you’ll let me, Lady y/n.”

“It’s actually Princess y/n, now,” you correct him, and he breaks out into a wide smile, his right eyebrow twitching up.

“Is that so?” He searches your eyes for any falsehood, and you grin sheepishly, pressing yourself against his chest.

“If you’ll let me, my love.” Suguru huffs out a laugh, and pulls you under the sheets with him in the midnight hour.

_______________________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @kamisamaundercover @jotazinha @just4readingfics @mxhi @sammytamaki @brownskinnedgirll @keelyshayee @leanne-tamashi @vabybizzle @amaris9 @fuegy-fuegy @ambiguous-something @honoredsatoru

did I hear that the General is getting an epilogue?

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avaritia-apotheosis · 4 years ago

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Sound the Trumpets (Death Comes a Calling)

Going Angst Week 2021 | Day 5 - Death

Ft. TUE AU where Clockwork never meddles with the timeline and a lot of character death.

A/N: this was inspired by Memorial by Alice Oswald

[AO3]

On the seventh day, Joshua, leader of the Israelites, marched his army around Jericho seven times. And on the seventh march, he bade his priests to blow their ram’s horns and ordered his men to raise a great shout. At the sound of the trumpets, at the sound of the soldiers’ bellows, the walls of the impenetrable city shook and shuddered, collapsing into nothing on the earth as Jericho was laid bare for the conquering.

For Dan— simply Dan, for God has long since fled him— it took but a single cry.

The barrier around Amity Park, the last bastion of humanity, shattered like glass, as hell screamed from above.

The first to die was VALERIE. Brave Red Huntress, the hope of the world. Strongest amongst them with her suit streaking red as she flew to the skies. Always the first to fight, the first to defend. She died attempting to lead Phantom away from the city, plummeting from the air, weighed down by the hoverboard she rode. You could see the ring of frostbite her ankles from where Phantom froze her feet, dark blue and necrotic black despite the momentary exposure.

KWAN dies from an ectoblast to the back. A gurgle on his lips as he, too, falls from the sky. Blood spills from his mouth as wind whips past the hole in his chest. His parents are huddled together in the bunkers underneath the city, fingers laced together and stone-faced as they worry about their son. They will hear a loud thump above the bunkers— one sound among the cacophony of screams and explosions— and convince themselves that it is simply a tree or a lamp post that had toppled over.

Little MIKEY, who shot up like a tree but still lanky and cowardly in the face of danger, ushers his wife and newborn child into the bunkers. He goes to follow, but stops. Turns. A few meters away there’s a little girl laying on the ground, blotchy faced as debris fly overhead. The doors to the bunkers are slowly closing. He makes a choice. Mikey presses a kiss to his pleading wife, his wailing newborn, and runs to the girl. The child enters the bunker seconds before the metal doors close with a hiss. Mikey dies with a smile, bleeding at the steps of the bunker, legs crushed by the falling pieces of Amity’s skyscrapers.

Everyone knows when PAULINA dies. 1:30 P.M., the sun shining as brightly as it did, reflecting on the ruins of the Resistance’s HQ. Paulina Sanchez has acted as the city’s lead strategist for five years now, organizing supplies and working with others to create drills, providing morale to a city whose numbers keep dwindling with every year that passes. The soldiers she helped train hear her last words on the comms, her harsh breathes marred by harsher static as she continues to issue them orders. Paulina was born to command and died commanding.

STAR, ever her satellite, died protecting Paulina moments before. Activates every single trap within HQ with pinpoint accuracy, all to buy enough time for her best friend to escape. She is buried in concrete. Her signature flower hair clip fell from her head at some point in the battle and lies singed some ways away.

SPIKE is killed when he tries shooting Phantom in the head.

DALE is shot trying to drag Spike’s body to the nearest medic.

Phantom rears his head back to take a breath, and the city shatters once again at his howl.

DASH dies on his knees, arms outstretched and body pierced with glass. Behind him, pushed away, was a newly minted soldier and the rest of his squad. Dash had once confessed to Kwan, in the lonely hours between patrolling their city, that he always feared peaking at highschool. That his glory days had started and stopped as Casper High’s star quarterback. After today, there will be few who remembered Dash the Quarterback or Dash the Bully. They will remember Dash, leader of the fifth infantry division, who fought bravely and died saving his men. A hero at last.

The ghostly wail tears down buildings, but it also cracks the earth. The roofs of bunkers are ripped open with a groan, revealing the shattered blue sky and crumbling buildings.

A child suffocates in her fathers arms. The father trying desperately to shield his child from the worst of the debris, but his back gives out, and so does his breath, and the child is much too weak to crawl her way out.

A mother sings a shaky lullaby to her baby. A vain attempt to coax it to sleep, so at least it might die in its dreams where the world was happy still.

ANITA dies with her brother HARRY in a fire.

TOM is killed while holding his wife’s hand.

LANCE dies—

WENDY dies—

JOCELYN is killed by—

ALEX falls—

ELIJA—

YUI

SAFIYA

CALEB

WILL

CARRIE

HAROLD

PAM

STAN

JOSHUA

ASHLEY

WES is dying with his back on the ground, bleeding from his throat. With shaky breath and fire in his eyes he looks up at Phantom and gasps—

“You’re no ghost. You’re a monster.”

ELLIE is one of the last to die. It’s dusk, and the once vibrant city has quieted. She’s flying overhead, looking for any sign of survivors. She has found none so far but continues, in that childish way all children do, to hope beyond hope that there is someone out there. That she isn’t alone.

She’s not alone. She encounters him, standing above the ruins of their home— her home, arms crossed and a bored countenance on his face. She sees the red creep into her vision, knows it’s stupid to rush in because she will lose and right now, finding what remains of the city is more important.

She knows that.

It doesn’t stop her from screaming at the sight of him. Ellie surges forward with hands blazing green, throwing her everything in a desperate attempt to hurt him. Phantom throws up a shield with barely a glance in her direction. Ellie pushes more energy into her blast, can feel the bottoms of her feet destabilizing, can feel her hair turn to goop, but she does not stop.

She pushes and pushes. The heat from her blasts melts her palms, her fingers leaking ectoplasm, but still she channels all her energy into this one attack.

Ellie destabilizes into ectoplasm, disintegrating like her clone siblings a decade before.

Phantom’s shield never even cracked.

When Jericho fell, Joshua commanded that a few should be spared.

When Amity Park fell, no one was afforded that same mercy.

#the death count of mentioned characters is about 32 iirc #going angst week 2021 #danny phantom #my writing.txt #dp fic #dan phantom #danielle phantom #valerie gray #paulina sanchez #dash baxter #star #kwan #mikey #other dp side characters

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astridthevalkyrie · 4 years ago

Note

Do you think AOT is better than FMAB?

sorry not sorry for the blunt answer but no, never, not in a million years, not even close, not for a number of reasons.

few reasons under the cut, because apparently I’m doing this instead of focusing in class. obviously there will be spoilers for both shows, and obviously some of this will be based on personal preference.

1. Genocide/Oppression

so both shows have some vivid imagery of nazi germany. bradley is addressed as the fuhrer in fmab, and the eldians wear stars on their sleeves in aot. and even if the aot writer wasn’t pretty much confirmed to be a nationalist and raging anti-semite, it’s rather painfully obvious which show handles it better.

in aot, the eldians are oppressed because they can turn into titans and were originally trying to take over the world or something, which is so blatantly anti-semitic that it’s terrible. shows are allowed to tackle these kinds of topics, but they should handle them well, not be a stand in for nazi propaganda. this is something so many fucking shows do wrong whenever they make an oppressed group of people - there’s always somehow a reason for having them be oppressed. take bbc merlin. wizards are oppressed because they can do magic and so they’re dangerous, just like how eldians can turn into titans and so they’re dangerous, and that’s a bad thing to imply, because it implies that jewish people somehow deserved what happened to them and that’s a fucking dangerous idea to put into an already anti-semitic world.

and that’s exactly why i was so relieved and appreciative of how fmab did the battle of ishval. it is clear who the bad guys are in that scenario, and it’s clear that it was never deserved and that the soldiers who carried it out are war criminals and deserve to be put into jail. riza says as much herself. while i think scar shouldn’t have been as guilted as he was (sure, he shouldn’t go after innocent people, but him killing winry’s parents is not comparable to what happened to him and doesn’t put all of them on equal footing), i was pleasantly surprised that he lived and wasn’t killed off in some stupid form of “redemption.” if roy deserved to live, so did scar, a hundred times over.

2. Characters

characters in fmab are done ridiculously better than in aot. let’s compare similar characters!

edward and eren - the protagonists

up until the third season onwards, eren is very one dimensional and uninteresting. he’s entertaining, but his one and only goal is killing the titans and it’s super frustrating because they lay down the groundwork for more, but it’s never really addressed. show more how he cares about his friends, show him dealing with his trauma through anger and how it’s unhealthy. (actually, a lot of problems could be fixed if they showed more of the cadets’ training days. i feel like i wasn’t feeling as betrayed by annie and reiner and bertholdt because i never really felt they were that close to eren.)

ed is a delightful main character. he too is angry and doesn’t mind talking with his fists, but at the same time, he’s starchly against killing anyone and has multiple goals. ofc his primary one is getting their bodies back, but when he finds himself in the conspiracy about amestris, he doesn’t hesitate before making that his problem as well. every relationship he has is wonderful. i could get bored with eren on the screen, i wasn’t bored with ed.

armin and alphonse - the deuteragonists

i’m sorry but armin is literally just “the smart one.” that’s it. he’s also the dreamer but it only comes up when they’re about to do something dangerous.

i feel like i don’t even need to go into how good of a character al is? he’s very obviously multifaceted and the epitome of sweet and badass at the same time.

winry and mikasa - the love intests-ish

i don’t like referring to either of them like that, but while mikasa is the tritagonist (or deuteragonist, her and armin can interchange there), winry is not.

and surprise, surprise, this is actually where i’m not so sure winry comes out on top. mikasa is, in my opinion, the most interesting out of the trio. she also has a very single-minded goal, but seeing her interact with other characters (armin, jean, levi) who either fall in line or disagree with that goal is fun to watch. she’s also obviously super competent and i have a thing for competent characters.

winry is a good character and i love her, but it’s always bothered me how out of place her scenes feel in relation to the entire show. and as much as i know it doesn’t deter her agency, there’s just something off about ed telling her to have an apple pie waiting for them. it actually brings in one of my few problems with fmab. while its female are pretty good, they’re far from perfect, and that’s because nearly all of them exist because of their relation to the more important male character. winry is ed’s mechanic and the elrics’ family friend. riza is roy’s lieutenant. lan fan is ling’s bodyguard. izumi is the elrics’ teacher. i’m not saying that’s all they are, but this is a major part of their role in the story (olivier and mei stand out as female characters with goals relating to themselves and not a guy around them.)

so who’s the better character? mikasa is more fierce and winry has better lines that aren’t just calling out the protag’s name. i’m gonna give it to winry, but by a short shot.

roy and levi - the op fan favorites

this one’s much easier. roy is not just a badass who’s also the hero’s direct superior like levi is, he’s a person with clearcut goals and weaknesses and he has to make sacrifices and work for what he wants. levi has all the makings for a great character, a tragic backstory and a chill personality, but he doesn’t have a reason to stay in the scouts, he just...does. out of loyalty to erwin, i guess? it’s not clear and it’s even worse if you don’t watch the ova. roy’s reasons are clear and relatable. he also has a dorky and endearing side, plus the political side of things he brings to fmab is interesting and an equally important part of the story. his fight with envy is satisfying and thrilling. levi’s fight with the beast titan, while it is super well animated and cool, kiiiinda falls flat because there was no set-up for him being the one to take the beast titan down (should have been connie). it also ends a bit too fast, honestly.

but hey, you say, aren’t you the one writing 15k worth of fanfiction for levi within two weeks? didn’t see you writing that much for roy. yeah, well, unfortunately, my attraction doesn’t determine the better character and i never said i was proud of this, please leave me alone.

there’s more comparisons i could make - carla and trisha, hohenheim and grisha (ha, trisha and grisha rhyme), roy can also be compared to erwin, there’s multple side characters, but fmab wins, you guys get it.

3. The Story, Plot, Deaths

listen, i get it. aot is a bloody, brutal show and you’re not supposed to get attached to characters. i’m not gonna complain about pointless deaths, because that in itself is the point. it’s like twd or got, it’s gonna have lots of death. but the deaths don’t have to be so stupid. i’m specifically thnking of levi’s squad, because the way they die is so dumb. gunther should not be taken down by a cadet, petra shouldn’t be flying so close to the ground, oluo should know not to engage the female titan alone. these were elite titan killers, they knew not to be stupid. there were ways to kill them off without making them look so stupid. and if there’s not, consider not killing them off just for shock value.

fmab’s deaths mean something, especially since one of its central messages is that life is precious, no matter whose it is. everyone’s life means something and no one dies in vain.

there’s more i could go into, but i just spent my entire classtime doing this and now my second one for the day is about to start, sooo i think i’ll stop here. thanks for the ask!

#fmab #anti aot #anti fmab #at some parts #aot is anti-semitic please be careful when watching it and think about the media you're consuming

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years ago

Text

Miracles of a False Goddess

Summary: As Fhirdiad burns, Dimitri reminisce of a long, lost love.

Rating: M - Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Words: 1000

Notes: Nothing to say, just feels.

The year is 1186. The city burns, on the order of the crazed Archbishop, hoping to slow down the advance of the Imperial army.

Outside the palace walls, the seas shake and groan as ships catch on fire and men scream and weapons clash. The citizens try to control the fire or run towards the invaders, hoping for mercy they were not shown by their sovereigns. The air is thick with smoke and blood. Inside the walls, a man stands alone, lazily twirling a sword between his fingers.

In the hallways just outside the door, frantic yells and weeps of handmaidens’ echo through the stone bricks. The man simply smiles. Their panic is in vain. They will die. He will die. All that remains will die. The world order that stood upon this land for millennia, that the good men of Faerghus died to protect is on its last legs.

His uncle is dead, his courtesans are dead, his friends are dead. Only he stands alive. Why should it be any different? There is no place for them in Edelgard’s Empire. Best they die fighting.

Dimitri finally lets the sword drop with a harsh clang. Shadows shift as he makes his way across the room, looking out the window where the battle rages below. The war ships of his and Lady Rhea’s flail in the waters, many afire, sinking, stained with blood and broken arrows. The golems fall to pieces on the gates and lower districts. The ballistae that fired against the enemy now serve them. It is clear whose losing, and yet, his mind is set on a single face.

A woman. He is thinking of a woman, he realizes, cursing himself, and an enemy woman at that. It had been more than a decade, and he was still grieving her death. Had she really left such a mark on him in such short time they had spent together?

Memories come flooding back, each more painful and vivid than the last. The look in her eyes the first time he saw her at that night in Remire Village. The smooth expanse of skin underneath those sheer silks. The coy smile that he got as a reward whenever he said something clever.

Had it all been a game? Had she never loved him in the first place?

That was entirely possible. Byleth knew how to play the game, and she knew how to play her men, but it had not driven Dimitri or any of his schoolmates away. It had just made him want more. In one aspect his stepsister has a point, the Fódlan people were like sheep, herded this way and that by a few strong words, always ready to follow and serve. She, on the other hand, took nothing without a challenge, refusing to duck her head in shame. That was the thrill of it all: the challenge. She was the ultimate challenge, and Dimitri one competitor out of many.

“Your Majesty!”

A shout interrupts Dimitri from his thoughts and he looks up. A lone Kingdom soldier stands there, face streaked with sweat and grime.

“The city is falling. You must flee!” He begs, stepping closer. “Lady Seiros calls for you.”

“She does.” Dimitri answers simply, turning back towards the window. “But I don’t care now, do I?”

The soldier gapes in surprise.

“Your Majesty... Lady Seiros asks…”

“Lady Rhea asks, but she will not receive.” Dimitri snaps. “Leave me be. I answer to myself, not to Rhea.”

The soldier hesitates for one moment longer, than backs out with a hasty bow. Dimitri could hear his rapid footsteps echoing down the hall as he made his getaway. There was no doubt he was going to try and flee the city. Coward.

“Byleth.” He muses, savouring the name, trying to hold it in his mouth as long as possible. “Byleth.”

Her face comes flooding back again, and he shuts his eyes. That horrible moment, almost six years ago, comes pouring back in a flood to his mind. The first he heard of it was when Caspar let it be known that the Black Eagles would venture down to the Holy Tomb, that their Professor, his beloved, would receive a divine revelation from the Goddess herself.

He did not want his woman in such a position, and he argued with her against it, knowing that something unsavoury laid amongst the bones of the Saints of the Church. She said she had no other choice, but Edelgard would help her should problems arise. He insisted, offering safe passage to Fhirdiad, away from the overbearing reach of the Archbishop, but she insisted.

Alas, she went down the shaft. Then, came the Imperial army.

Rhea descended slowly into madness. Even her filthy blood feared the consequences of her warmongering. A dragon took the place of the Archbishop, and it killed Byleth.

Her grave was a simple thing, remembered in a small plot outside the monastery walls as was common. That tiny marker, the wreath of small flowers, did not do a woman like her justice. She deserved something grand, a parade or procession of her own. And when she died, the last of his heart had too.

Dimitri had spent the last years of his life searching for anything to remind him of her. Was that why he had sworn fealty to the losing side? Because fighting a hopeless cause was the shortest path to the death he craved? Because it punished both of the responsible for his misery, each in its own perverse way? It was a sorry thing to admit, but it was the truth.

Breathing calmly now, mind settled and a melancholic happiness in his heart, Dimitri reaches down, grasping the hilt of his sword and raising it up. So here ended the great Blaiddyd dynasty, dead by his own hand. If that false Goddess was as kind as they proposed her to be, she would let him die honourably. The sword goes in.

He never feels the pain.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Dimitri Blaiddyd

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trahottie · 4 years ago

Text

Trahearne x F!Commander

(Ao3) Ch 2 / ? - It is the eve of the Pact’s final assault against Zhaitan. A morning unlike any other awaited them all and unspoken truths must be shared before it is too late. Marshal Trahearne and Commander Rhea struggle to reconcile with the meaning of their friendship as they realize they might never see each other ever again.

---

Commander Rhea couldn’t tell how long she had been staring at the starlit sky. Once again, her thoughts drifted towards the person she considered her closest friend.

Upon leaving the briefing room, General Soulkeeper had mentioned she had further meetings to attend to with the Marshal and the rest of the Pact’s administrative leadership, despite the already late hour.

He must be so tired, she thought.

Growing weary of her own fatigue, Rhea shook herself out of her reverie and refocused on the task at hand. She leaned forward and scribbled away:

Dear Marshal,

Rhea paused, her quill tip lingering over the parchment.

So formal. This won’t do, She thought. Not for something like this. She crumpled the sheet and threw it aside, before pulling another from the corner of her work desk.

The room was nearly pitch black, if not for the lit candle that stood by her writing materials, and the moonlight peering through her window. She leaned back in her chair and let her gaze drift over the ocean’s horizon for the umpteenth time as if it would offer a final boon of inspiration.

As what may be expected in an old, dilapidated fort quickly made over into a fully functional military stronghold in a matter of mere months, the furnishings of her room were simple and modest. Nonetheless, as a reflection of her rank, she was afforded a room with a generous amount of space and windows that overlooked the rest of Fort Trinity and the shorelines of Terzetto Bay.

Now and then, she can hear a pack of soldiers shuffling past her doors with equipment, and the echoes of hammering steel ring outside her windows. The hour was late, but there was always more to do. Especially when a morning unlike any other awaited them all.

An hour prior, she and the rest of Destiny’s Edge had broken from their exhaustive day-long intelligence briefings and strategic overviews. Everyone involved in the frontal assault was ordered to return to their quarters and get as much shut-eye as possible. There wasn’t much time left and so much was at stake.

However, Rhea could not sleep just yet. As was the case for many soldiers this solemn night, there was unfinished business to tend to. There were farewells to be made. Lifetimes of meanings needed to be truncated to brief letters for loved ones that many may not ever see again.

Rhea leaned back further and rubbed her temples. She was used to risking her life every day, but there was no question that tomorrow will be unlike anything she has ever faced before. How do you kill an Elder Dragon? No less one who has managed to upheave an entire lost civilization?

This time, she and her comrades may truly die a horrible, permanent death. The idea of never seeing her friends and family again never quite struck her the way it did now. Everything she worked towards and bled for would come to a bitter end. All of her hopes for the future would be snuffed out like a candle. She felt as though she dangled over an endless precipe, held by nothing but a thin thread, and the anxiety made her heart ache and stomach churn nonstop. It was debilitating.

Rhea shook it off and returned her attention to the blank parchment. All that remained to do now was say goodbye to him. Thinking about what to say was numbing. After all, how do you say farewell to someone who might not be able to understand what he means to you?

Not only was he her superior officer and the leader of a massive armada that the survival of the entire world depended on, but he is not even human! Even better, he was the first of his other-worldly kind. Everything about his identity was the substance of pure legend. How do you confess something so horribly vulnerable to someone of such incredible, almost supernatural importance? Why risk such painful embarrassment?

Because he’s my best friend, Rhea thought.

And I might never see him again.

This was the one fact that brought Rhea peace of mind in the storm of her emotions. It took her a painfully long time to accept the truth.

In these past few weeks, it nearly drove her mad to not come to terms with what she was feeling. She thought of him day and night. What was he up to? Is he holding up well? Or is he overburdened, from being buried neck-deep in paperwork, logistics, and the emotional trauma of being responsible for the deaths of countless brave souls, young and old? Even worse, was there someone or something making another attempt on his life, whilst she is unable to shield him from danger?

Her juvenile instincts often fantasized of an alternate universe where there were no Elder Dragons to kill, no Pact to lead, no other-worldly dangers to run from or into. It would be just the two of them, perhaps strolling along the roaming green hills of Kessex as they muse about history, literature, or the humble and charming livelihoods of the farmers they pass by.

Or perhaps they would walk beneath the lush canopies of Caledon, where she could learn more about the wondrous idiosyncrasies of his people and admire the boundless potential of the Sylvaris’ future.

Rhea realized that she ached for such fantasies because no matter the danger that surrounded them, every moment spent in his company made her feel... warm. Safe. Happy. When was the last time she had such a reliable source of pure contentment? If ever? She thought life would forever be an uphill battle for acceptance, belonging, and survival. But it all became so small when she was at his side. With him, she was enough. If not more.

Of course, however, they would never have crossed paths had there been no Zhaitan, or armies of Risen or the impending doom of the world. Thus, here they are, a sunrise away from facing their ultimatum, and she, Commander Rhea Hanaku, must confess she is hopelessly in love with Marshal Trahearne.

She continued.

Trahearne, my dear friend,

It should be without surprise that I consider you my closest companion. My firmest ally. After everything we have endured together over the past year, you would probably agree when I say there are no words that can complement the significance of our friendship.

As usual, your confidence in me is overwhelming, and you assure me that we will certainly see each other again on the other side of this upcoming battle. And as usual, my pessimism has compelled me to overcompensate in light of the worst.

Rhea's lips curled to a small smile. The sentiment took her back to what felt like an ancient memory.

“You seemed to have known each other well,�� Rhea said quietly, her eyes glumly fixed on the dark waters and misty horizon that surrounded their ship.

“We did,” Trahearne replied with a gentle smile. “I’ve counseled the Vigil on many of their campaigns against the Risen. As you might expect, Forgal was often the point-person for those initiatives. We had spent countless missions with our backs against each other. And, well,” he cleared his throat, “countless celebratory drinks at many-a-tavern. As many times Forgal has saved my life, there were just as many times he threatened it with one too many pints.”

Rhea’s eyes lit up towards Trahearne, and she surprised herself with the light laughter that escaped her lips. “You and me both,” she said with a small smile. Her eyes studied the sylvari before her. Despite the poise in Trahearne’s composure and the graciousness of his smile, she could sense a deep sadness in the golden glow of his eyes.

Forgal had always complained that ever since his “old age”, he only bothered fraternizing with those he held in high regard. After all she had witnessed from Firstborn Trahearne in the few hours they’ve known each other, it wasn't hard to tell why this sylvari fell in that category. The thought of her mentor made her eyes water once more. Rhea turned away quickly.

“I’m so sorry, Rhea,” Trahearne said softly. “I can tell you two were close, as well.”

Rhea stared back at him. The sadness he shared with her and the concern he expressed made Rhea feel closer to the sylvari. For the first time since they embarked on this forlorn voyage, she felt warmth creep back into her chest.

“You know what hurts the most?” Rhea whispered, as she couldn’t help but give in to the sincerity in his eyes. “He always said that I was the kid he should have had.” It took everything she had to gulp back her emotions. Countless memories of laughter and heart-to-hearts with her mentor rushed through her. Countless memories that gave her hope for a future that she could be proud of. They were the kind of memories she never had with her own parents despite the many years she spent under their cold gilded rooftops. “I thought he was just joking. But I wish I could've told him... I wanted to tell him, he was the family I wish I had, too.”

She was undone. The truth of what she had lost today dropped on her like a torrential downpour. Her tears followed suit. For some reason, she wasn’t surprised when she felt the sylvari gently wrap her arms around her in a comforting embrace.

“Forgal never needed formalities to know the truth,” Trahearne said quietly. “In all the years I've known Forgal, I've never seen him look upon someone with as much pride as I did today. He understood what he meant to you, Rhea. That is why he made the choice he made today." The low timbre of his voice sent a soothing pulse to her senses.

Rhea’s breathing slowed, finding comfort in his words. Trahearne slowly withdrew so he could look her in the eye, “He knew what you were capable of. And I saw that with my own eyes today. His sacrifice will never be in vain because of you. I believe that wholeheartedly.”

At that moment, she was dumbstruck. Rhea could not understand the intimidation the Lionguard soldiers at Claw Island felt in Trahearne's presence. All she could see before her was a sylvari with a world of kindness and mature understanding in his eyes. It was the kind of deep, soothing warmth one found in a finely aged wine - a sweetness tempered by the mellowed nature only earned by years and years grounded in earth. His sharp, strangely handsome features suddenly appeared all the more gentle and noble. He was stunning.

Rhea continued to write. The memory reminded her of how much Trahearne inspired her to confide in him. At the end of the day, he was her friend first and foremost. What was the worst that could happen...?

Please allow me once more to overcompensate for my pessimism. Please allow me to prepare for the possibility that this is my last chance to speak to you truthfully.

There is a confession in this letter that I’m afraid you won’t be prepared for, Trahearne. My heart is hurting from simply writing this. My heart hurts every time I think of you.

Forgive me, my friend, but I'm afraid I love you.

---

#trahearne #trammander #gw2 #guild wars 2 #gw2 oc #back on muh bullshit #if anyone has seen ch1 i invite you to check it out again bc i updated it quite a bit for more juice ☺️#my writing

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years ago

Text

I Watched TWS for the Millionth Time So Let’s Over-Analyze This Shit

-TFA theme at the beginning 🥰 (that theme is so fuckin good)

-Sam’s lil jogging route around the Tidal Basin/Mall

-Steve being sassy , just as a general

-Steve’s sadness errands

-Sam relating to Steve on the soldier front and making him feel seen

-Just. Sam Wilson

-The way that Steve’s to-do list in the movie varies from country to country (For instance, the UK list has Sherlock instead of I Love Lucy and The Beatles)

-Also I wanna know Steve’s thai order

-The fact that this whole exchange is happening at 6:39 am

-Natasha drives with all the recklessness of a 16 year old that just got their license

-Stealth Suit Stealth Suit

-Steve deflecting Nat’s date suggestions

-Steve’s aversion for parachutes...reckless endangerment ✨

-Steve speaking/understanding at least a little french

-Tony having designed the Helicarriers to have arc reactor power instead of turbines because “he got a close up look at the turbines” in The Avengers 2012 when he got caught in them

-“This isnt freedom, this is fear” aka the embodiment of Steve’s character

-Steve’s exhibit being in the Air and Space museum even tho he flew a plane once and crashed it

-Bucky’s display having two different birth years (1916 and 1917. the correct one is 1917)

-In the little video of Steve and Bucky, Sebastian Stan was saying “We *are* friends” after the director told them to “act like friends” for that shot

-Steve acknowledging Peggy’s family and therefore acknowledging that their relationship with each other, while still close and special, is not romantic anymore and Peggy telling Steve to move on and start over wtf endgame

-The parallel of Peggy losing her memory as Bucky regains his

-Sam Wilson willing to show vulnerability and not being ashamed of his PTSD and treating Steve like any other attendee and hoping Steve will open up too if he sees that it’s okay to

-Steve’s face after “it was like I was up there just to watch” cuz he gets it and both sam and him had to watch their other half fall

-“What makes you happy?” “I don’t know”

-The Winter Soldier theme is just Bucky’s scream pitched different and made to sound mechanical because Henry Jackman wanted it to sound like a man trapped in a machine

-Why is Steve a lucky bastard that has his own laundry machine

-Steve leaving his apartment building after Sharon points out the music and then SCALING THE SIDE OF HIS OWN BUILDING AND CLIMBING IN THROUGH HIS WINDOW LIKE CAN YOU IMAGINE SEEING CAPTAIN AMERICA JUST CLIMBING INTO HIS APARTMENT THROUGH HIS WINDOW ONE NIGHT

-STEVE’s APARTMENT I HAVE MANY THOUGHTS (i might make a separate post on that)

-The fact that “A Long, Long Time” is playing when he sees Bucky for the first time in the future and the song is about lovers reuniting after the war i’m not saying it’s gay but i am

-He calls Fury “Nick” which really indicates theyre not close in the slightest

-Steve is excellent in adapting under pressure (him immediately catching on and using Fury’s code story: “who else knows about your wife?”)

-Steve is Awful at lying but hes also Excellent at lying

-How tf did Steve get the flash drive in the vending machine without the vending machine dude noticing i-

-“Captain Rogers” “Neighbor >:(“ petty little shit

-Steve’s observation skills are A+++++ as we can see in the elevator scene

-More reckless endangerment like imagine just going through your work day and captain america falls through the ceiling

-Steve stole someones gym clothes after escaping SHIELD. let that sink in

-Natasha has about a billion masks on at all times (“I only act like i know everything, rogers” “the person that programmed this was slightly smarter than me. slightly” “the truth isn’t all things to all people all of the time”) also she’s quite insecure, especially when it comes to being perceived as a good, trustable person

-Meanwhile, Steve’s consistently himself even if it costs him

-Bucky trained Natasha in the Red Room (at least in the comics) so theres a good chance she made the connection between him and Steve and withheld that information

-The honeymoon in New Jersey😭😭

-Steve and Nat both have very different, but entirely valid approaches to situations: Steve’s is that of a tactiction, Nat’s is that of a spy’s. We see this in the scene at Pentagon City Mall

-Steve’s looking for someone with shared life experience and bucky has that

-Bucky killed JFK

-When Zola tells him that his death and life both amount to that of a zero sum, he punches the screen with his bare fist, not his shield, indicating just how much that upset him

-Pierce offers Bucky milk cuz he knows “the asset” can’t refuse or accept offers. He’s taunting him

-Sam drinks orange juice straight from the bottle and also doesnt refrigerate his mustard. There’s also a baseball trophy in his apartment so,,,,, baseball player sam anyone?

-Sam is also a gem who immediately helps out Steve and Nat with no judgement in his tone so they don’t feel ashamed

-Nat straightened her hair somewhere in Sam’s house

-“Cuz thats really not your style, Rogers” “you’re right, it’s not” *rubs sitwell’s arm* “it’s hers”

-Steve and Nat banter Steve and Nat banter

-Sam is just *clenches fist* so cool

-Nat immediately knows where Bucky’s gonna shoot when he lands on the Sam’s car and later she knows how to affectively fight him best because he trained her so she knows his fighting style

-Steve alone saying “Bucky?” was enough to break Bucky’s conditioning the slightest bit

-Sam met Steve like 36 hours ago and he’s already being arrested and made into a government fugitive with him and it won’t be the last time

-Steve is the only one entirely restrained

-“Even when I had nothing I had Bucky”

-Everyone meets Sam and is just like “aight let’s trust him with the highest clearance security information”

-Steve looks super nauseous all through the scene where Rumlow is handcuffing him and later when he says, “he looked right at me, like he didn’t even know me” he sounds sick and choked up

-Steve carries a lot of weight on his shoulders

-Steve’s “Bucky?” after the highway battle and Steve’s “Bucky?” in Bucky’s memory in the Vault Scene being different (in Bucky’s memory, he looks more heartbroken)

-Sebastian’s acting. Just all of it. And the way Bucky just opens his mouth for the mouth guard before he gets wiped....heartbreaking

-Steve realizes an organization that was meant to protect the people has become its own antithesis so hes like “aight. get rid of it” damn that’s the right mindset right there

-In the memory scene after Sarah’s funeral, Steve is so out of it and distressed, that he can’t find his key but Bucky immediately knows exactly where it is and what he’s lookin for

-Bucky was vain as shit and also had money: tailored suit, hair w shit ton of brylcreem in it

-The big breakfast Steve had was at Sam’s house

-The whole scene on the helicarrier between Steve and Bucky is incredible here are some highlights: Steve never backing down from a fight until it’s Bucky he’s fighting, Steve dropping the shield for him, Steve being ready to die if living means he’s living in a world where Bucky’s alive and doesnt remember him

-Their acting in that scene is so genuine and heartbreaking i can’t- i can’t-

-Steve’s got a comm i’m so chances are Nat, Sam and Maria can hear a portion of what’s going down on the helicarriers

-“I’m with ya to the end of the line” is basically “til death do us part” so the equivalent of wedding vows between Bucky and Steve is what ultimately broke Bucky’s conditioning

-When bucky fell, steve didn’t jump after him but when Steve fell, bucky went after him even tho he’s brainwashed. don’t think about steve’s guilt surrounding that. youll only get sad

-Bucky waited until Steve took a breath to leave him

-Sam waited by Steve’s side in the hospital

-In the end credit scene, Bucky and Steve originally were supposed to make eye contact, but the writers didn’t want it established that Bucky remembered Steve until CW

----

Every time I watch it from here on out, I’m gonna add a lil more as I notice hehehe

#ca:tws #captain america #the winter soldier #Steve Rogers #stucky #natasha romanov #Bucky Barnes #sam wilson #marvel #marvel shit

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emerald-amidst-gold · 4 years ago

Text

I blame no one but myself

Since I saw @little-lightning-lavellan create THIS I had to do it for Fane. You have a glorious mind, just so you know! I had to do this, and as a result, I splurged. Holy fuck. Strap yourself in folks!

***

You have selected _____ to join your party! Is your OC a Companion in the Dragon Age series? What would it be like for a player to select them to join their party for quests (or romance them, perhaps? 👀)

(yes, I will always use this picture until the day I die. Fight me.)

Fane Lavellan (born 9:17 Dragon) is a Dalish warrior and hunter from Clan Lavellan, but abandoned the clan at the age of 20. He feels no kinship with his own clan or the Dalish as a whole. He is a volatile young man that is prone to bouts of rage, but also indifference, swapping between the two at any given moment. However, he shows an astounding sensibility with keen observational skills and a plethora of worldly knowledge that many would not assume a mere Dalish warrior to have.

Inquisition scouts report that he was along the fringes of the hills surrounding the Conclave several hours before the blast, seemingly observing the gathering of the mages and templars with levels of confusion and intrigue, but was within the village itself when the initial explosion occurred, thus he was brought in as a potential suspect and questioned as to his reasons for being there. Fane stated he was ‘just watching’ and left it at that, so the Inquisition decided to keep him close so they themselves could ‘just watch’. (If playing the Mhairi World State then his reason for being in Haven is as a bodyguard for his sister, and stays with them for her sake alone. He does not leave Clan Lavellan in this world state.)

Fane is a starting companion (appears at the first initial rift with Solas and Varric) and is a romance option for either a female or male elf or human. The initiation of the romance is, however, based on the approval scale. You must be at a certain percentage upon the initiation scene, otherwise, the flag will be unavailable (Dalish Inquisitors start with infinitely lower approval than human, dwarf, or Qunari Inquisitors). If playing the Mhairi World State then romance option is voided, and a background relationship like Dorian and the Iron Bull will be initiated with Solas through banter hints during the game. The background relationship applies for other world states, and for low approval, or if the Inquisitor does not romance Solas.

His primary abilities upon recruitment are centered around two-handed and DPS, but can be respecced after the first seal attempt. Fane’s specialized Ability Tree is akin to the Reaver Ability tree, and unlocks along with other companions’ Ability trees after Haven. However, he has two personalized activated skills named Emotional Baggage and Leashed, But By Choice.

Emotional Baggage is a support, sustained AOE ability that Fane can activate to use the emotional duress of an enemy (i.e. status effects such as panic or weakened.) to augment his, the Inquisitor’s, or other companion’s abilities and basic attacks. This ability eats away at his stamina however and when depleted, Fane is unable to use any of his other abilities for a short period of time, and his basic attacks and general movement is impaired.

Leashed, But By Choice is an ability exclusively tailored to support either Solas or the Inquisitor (if high approval or within the Mhairi World State). When within the appropriate radius of either one, Fane can ‘tether’ himself to Solas or the Inquisitor to bolster their strength by feeding his emotions through the link established. Any debilitating effects upon Solas or the Inquisitor is transferred to him and redistributed back through with fiery purpose. (status effects stack until stamina pool is depleted) If Fane’s stamina pool is completely depleted when the tether is still established, he will begin to take high amounts of spirit damage due to all debuffs circling back to him until he disconnects himself, or Solas or the Inquisitor cease any basic or activated attacks. (If friendly fire is toggled on, Solas or the Inquisitor can direct an attack towards Fane to forcibly remove the link if he is unable to).

Fane’s focused ability is circumstance dependent, meaning it is only activated if Solas has fallen or is at critical health. (If playing the Mhairi World State, it will be available if Mhairi falls or is critically injured, as well.) It is listed with the name Shattered Vow and is along the lines of the base focus ability Berserk. However, Shattered Vow greatly amplifies abilities such as Dragon Rage and Devour, and has no cooldown times on either, but at the cost of extra amounts of health when used. Stamina rate of depletion is exceptionally lowered during the duration of the ability, but upon focus depletion, or if Solas or Mhairi is revived or healed, Fane will immediately collapse and be incapacitated for the rest of the fight. (Revival, potions with Lifeward, or if Healing Grenade is upgraded with Revival will not work to recall Fane.)

Combat Comments

Kills an enemy

(scoffs) Disgusting.

I’m sick of you! *if enemy downed is a mage*

(snarls) Don’t touch me!

Kills an enemy (after Haven)

(tired sigh) Will it ever end?

So much red..

I wasn’t made for this..

Low Health

(growls) Permission granted to heal!

Suledin.. S..Suledin.. Vir enasalin..

I..I have to..keep going..

Low Health (Companions)

(the Inquisitor) Stop attacking! Focus on the Inquisitor! He/She is injured!

(the Inquisitor - if Dalish) Will pride be your downfall, too?! Someone help the Inquisitor!

(the Inquisitor - Mhairi World State) Help, Mhairi! NOW!!

(Solas) Solas! You damned fool! Fall back!

(Varric) Varric! Archers in the back, warriors on the front! Get it?!

(Cole) Cole! Easy, damn you!

Fallen Companions

(the Inquisitor) - If you fall, we all fall! Get. UP!

(the Inquisitor - if Dalish) I thought you would never submit?!

(the Inquisitor - Mhairi World State) My, no! (voice cracks) NO! Open your eyes! OPEN THEM!!

(Solas) Solas! (snarls angrily) I swear if you’re not breathing when I get to you, I’ll--I’ll--!

(Solas - if romanced by Fane) No..NO! (choked up) We made a vow, Solas! It can’t shatter again! I need you!

(Iron Bull) I’m large, but you’re larger, you oaf! Get up!

(Cole) Cole, no! You still have so much to see, to observe! Come on!

(Varric) I don’t fancy having Hawke’s hands on my throat, dwarf!

(Cassandra) The Seeker’s down? (snarls) Fuck me!

Location Comments

If within radius of any Elvhen artifact

Fane: I’m..going to stay out here.

Inquisitor: Is everything all right? What’s wrong?

Fane: Nothing. It’s just more practical for someone to stay outside in case of trouble. Go on.

If within radius of any Elvehn artifact and Solas is in the party (primarily after Haven)

Solas: There is an elven artifact nearby.

Fane: (sighs) Of course there is.

Solas: Ir abelas. We shall be quick.

Fane: Go on, then. I’ll be here.

Exalted Plains

The land is burnt to ash here. How typical.

The sky is...grey. (sighs) I want to leave already.

(Within Halin’sulahn)

Fane: Could we have built a life here? Harmonious with them and free? Without a yoke to bind us, a noose to threaten us?

Inquisitor: With humans, you mean?

Fane: Huh? Hum--? (clears throat) Yeah. Yeah..

(when reading one of the plaques depicting the Exalted March)

(growls) The world would be better off without religion. (scoffs) Zealots, all of them.

(Approaching the Dalish camp)

Inquisitor: Huh. Look. It’s the Dalish encampment.

Fane: Traipsing about a battlefield? (scoffs) Idiots. I feel bad for the halla.

Emprise du Lion

(takes a deep breath) Ahh, feel that? That’s cold. (chuckles) Just how I like it.

I need to shed a layer...or five. How can you all stand so much fur? Ugh.

Watch for falling snow from the branches. It’ll crush you as surely as any boulder would.

(near red lyrium)

This stuff needs to know the perpetuity of black. Destroy it already.

My head is pounding. (growls) Can we get moving? Tsk.

(after walking across Judicael’s Crossing)

Fane: I hear them..

Cole: They’re confused, crazed, chained. They want to correct it, but it’s too much..

Fane: ...Let’s go.

Temple of Mythal

(entering the temple)

Guess the elves learned how to cherish some things. Don’t let that be in vain.

(after meeting Abelas - didn’t attack)

Fane: I wonder if they know..

Solas: They do.

Fane: Hmph. That’s...good, I guess.

Companion Comments about Fane

Varric: Tempest? (laughs) He’s a handful, but he’s not so bad once you get past it. Elf can drink, too! The other night, half the soldiers were knocked out cold and he was still wide awake!

Blackwall: Have you ever played Diamondback with Solas and Fane at the same time? Don’t. My coin purse is still recovering from that duo.

Sera: Grumpy? (cackles) I put a rat in his bed roll the other day and I friggin’ swear his hair turned as red as his face after the screech he let out! ...I had to hide out in the kitchens all day, though.

Cole: His eyes hold dueling duality. He wonders when the battle will end.

Cole (if Fane is romanced with the Inquisitor): He doesn’t know which side he wants, but observing you gives him hope. He feels safe with you.

Solas (not romanced with Fane): Fane has been through a lot, Inquisitor, but his words do not wholly define him. Observe him as he observes all of us, and you will see that.

Solas (if romanced with Fane): (chuckles) Ma’isenatha? He is special, Inquisitor. In more ways than you realize. (more quietly) ...He is more important than you realize.

Iron Bull: He gives me a wide berth for some reason, but he’s one hell of a fighter! (hums) Sort of unhinged though. Like he doesn’t know he’s even moving in for the kill. Kind of worrisome, if you ask me.

Dorian: Fane? (chuckles) Have you ever heard him speak when he thinks no one’s listening? That man is a walking poetry book! Caught him reciting one to himself one time and when I asked about it, he turned beet red! I swear the man’s eyes changed colors from that alone!

Leliana (if not playing the Mhairi World State): I don’t know much about him, or rather, I cannot find much about him. For a large man with very unique features, he remains shadowed. ...And he seems to want it that way.

Leliana (if Inquisitor is Dalish): I attempted to contact your clan after Haven to gather information, but...all inquiries were met with refusal or deflection. You yourself mentioned you had never interacted with him, yes? I believe there is more going on than Fane wishes to admit.

Leliana (if playing the Mhairi World State): Your brother is highly observational and subtle for a man so large. He had taken one of my investigations as his own, and brought back amazing amounts of intel that uncovered a ring of mages attempting to repeat the same dragon control from the Grand Cathedral. ...Would you be adverse to me making him an agent?

Trespasser

No matter the romance or world state, Fane becomes unavailable at the end of Inquisition. If romanced, however, he will leave the Inquisitor a letter stating that he’s sorry, but he can’t continue to ignore what is needed for what he wants. If playing the Mhairi World State, he also leaves a letter, but the message is attached with the favor Mhairi had given him when he turned twenty-one; a velvet sash. After various attempts of locating Fane and turning up no leads, he is presumed out of bounds of Thedas or dead.

During Trespasser, upon the final eluvian that ultimately leads to Solas, the Inquisitor will be stopped by a dragon masked warrior, who is also blocking the Viddasala from entering the mirror. Even when questioned, the warrior doesn’t speak and ultimately moves to the side to allow passage, but not before finally saying, in fluent Elvhen: ‘Your wings are clipped, and only stone awaits you.’

When the Inquisitor speaks to Solas, he will explain that Fane is not dead or missing, and is actively within the Crossroads as they speak. Any circumstance will yield questions from the Inquisitor as to Fane’s exact whereabouts, and Solas with state, with a saddened smile, ‘He saw you when you came in, but you did not do the same courtesy. Such is the way the world views his kind.’ If the Inquisitor made an effort to learn the history of the elves, their downfall, and Solas’s own identity, then he will explain exactly what Fane is and who he is to Solas himself. If not, then Solas will say to find Fane themselves to learn the complete truth and will only explain his own side.

In the Epilogue, it is made known that the warrior the Inquisitor passed in the Crossroads was Fane, after Leliana’s agents reports sightings of a large male along the fringes of Tevinter, wearing the same armor, but without the mask attached. It is later revealed that Fane is working as one of the Agents of Fen’harel, but mainly as Solas’s second in command.

Trivia

Fane has an unhealthy obsession with anything sweet. He often gets stomach aches.

He is demisexual, thus why his romance is based upon the approval scale.

Fane is the only companion that cannot have armor crafted for. He will equip himself as levels dictate.

His area within Skyhold is situated in three places: The third floor in the tavern with Cole, leaning on the crates in the rookery, and most frequently, reclining on the couch in the rotunda, reading. Sometimes banter will trigger between him, Solas, Cole, and Leliana. During Haven, Fane can be found along the edges of the training yard or along one of the broken docks.

His idle animation has him scanning the sky with his arms crossed, or clenching and unclenching his fists.

He enjoys the scent and look of Gladiolus.

If not playing the Mhairi World State, Fane is revealed to have no family beyond his deceased mother and missing father, the latter he speaks of with great disgust and loathing, however.

There is a DLC called Emerald Eyes Amidst Golden Vows that doubles as Fane’s personal quest which reveals towards dragons having a greater influence beyond the Old Gods. It hints towards Fane’s identity, as well, but it is not resolved until Trespasser.

Fane can speak and write in fluent Elvhen, but refuses to unless pressed.

Fane’s Reaver ability Dragon’s Rage is a silvery blue color rather than crimson. Upon activation of Shattered Vow, however, the blue is mixed with red.

It is revealed in Trespasser that Fane was able to ‘tether’ with the Inquisitor due to the mark, since it is Solas’s magic.

He is secretly claustrophobic. This is revealed in The Descent DLC, if taken.

He personally tests every strange bottle of liquor the Inquisitor finds in the wilds.

The Mhairi World State is an origin preset for Fane to personalize the player’s experience with him through special dialogue and unique buffs.

Fane’s ‘climax’ romance scene reveals the abuse he underwent as a child from his father. His scars are exposed for the Inquisitor to see, then.

Refers to Solas as ‘my sky’, if in a romantic relationship. If involved with the Inquisitor, he will call them, ‘my wings’.

***

Yeah, I got carried away. I had to stop myself because I think about this a lot since Fane was not originally my canon Inquisitor. Not entirely canon compliant, but you all know me, I recognize canon, but I don’t chain myself to it. XD

#dragon age #oc: fane lavellan #meme #oc meme #i got really carried away about the abilities #i honestly have so much more like actual companion banter #maybe i'll make another one *side eyes*#dragon age inquisition #male lavellan #reject canon return to fanfiction

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cicada-bones · 5 years ago

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 31: A Call for Aid

This one is a little bit different - but I really hope you all enjoy it! (I certainly did!)

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Gavriel’s sword hand shot out, the sleek metal shrieking through the air as he sliced and chopped, his feet carefully marking their set pattern over the packed earth. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of other soldiers practicing; grunts and shouts and sharp clangs echoing over the practice fields as they went through their daily routines. The faint morning sun lit the mists all around them, a golden haze.

Gavriel wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, the familiar ache just beginning to start in his muscles. He sighed, then made to leave the practice fields, finished for the day.

He’d been coming here more often lately, and was staying for longer and longer stretches of time. Following his return from the post in the northern mountains, Gavriel had been different, slightly off. He knew that his queen and his fellow warriors were attributing that difference to grief, to the guilt at the loss of his men. To the three new markings that just barely peeked out the side of his leather jerkin when he raised his arms over his head. But that wasn’t the reason for the change.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he worked, how tired he was, that face wouldn’t go away. The girl with the face of the woman. His lost love. Tamalina, the second princess of Wendlyn.

Gavriel’s feet pounded into the earth as he walked, dirt and rock scattering in his wake.

He turned the memory over and over in his mind – the image of the princess, bearing a tray of stew and bread. Rowan’s snarl of rage as she edged into the room, the shock and hurt that filled her scent. The overwhelming blankness behind her eyes. The golden head of hair that so matched his own.

The possibility grated on him, itching and scratching. A splinter in the back of his mind, that refused to be removed. His daughter.

The girl might be his daughter.

He’d spent the last weeks wrestling with this fact, trying to eliminate it, or at least subdue it. Trying to forget. But his efforts were in vain.

So instead he stormed through the castle, surly and distant. He knew he was beginning to irritate Fenrys, but he didn’t care. The young male could get in line.

Gavriel didn’t want to admit it to himself, but really he was just waiting. Waiting for Rowan to appear, the girl in tow. Waiting to see if his suspicions were correct. To see if it were possible that time had stretched and morphed his memory of the girl until she fit the picture of his love. To see if there was a chance he was wrong.

Even if, deep down, he was sure that he wasn’t.

But it felt shameful to just wait – to not act. Even if there wasn’t anything he could do. He wasn’t even sure that the girl was his responsibility. But still, this waiting…it was going to drive him completely mad.

Gavriel reached his rooms, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud and striding over to sit at the desk that straddled the far wall. A window was set into the stone above it, providing a small view of the city. A gray frame surrounding its expanse of blue rooftops and white cobblestones. The great river flowed idly by, casting up great lots of mist that drifted over the many alleys, buildings and plazas. It was picturesque. Gavriel didn’t see any of it.

He didn’t mind his fate, not all that much. The rewards of his life still outweighed the trials. Nor did he hate Maeve, for all she put them through. She was his Queen, and she would always be. So despite everything, he was glad of his position – both for the responsibility and honor it provided, and for the purpose.

Gavriel was the linchpin, a connector between warriors who otherwise might have ripped each other to pieces. He kept the peace between them, and made sure that they didn’t fall apart. Lorcan was their leader, with Rowan as his second, and Gavriel stood mostly in the background, hidden in the shadows. But he knew he was essential.

But for the girl...he wouldn’t wish this life on her. He wouldn’t wish his life on anyone. And yet she was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Gavriel hoped that the princess would just fulfill her bargain and go – that she would be allowed to leave, unscathed and unburdened. But still, he worried. The power he had felt in her...it was greater than any he’d ever felt before. Only Queen Maeve could match it.

He couldn't imagine his queen just letting the girl go, not when she could be such a useful tool. Not when the princess might be powerful enough to beat her.

Maeve must have a plan, must have some leverage on the child. But for the life of him, Gavriel couldn’t figure out what it was. The only thing that seemed remotely possible was…Rowan.

Their Queen had chosen him for this task, chosen him specifically. And the feelings Gavriel had sensed in the male, the changes…they hinted at something more. An attachment of some kind. He couldn’t speculate about the princess, but still – something had shifted in the Prince while in Mistward. And Gavriel was sure that it marked change.

Perhaps the girl would join them, and perhaps she would instead be sent out to retake her throne. Maybe they would even help her. Maeve had long coveted the western continent, perhaps she now thought to conquer.

All their spies indicated that war was coming. Adarlan was poised to attack Wendlyn, seeking to stretch their empire eastwards. So no matter what, soon Maeve would send them into battle. The question was – which side would they be fighting for this time?

All Gavriel knew was that he would do all he could to keep that child safe. Whether she was his or not, he owed as much to her mother. To Tamalina.

But he had no idea what he could possibly do to help the princess. He was forced to obey his Queen, to bend to her every wish. All he could do for her was keep her secrets, and his silence. For as long as he could manage it.

Gavriel sighed, and turned to the papers on his desk. He knew there was a report from Vaughn that needed looking at, as well as a dispatch from the eastern border and one from the admiral commanding the fleet currently guarding their western flank.

While Lorcan was still traveling up from the south, and Rowan was stationed in Mistward, Gavriel was the highest ranked member of the blood-sworn in the capital. As a result, he had to deal with much of their mail. He had just begun to sift through the papers when an unmarked letter fell through the pile.

It was light, and hastily closed, the wax seal clumsy and misshapen. But still – Gavriel could just recognize the symbol embossed in the wax. It was a bird, its wings extended in flight, its beak curved and sharp. A hawk.

A frown twisted Gavriel’s face as he used a letter opener to slice open Rowan’s message, and unfolded the paper within.

Gavriel –

I can only hope that this will reach you in time.

Adarlan has sent a company of two hundred soldiers and three demons to attack Mistward, and capture or kill the demi-Fae housed here. There are barely thirty demi-Fae soldiers who have seen battle, and as you know, the fortress is not properly outfitted for war. We have called for assistance from Wendlyn, but I have no hope of victory.

Come to our aid.

I know that I have no right to ask this of you, that I have no right to expect this of you. But I have no choice. I must.

I beg you, please come to our aid.

I will fight and die alongside these men. If you choose not to come, remember me well. If you choose not to come, I will understand.

But if you choose not to come, you doom these men to death.

I beg you, come to my aid.

With you at my side, we have a chance at survival. With you at my side, perhaps these people can live. Have a future.

Please, come to my aid.

Our lives are in your hands.

– Rowan

The paper crumpled between Gavriel’s fingers. That face was still fixed in his vision, only now the eyes were empty, her face white as death. Aelin, dead or dying. Her fires waning.

Gavriel’s chest was a hollow space, empty and still. Thoughtlessly, he stood and walked from the room, his blood spiked with shock. Within seconds, he reached a courtyard and transformed. His lion’s paws thundered on the stone as he raced down the castle hallways and out into the city beyond.

He ran, without needing a moment to reconsider. Without a moment of doubt. Ran for

···

Fenrys was dreaming. He knew it, and yet he still longed for it to be real. Still longed for his dreams to leap from the ether of his mind and out into the world.

In the dream, he was running. His paws digging into the earthy loam, bits of grass catching in his claws, wiping them clean of the blood of the deer he’d just eaten for lunch. Its sweet meat lined his stomach and weighed him down in that comfortable, satisfying way that only a good meal could.

In the dream, the wind whipped through his fur, its fingers flowing over his coat and making it ripple like water. In the dream, the sun warmed his limbs and flashed in his eyes, a bright discomfort. In the dream, there was no catch over his heart, no chains or locks or ropes tying him to a dark queen. He was free.

But he wasn’t dreaming anymore.

Now, he was lying on Maeve’s bed. Hating himself. And everyone else under the sun. Drunk, but not sufficiently so. A glass of red wine rested in one of his hands.

Maeve had left a while ago now, but he couldn’t quite remember why. It didn’t really matter.

Fenrys didn’t know whether to be glad of the moment’s peace, or to hate it. It was so much easier to just hate everything. To hate this prison, and to hate the moments of freedom he was given. To hate his pitiful, despicable life, with every single ripped-up piece of him still left.

Maeve didn’t call him every night. In fact, she rarely called him more than once or twice a week. But it was enough. His body didn’t feel like his own anymore – it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Probably because it didn’t. It belonged to her, just like everything else.

Fenrys shoved those useless thoughts down deep. He knew damn well what a waste of time it was to dwell.

Instead he took another swig of wine. Perhaps if he drank enough of it, he might just forget. Not only everything he’d been forced to do last night, but also the dream that he’d woken up to.

For it was the dream that was the real torture. Without thought of freedom, captivity would not be so great a burden to bear. So Maeve made sure that freedom was always nearby, just close enough to taste.

Like with that trip to Varese, where he had to watch as Rowan took for granted every single thing he held dear. His ability, his autonomy. His independence. And then Fenrys had to watch Rowan leave, with the knowledge that he would never be able to follow.

It was the freedom that tore at him, not the imprisonment. Cages were rather boring, after all. Even ones made of words and blood and darkness.

Even so, Fenrys didn’t think he regretted taking the blood-oath. He fought it with every breath in his body, and would do anything to be free of it – suffer any torture, break any bond. But were he given the option to go back and change his mind, he didn’t think that he would.

Fenrys had taken it to protect his little brother, and nothing more.

Well, maybe a little bit more.

All Fae males were drawn to power, and Maeve was the most powerful Fae living. They were all drawn to her, no matter her darkness. They had all wanted to serve her.

And maybe just a tiny, minuscule little piece of him had been jealous of his brother. Didn’t like being surpassed and overshadowed by him. It was a piece that Fenrys didn’t particularly like looking at, but he saw it nonetheless.

He thought Connall might see it too. They didn’t speak of it.

Fenrys didn’t even know if Connall was grateful for what he had done. For what he protected him from, night after night after night. Didn’t know if his brother even cared. They didn’t speak of that either.

They were still close though. As close as they had been growing up, running through the alleys and markets of Doranelle, play-fighting on the practice fields. They shared the same power, the ability to slip between the folds of the world. And they had learned it together, had figured out each of its valleys and ripples and tears by each other’s sides.

Each time they jumped, slipping through an invisible crack in the universe, they could feel the other pressing in on them, the whole of the world becoming the warmth of their embrace. And then they would fall out into reality – the open air feeling as empty and lonely as the space between stars.

It didn’t matter how far apart they were, didn’t matter where they were coming from or where they were going, that pressure was there. And it was a comfort, especially when they’d been young, and the power felt far more like a burden then a gift.

Once, when they’d been only eight or nine, Connall had forgotten how to get back. For hours, he’d been lost in the space between spaces, trapped by that crushing pressure. But eventually, Fenrys had managed to coax him back out again – by singing him one of the songs their mother sang while hanging the washing.

Oh the blue skies above, they mark the cloth stark white

Back and forth, back and forth

The moon pulls the sea, the green from the earth

As day folds into night, and the children run free

Back and forth, back and forth

Connall had returned, and their mother had scolded him for being so reckless. But it had just made them realize that no one else would ever understand. Realize that their powers were a part of one another, just as they were a part of one another. Inseparable.

And nothing, not even Maeve, could change that. Fenrys wouldn’t let her.

Right now, his brother was probably up in his rooms, reading. That shy bastard almost always had a book in his hands. When they were boys, it had been like pulling teeth to get him to go outside to train.

And he was such a goddamn know-it-all. It was infuriating. Mostly because Fenrys rarely knew what the fuck he was talking about. I mean, he loved the little guy, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about the fellowship circles and fertility cycles of freshwater selkies day in and day out, for weeks on end. Or at least until the idiot moved on, pursuing some other esoteric piece of knowledge.

Fenrys had actually been quite surprised that when Rowan wrote, asking for information about his weird little demon problem in Wendlyn, Connall hadn’t known anything about it. Fenrys was sure that the ignorance frustrated him. His brother had spent a whole week in the library after they received Rowan’s letter, searching for anything that could possibly solve the mystery. And he found absolutely nothing.

Fenrys had found it a bit difficult not to gloat as he watched his brother stalk about the castle, a scowl fixed to his brow. It was nice to see him stumped over something, for once.

Fenrys couldn’t help but wonder how Rowan was doing at Mistward, wonder what the princess of fire was like. He’d only seen her briefly, a quick look between the walls of an alleyway in Varese as Rowan led her through the city to collect the horses Fenrys had left for them.

It hadn’t been a good look. She’d been well hidden underneath a dark cloak, though Fenrys still caught the edges of dozens of blades beneath her heavy clothes. Her face had been obscured with dirt and grime and sweat, her hair matted together. And the smell, ungh. Overall, not the most remarkable showing.

What had really impressed itself on him had been the sheer weight of her power. A writhing mass of flames, all bunched up and twisted in on themselves, forced within her small frame. Her power was so massive that even untrained, it had actually overwhelmed the icy wind of the Fae male leading her. Rowan’s power was great, but next to hers…the maelstrom of power felt more like a light rain. A drizzle, if you would.

And Fenrys hadn’t been able to get the feeling out of his head. The touch of the princess’ flames. It burned through him, making him wonder just how wild she would be. But it wasn’t like Maeve would ever let him near the girl.

Fenrys sighed and turned over on the bed. No matter how much he might want to, getting drunk before nine in the morning probably wasn’t one of his best ideas. He should get up and face the day.

He groaned.

But still, he got to his feet and made his way out of Maeve’s private quarters, bare feet padding on the cold stone. His muscles were stiff, and not in a good way - he was looking forward to his morning training session. But first he had to return to his rooms to grab his gear and wash his face.

Fenrys didn’t pass anyone in the halls, for which he was grateful. Everyone in the castle knew of course, but still. Having to start his day with some page boy averting his eyes as he walked past, usually barefoot and in various states of dress, was far from great.

Fenrys pushed open the door to his rooms, and was already shrugging off yesterday’s clothes and reaching for clean ones when he noticed an unmarked letter resting on his worktable. The couriers usually went through the palace rooms each morning, dropping off the day’s mail, but it wasn’t often that Fenrys received anything. Particularly when a higher ranked member of Maeve’s blood-sworn was present.

He walked over to the desk and ripped open the envelope, absentmindedly pulling out the letter and beginning to read.

His eyes skittered over the black ink, and as he read, his fingers tightened their grip on the thin paper, his knuckles whitening. The bottom fell out of his stomach.

Mistward was under attack. Rowan was under attack.

He was calling for aid.

Fenrys felt strangely panicked. Not once, in all the years he had known him, had Rowan ever come close to writing something like this letter. The male was near-invincible – it had never even entered Fenrys’ head to be concerned about him.

But here he was, needing Fenrys’ help.

Would he answer?

Fenrys wanted to be the type of male who ran into danger, heedless of the consequences. Who came when he was called. Who always helped when asked.

But then a deeper, more personal fear joined the panic choking his throat. Maeve.

If he left without permission and without warning, she would not take it lightly. Unimaginable horrors would be waiting for him when he returned. Except, Fenrys could actually imagine them - they had been inflicted on him already, time and time again.

The question was – did he care? What more could she do to him that she had not done already, twice over?

The freedom teased at him, tantalizing, just out of his reach. Only this time it was fear that was holding him back. His own fear. And all he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to be fearless. To be free.

And the princess...she was at Mistward. She was in as much danger as Rowan. Perhaps if he went, he could see her again. Could save her.

Fenrys wanted to do something good, for once. To do one good thing.

With an invisible twist, Fenrys slipped out of time and space and reappeared in his brother’s rooms.

But they were empty – Connall wasn’t there.

Fenrys made to leave, to check the library, or perhaps the training fields, when something caught his eye. A familiar-looking envelope lay open on the desk, the letter inside nowhere to be seen.

A wry grin curved Fenrys’ lips as he vanished once more.

···

There was a small clearing, hidden behind a spur of rock just outside the palace grounds. It was unremarkable in every way, other than the fact that it happened to lie right at the limit of the distance the twins could jump - and was invisible to the palace sentries.

In short, it was a perfect rendezvous point.

Fenrys appeared out of nowhere, a slip of gold against the sun-warmed rock. By contrast, his brother was a shadow lounging just out of sight, easy to miss in the dappled forest.

Connall’s voice was droll. “I was starting to think that you weren’t going to show.”

Fenrys let out a snort. “Touché. I half-expected you wouldn’t be here.”

He frowned. “Me too.”

Fenrys’ own brow furrowed, the question slipping out. “Why did you decide to come?”

Connall shuffled his feet, his face dark. “It felt like…a betrayal to stay. I owe him too much to abandon him like that.”

Fenrys nodded. Connall was quiet, but he was fiercely loyal to those that were close to him. And he had always looked up to the powerful male, ever since they were in training. He wasn’t about to just stand by while his mentor was fighting for his life.

Fenrys opened his mouth to say something when the sound of an approach rippled through the nearby trees. Fenrys immediately drew his weapons, fear icing over his muscles. If Maeve had already discovered them…if Connall had lied and this was a trap…

But the crunch of leaves and brush of undergrowth spoke of something different, not a person, something else. Something familiar…

Fenrys relaxed his stance as Gavriel shouldered his way past the pine boughs and into the clearing, his lion’s coat bright in the warm sunlight. The male’s eyes were focused and intense, his warm scent filled with a wrinkled tension and fierce determination.

Without a word, Fenrys transformed into his wolf, his muscles stretching and filling with anticipation. He felt that strange ripple behind him that indicated Connall had shifted as well.

Gavriel turned and began to run, his claws ripping into the dirt, his heavy bulk pounding the earth. Fenrys shot after him, flowing into the male’s right flank even as Connall moved to his left. Together, the three of them pierced through the undergrowth, the sun warming their backs as they shot into the west.

The breath in their lungs came sharp and cold, their stomachs empty of everything but the desperate, pleading hope that they would make it in time. That they wouldn’t be too late.

···

Lorcan lifted the tankard to his lips, wincing slightly as the sour beer coated his tongue. The tavern was busier than he would’ve liked – filled to the brim with laughing, hungry people out for an evening of drink and merriment.

He’d spent the whole day running, his first after leaving the rest of his crew with the fleet on the southwestern coastline. He should be back in Doranelle within the next few days, and he was looking forwards to his return. He didn't love being away from the capital for so long. Being away from his Queen.

Usually, Lorcan would’ve kept running through the night, only stopping to catch a few hours’ sleep in some hollow or cave. But after only a few hours of travel, he’d passed a familiar scent. A trail leading north.

Vaughn was also traveling back to Doranelle, and Lorcan had caught up with him by midafternoon. The male was in desperate need of a bed, a hot meal and a drink, so Lorcan had (somewhat unwillingly) capitulated to his plan to stay at an inn for the night.

Now Vaughn was over at the bar, chatting to some human female. She’d begun their conversation with clipped answers and dour looks, but now Vaughn had her giggling away, her cheeks touched with happy red dimples.

Lorcan frowned into his drink.

For a moment, he’d considered joining him over there, to see if he could also find someone who might warm his bed tonight. But in the end, he’d decided against it. Far too tired. And too lazy.

Just then, a maid wandered over to his booth, her arms sagging under the weight of a heavily burdened tray of drinks and food. But she carried them easily, her footsteps light and nimble through the lively crowd. Obviously familiar with this type of work. Lorcan was just beginning to reconsider his earlier assertion, to see if this lithe, muscled female might be amenable to him, when the woman pulled a crumpled letter from her apron and dropped it on the table in front of him, with the words, “This just came for ya, from the evening post up from the coast. Seems like its been a long way, searchin’ for you.” Then she turned, moving to carry her tray back to the kitchen.

Lorcan’s eyes followed her for a moment, then turned back to examine the letter. It was unmarked, which was strange. And the very fact that someone was going to such lengths to contact him, instead of waiting until he returned to Doranelle, was also strange.

Lorcan tentatively ripped open the envelope and pulled out the paper within. What he read there was astounding.

The words took a while to sink in, but when they did, Lorcan found that he was absolutely furious. That he was murderously enraged.

How dare he?

How dare Rowan ask this of him, ask this of all of them? How dare he presume to be above the word of their queen? Presume that Lorcan would betray her for him?

Mistward was under attack, and the lives of the demi-Fae there were in danger, but why in the gods' names did Rowan care? Why wasn’t he leaving them to their fate, and bringing the princess back to Doranelle?

That’s what Lorcan would’ve done. And that certainly was what their Queen would expect. What she would require.

So why, by Hellas’ scythe, was he staying? Why was he protecting them?

Lorcan couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. He supposed that it didn’t really matter. Rowan was staying. And he would give his life to protect those people. The demi-Fae. His people, Lorcan supposed. Even if he had spent the past four hundred years distancing himself from them.

Lorcan’s teeth clacked together, his jaw tightening. Rowan was staying, and he was asking Lorcan, and presumably the rest of the blood-sworn, to join him. Rowan knew the consequences for deserting, knew what they all would be facing for disobeying Maeve’s orders and coming to his aid. Rowan knew, and he was asking anyways.

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed. That didn’t sound like the Rowan he knew, like the Rowan he had fought and trained and worked beside these past two centuries.

That Rowan leapt at death with an indifference even Lorcan did not possess. That Rowan would’ve always made the hard choice, regardless of the consequences. This didn’t feel like that Rowan at all.

But still - this was Rowan he was talking about. The male he had relied upon for hundreds of years. The male who was probably - though Lorcan was loathe to admit it - the Fae he was closest to in all the world. Even closer to than Maeve.

And he'd laid out the facts, bare and unguarded. Mistward was weak and defenseless. They were facing a lethal army, and a battle that they would not win. All of those demi-Fae were going to die, Rowan alongside them.

Rowan was going to die. And Lorcan was fucking furious about it.

He slammed his fists into the table, pushing it out of his way, the beer spilling over onto the floor. Then Lorcan tore up the letter, got to his feet, and moved towards the bar to collect Vaughn.

···

They ran through the night, and the following day. Ran through bracken and field and marsh. And finally, through mist.

They ran until they met up with Gavriel, Connall, and Fenrys, and then they ran some more. There was no time for words, no reason for them. They had all come, and the dice would fall where they would. They would face the punishment they justly deserved without complaint.

They ran until they fell into darkness, until the forest around them went quiet. Ran until they reached the crest of a hill, and the fortress appeared below them, wrapped in darkness and chaos and power. Until they saw a lone female standing before the ward stones, the only thing keeping the castle from being overcome.

...

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

...

Im so sorry for that cliffhanger! (but also not sorry at all lmao) Please let me know if you would like to be added to this taglist!

@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @booknerdproblems @queen-of-glass @westofmoon @morganofthewildfire

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h-barber · 5 years ago

Text

The Last Letter

Much time has passed since you last saw of me. And so much more has changed. Seven years, three seasons and some days had passed on Kha’kesh by now, yet barely some four years on the Human homeworld. Countless skirmishes, sieges and victories against the Humans were recorded and broadcast home since we had first set out to fight off the Human threat. Proud and fervent were we when our fleets decimated the Human occupied space. Ever prouder as our flags were flown tall over the ruins of Human strongholds. Little did our people know the costs we had paid.

Each moon and space station taken; tens of thousands of human defenders slain came at an unreasonable cost. We paraded and celebrated all our achievements across our space, praising our unmatched military might. Yet none ever cared for the dead or dying among us. While the Humans erected monuments and launched a seemingly unending broadcast naming and honouring their dead, we had abandoned our brethren to rot on the battlefields. Such barbarity, for little more than a minor military advantage. Over a hundred thousand of our finest were gone before we even approached our destination. Earth. For each Human we’ve felled, they’ve repaid us tenfold, reaping a dozen of ours. Still, our endless hordes could not be stopped. Their puny numbers could not even hope for a chance to repeal our assaults. Still, not one of the Humans was seen to surrender. Knowing they were the last barrier between us and their precious Earth they stood fast and held their ground.

And stand they did, a stalwart shield of Humanity, until the bitter end. They made us pay dearly for every metre of their territory.

Barely a year into the war for them, they saw each of their bastions fall, fleets scatter and their forward armies utterly decimated. Barely a year here, yet nearly three years into the war for us. Even as we stopped receiving any sort of broadcasts from home, our mission stayed unchanged. We were to subdue Humanity at all cost. Despite the silence being worrisome, we could not afford to spare any ships to send home to find out what has caused the radio silence. Alas Humanity’s last bastion stood alone, at last, Earth Stood alone. They stood alone.And yet there they were, ever proud and standing.

Unbowed, unbroken, Humanity would not yield.

During our last preparations for the all-out assault of Earth we’ve been intercepting varying messages. They differed little, from last goodbyes among families and their friends to encouragements among soldiers, bracing themselves for their last stand. “May we meet again”, they ended their messages as if they still held out hope. Apart from these, we had intercepted one new recurring broadcast that nothing but shook our resolve.

„We shall fight until the bitter end, We shall fight among the stars, We shall fight on Mars, We shall fight on every planet and moon, We shall defend every piece of land Man calls home, We shall fight them in the atmosphere, We shall fight on the plains and hills, We shall fight in the cities and forests. We shall never surrender. “

This was the first of the planetwide broadcasts we had intercepted, reaching every corner of the Earth, cementing their already adamant resolve. We never could have imagined the massive surge in open replies this has enkindled. Responses from all across the planet, from military garrisons, militias and entire cities of civilians echoed across all the available frequencies. All chanting an oath to defend their home,

„ I solemnly swear, to defend the rights and freedoms of man, from the clear blue skies of the Earth, to the far reaches of the Milky way. I solemnly swear, to stand fast against foes however vast. I solemnly swear, to defend Humanity, for as long as I shall live. I solemnly swear. We shall never Surrender. “

These broadcasts lasted for hours, pinging new locations on our tactical map every passing minute. Even battered and horribly outnumbered, they would not listen to our proposals for their surrender. They would rather die defending their home, than live subjugated.

As the time for the assault approached, I had called my commanders to carry out the final imperial orders. As was customary for the general and commanders leading the final battle of a war, we would relay a final offer to accept our foe’s unconditional surrender in exchange for sparing their lives. Normally, the offer is but an empty gesture, a pretence that we will show mercy.

However, it was different with these Humans. Over the course of the war we grew to respect our foes. Rarely do we fight others than unprincipled savages. Even rarer are wars not for survival, but ideals. Even their valour and utter refusal to submit saw no likeness even among our most elite units. Every single Human we have faced so far was worth at least ten of us. It is admirable, finding a species so young by galactic standards, yet so resilient.

And in spite of the countless grievances we have inflicted upon them, the ruthless slaughter and all the devastation, they have found the capacity to show mercy to any who surrendered to them. They spared those who would no longer hold up arms against them, and let those who surrendered have their wounds tended to. Not only did they let live those we would have executed without batting an eye, they gave them another chance at life. They showed mercy, where they got none. A truly respectable foe.

Still, a foe nonetheless.

We barely got past the courtesies at the beginning of the final negotiation, when our comm’s channels were flooded by reports and emergency requests for immediate assistance from our home provinces. Months’ worth of messages starting with mere requests for support personnel and reports of the Var’Kesh advancing towards our territory. These were over four months old, all undelivered up until now.

At first, the requests were sent frequently, several times a day, their tone growing more dire each day. The more recent messages were far fewer and further in-between. The last message was nearly a week old. I could see the pure horror and dread as it emanated from each of my commanders as they listened to the transcript of the last message. It was a casualty report, yet it listed no numbers. Just names. One after another, colonies of Kha’Kesh were listed only as, “overrun”. Meanwhile the Human leadership watched us in silence across our vidcon interface. They had answered expecting the beginning of the end of the human race. Instead they had witnessed the empire of the Kha’Kesh wither away.

That day everything changed. From us abandoning our campaign of conquest and returning to fight for our home, to the Humans’ offering of a ceasefire until we’ve saved our people. On our way home we passed by nothing but ruins of once lush worlds, but a remnant of a once proud civilisation.

The trail of desolation led across our space with no end. What used to be golden worlds teeming with life, were now barren wastelands. Once we had reached our star system, we understood the deafening silence across our space.

The entire standing imperial armada serenely crept across space around our sun. Decrepit husks of the ships that once stood watch over the empire. Their watch has ended long since. The wreckage was far from fresh, in fact it seemed near a year old.

No responses from either our homeworld or its moons. No active broadcasts, apart from automated messages relaying orders for immediate evacuation. Seven years and three seasons had passed since we had departed Kha’kesh to wage war on Humanity.

Now we are nearing a third year since we had landed what was left of the imperial army on the remains of Kha’kesh. Since then we have liberated most of the camps where our people were herded as cattle. We’ve retaken entire cities and bastions, only to see them wiped of the face of the planet months later. The remnants of our army are holding the last reaches of the land we control. Our fleet has joined the husks of the imperial armada, as they held the space around our homeworld in a vain attempt to retain control of our space. The last ships from our fleet had gone down covering our ground retreat to our most heavily defended citadel on our homeworld. The last bastion of Kha’kesh.

We heard the shrieks outside our defences, we listened as they grew more numerous each night. The deafening growls kept us sleepless for nights on end, waiting for the storm. This was to be our last stand. As the Humans had said when faced with certain annihilation, We shall fight for as long as we shall live. However long that may be.

No one believed we would live to see another dawn, never were we gladder to be so wrong.

As we braced ourselves for the sea of those feral beasts to come down on us, something had stopped them in their tracks. The dark night skies of Kha’kesh lit up as if dawn had come in the midst of night. The light show staggered those animals for the briefest of moments just as it had us. A tiny flame of hope came to life in our hearts as we recognised the bright blazing lights.

Yet, they would not be stopped. They began to rush at us with their full numbers again shortly thereafter. We recognised the blasts of kinetic bombardment the moment they lit up the fields on which a rushing horde of Var’Kesh had been just moments ago. Hundreds of blasts cleansed the surrounding fields from which we were besieged for weeks. As the dust settled, fighter jets whooshed past our heads, the likes of which we have never seen before, bombarding the remaining Var’Kesh. However, the base of these designs was not all too alien to us.

Human engineering at its finest.

We have encountered prototypes of such fighters, yet none so vastly refined. As the jets reclaimed absolute aerial control, drop pods came roaring from the skies. In a blaze of glory, they dropped right on top of Var’Kesh positions. While we rallied at our defensive positions, legions of Human soldiers started advancing against the remaining Var’Kesh from their pods, while several smaller squads advanced on our positions.

Never was I so glad to see infamous Human warriors enter our bastion. Among them were the leaders whose surrender we had offered to accept on countless occasions. I’ll never forget the words that came from their crude translators, “Old grievances put aside, annihilation is a fate no species should face, not even those who wished it upon us”. Human compassion never ceased to amaze me. Even as we were the ones who nearly wiped them off the face of the galaxy, they came for us, when we were faced with a fate no different.

Hope was alive once more. Over the course of the next year, we have seen success we couldn’t even dream of for the three years we had desperately fought for our lives. With the Human armies and their renewed armada over our world at our side, we have reclaimed our homeworld and nearly all colonies. Today we prepare to rid our space of the Var’Kesh for good. A final assault to push them back.

They have refitted our outermost colonies as their forward bases. The resistance we have met until now is dwarfed in comparison to how they have secured those planets.

I was never gladder we started a war we could not finish. We would have been long gone were it not for these humans. As I write this letter, the Human admirals are relaying the orders for our assault of the Var’Kesh strongholds. They had promised to keep searching for the refugee fleet, that had escaped the onslaught Kha’kesh was subjected to, as soon as we have secured our borders. I hold out hope to see your beautiful face once again. We never gave up hope you are still out there. I am relaying this message on all Kha’Kesh channels for anyone out there who might listen.

The Kha’Kesh live.

For any who might listen, Humanity is the greatest ally we could never have hoped for. Even if we are gone by the day you return, they will stand guard of our home until then.

Glory to the empire and those who remain, This will be my last broadcast, General Zun’Ri of Kha’kesh over and out.

#humans are space orcs #sci-fi #humanity #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #humans #aliens #earth is space australia #earth is a deathworld #writing #story time #story #original story #space #space aliens

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castielsangel-blade · 4 years ago

Text

So it's taken me a bit of time to get my thoughts in order on the finale and, of course, I did not like it. In fact, it left me with more questions than answers and not in good way that stories sometimes do. This was just... not good.

Below, I'm going to list some reasons why I didn't enjoy it. But, as an aside, if you did like it, then I'm glad! I'm happy you're not hurting about it!

So, the episode starts off kinda, y'know, happy-ish. It's a little uneasy because we have no idea where it's going, or what they're gonna do. Sam's on his run, Dean's waking up, and Miracle jumps on his bed. It's nice. But they only show the brothers, which leads me to my first reason.

1. Eileen isn't there. In fact, no one is.

Eileen was Sam's established love interest, so, surely, we should see her or at least hear her mentioned considering she got dusted off-screen in the previous episode. And Sam's a very caring person, he would definitely go check up on her but we got nothing. No mentioned in passing, no picture in his room, no glance at his phone screen to see a message from her. Just... nothing.

After they're all ready for their day, Sam sits across Dean and Miracle in the library and asks if he found anything. It turns out to be a pie festival or some shit and that shows us that Dean wasn't even looking for a hunt. He was just surfing the 'net while he petted Miracle (I love that damn dog) affectionately. So, they go to the pie thingy and this next part, Dean got a lot of crap for but I honestly get it.

When Sam said he thought about and missed Jack and Cas and Dean replied with that he did too, but then "brushed it off", I honestly think that was on par with his character. Dean this past season (and all seasons, but especially this one) had really grown. He would talk about things bothering him to an extent. In my opinion, mostly to Cas. Sure, he'd eventually tell Sam but usually after some huge fight but it just came naturally with Cas. And it's because it's just easier to talk to your friends and let them see you in a "weak" moment than with your family—especially when said family is someone you've protected for a majority of your life. I think that was definitely in character (although my headcanon is that Dean cries late at night when it's just him and only Miracle is there to comfort him).

So next, a case just falls into their lap and they soon discover that it's a hunt John never completed. And here's my next reason.

2. John was said to be one of the best hunters, but he didn't know that was a vamp nest.

Look, it just doesn't make any sense. Sure, they wore masks and did some other weird shit to throw hunters off the trail, but the most prominent sign points to vampires! Sam got it in one, so, really, what the hell?

So they go and find the nest pretty easily and it's a simple MOTW ep. And the boys have fought some major Big Bad's in their day, so run-of-the-mills vamps should be pretty easy, right? Apparently not, which leads me into my third reason.

3. The actual vampire didn't even kill Dean their usual way. Didn't turn him, didn't rip out the throat or anything like that. In fact, the vampire simply got lucky.

Sure, you could argue that their plot armor was gone, but that's not fair. The Winchester Brothers are amazing hunters and they do know how to actually fight. That wasn't Chuck, at least, not all of it. The vampire did just get lucky and that's the devastating part. Dean didn't go out in some huge, end of the world battle. He went out with a stab to the back (one could argue that that's the network stabbing his character in the back and I'd honestly agree). Dean died terrified. Which leads me into my next reason and also an opinion that I haven't seen anyone else share.

4. Sam could've healed him or gotten him help.

I don't knock Sam for this. Dean was genuinely frightened. But this brings me to my opinion. So, Dean, as we all know, has spent his entire life thinking he's not good enough, that he's meant to die bloody, he's just a soldier, a grunt, that he doesn't matter, not the way Sam does. I feel like Dean was aware that Sam could've helped him pretty quickly considering the fact that Sam was a witch trained under Rowena, and he chose to let himself die at that moment. He figured this was the way he was always gonna go and since he doesn't have to worry about another big bad coming onto the board, I think he felt that it was time to stop cheating Death—it always ended messy. Sure, I do truly think he wanted to live his life (more on that later), but I think in this moment, he actually wanted to die. He'd lost Cas, and Jack was in the wind and dust and rain and whatever the fuck else. All he had was his brother and Miracle and Sam could take care of himself now along with Miracle. In that moment, that's all he could think about.

5. No one else attended Dean's funeral.

Maybe Sam didn't tell anyone so he could just mourn alone, but there's no way, had anyone else known, that they would let Sam be alone after losing the only biological family member he had left. That just doesn't make any sense. It certainly wouldn't have gone over well with Jody and Donna; they'd at least show support for Sam. But Claire, Alex, Patience, Krissy even???? Garth, Bess, and the kids??? Or every hunter in the US of A seeing as, despite causing a lot of the bad shit in the show, they did clean everything up and saved/helped a lot of people. Out of respect, surely they'd show up.

6. From the official looking document sitting on Dean's desk that we see as Sam's mourning, Dean was looking into a job.

This is important because it means that he was getting ready to retire (also why he wasn't looking for any hunts). He wanted to live his life for Cas and everyone they lost, so their sacrifices weren't in vain (and he died anyways, jesus christ).

So after that brief time alone, Sam packs up everything and Miracle and they leave the bunker. This next reason is kinda stupid, but it really did hit me hard.

7. No one knows all that history is down there. And if they do, no one can get to it.

Sam had to have locked it up so all that knowledge didn't fall into the wrong hands. You could argue that he told his son about it, seeing as his son does have an anti-posession tattoo, but we don't know. All we know is what we were shown, which is Sam had a son named Dean and he played catch with him, helped him with his homework, told him something about the supernatural (hence the tattoo) and that's it. We get nothing else.

8. Sam spends the rest of his life with a blurry, unimportant wife (see family photos in which she's featured in absolutely none of them), and mourning the death of the brother, one of his close friends, and his son.

Now people can argue that Sam wasn't a father figure to Jack (or more like an uncle), but he definitely was. Cas, Dean, and Sam were all parental figures to Jack, that's the story. That aside, Sam had this air of sadness around him because we weren't given much else with Kansas' Carry On Wayward Son playing, so we don't know if he ever truly healed even a little. It honestly looks like he didn't. Like, at all.

9. Cas is apparently alive, but he didn't go meet the brothers or meet Dean in Heaven which is OOC as fuck

We're all assuming that the time skip in between ep 19 and 20 is a week, right? Because they stay pretty even with the flow so it's not so confusing. And it was about two weeks since Cas died in 18th episode and a week since Jack became the new god. Dean got there and it was already all reconstructed, so it must not have taken that long, so why didn't Cas, who considered the brothers his family, not go see them back on Earth? Maybe there were terms and he had to stay with Jack to mentor him or something but we don't know. They give us absolutely nothing to go on. And even if he couldn't leave Heaven or something, he must've known that Dean was there, so why didn't he meet him in there. He could have but we don't know. They just said fuck it all and ended the episode before we really got any damn answers.

10. Why did two different versions of Carry On Wayward Son play back to back?

It didn't seem to really go with the flow of anything and it was honestly kinda weird. Seriously. I get that the original was a peppier and that when we see Dean driving and Sam growing older. And it switches to the slower version as Sam is on his premature deathbed and then it stops when the brothers reunite. It was just... odd. All I could focus on was that during the ending.

11. Bobby must've sat there for like 5 seconds if Dean just drove down the road and Sam was already dead.

This one is also not a big deal but I thought it just didn't make sense. Time goes differently. And it wasn't even that long that Dean was in Heaven and Sam was already there. So, like, Bobby must've just gotten a beer and sat down when Dean turned up and he was like "shit, boy. Don't you know how to quit dyin'?!" because, honestly, I would have.

This are all of my big reasons right off the bat. There are more deeper reasons, but this is it for now. I really hope any of this made sense. But, like I said before I started this list, if you liked it, cool! I'm not in the business of telling people how they should feel about certain things. I just wanted to share some reasons why I didn't like it.

#supernatural #spn #15x20 #15x20 thoughts #dean #Sam #Eileen #Castiel

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punkandsnacks · 5 years ago

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter 16; Escape

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: No warnings in this chap

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

t's not the shade we should be cast in It's the light and it's the obstacle that casts it It's the heat that drives the light It's the fire it ignites It's not the wakin', it's the risin' - Nina Cried Power, Hozier I don’t know why, but something about this song spoke to me writing this chapter 🖤❣️ Along with “Running Away” by Maverick Sabre. One of my favourite artists of all time - go and check him out, he’s simply awesome.

Waiting was her greatest nuisance. She was on tenterhooks all day.

As if expecting someone to burst in and proclaim the true circumstance of her guilt. She’s peeking around corners and dreading every moment of cursed silence. Every lapse in conversation is a dagger in her side. She keeps expecting to be caught out.

By the time the evening draws in, she’s nearly apoplectic. She’s sat in the parlour watching the sky darken. And with every second of it blackening her excitement grows in her chest. Gestating bigger and bigger with every second she hears tick by on the mantel clock.

She hardly spoke through dinner. Just listened to her sisters usual fussing and Mama disapproving of yet someone else of their acquaintance. Iris won’t miss that.

She nearly leaps out her skin when Meg bursts in the clattering dining room door without warning, with a note to hand her father. A missive from the farmhand.

Her heartbeat slows to its normal thud. She’s unaware that her father watches her from down the table with a casting silent eye and a look of concern. Mama and the girls were none the wiser.

Then they sit in the parlour as night is heavy and steely blue-black at the window like a velvet drape. Fire and candlelight cloaks them all as the girls embroider. Mama reads a novel, and father sits behind the spread wall of his paper.

Iris takes a moment to look around at them.

She catches her fathers eye as he turns the page over in his papers. He gives her a fleeting smile that passes the time of day. She watches the way the ochre of the flames in the half blade off the lense of his reading glasses. He returns to his pages.

She’ll miss his silent sympathy. His calm presence was a balm she doesn’t know how she can be without.

She looks across at her vain, silly simpering sisters. She’s astonished to find that she will miss them too.

She’ll miss their gossiping and - amazingly - the screeching matches that erupt over who gets to wear their new bonnet or who gets the silk slippers. Or Iris’s pretty pieces of jewellery. Apart from two very adored beloved pieces she’s taking, she’s leaving the rest for them to scrap over. She smiles thinking on it.

It’s odd to think she’ll be in Bavaria. Living in a castle as a Lady to Lord Ren. And she’ll think of home, and she’ll grin, wondering if her vapid sisters will be fighting tooth and claw - having a tug of war - over her earrings or her pearl clasp bracelet.

She’ll miss Flora’s fiery head. In both temper and colouring. How bravely she defends her poor choices in various men of the militia. Then loves a completely different one the next day. She’ll miss how she always puts a pouch of dried flowers on Iris’s pillow when she picks too many - she always picks too many.

And Posy. Posy and her dreadful sweet tooth. How she always gave Iris heaps of her favourite pudding even though mama insisted she didn’t want her eldest getting too plump. Posy scraped it all onto Iris’s plate when her head was turned. Even if it was her sisters favourite.

And even though the way she borrows her books and dog ears the pages makes iris grit her teeth - she’s going to miss that dreadfully. She’ll see some plain unspoiled page corner in a book and her heart will pang and ring, sobbing, and longing for home.

Such longing.

Yearning for her squabbling siblings. For the sight and scent of her father’s study. For her tribe, where she has belonged for all these three and twenty years of her life. She’s sad that she can’t seem to belong here anymore. That’s one thing that causes her grief her about this arrangement. She must be apart from the three people she loves most.

She isn’t sorry to be leaving. Running away and absconding like a thief in the night. She can’t deny that this is her golden chance to escape. Flee from the life that drowned her.

This is her chance to share in a soul shaking love. One that’s seared her devotion to Kylo right down into the marrow of her bones. Scored his name on her heart in bleeding letters. She’s forever devoted. In a way none of them can yet - or will ever - understand.

She hopes in time, they will forgive her. That their leniency will outweigh the scandal and betrayal of her actions.

She casts a glance across to her mother where she silently reads her novel. No affection springs to mind.

Perhaps if she’d loved her daughter more, Iris could hate her less. If she’d even been affectionate instead of plotting. As it stands selling her eldest like a broodmare to matrimony, didn’t encourage anything for Iris beyond resentment. She was in a loveless unhappy marriage and she has no qualms about seeing her eldest shoehorned into something exactly the same. That is unforgivable in Iris’s mind. To experience the trials of such a match for years - and to then glean no lessons from it. It’s cruel.

And all for her want of connection-

Iris refocuses on her embroidery hoop. Stabbing thread harshly through the muslin and looping it through. She works diligently until the fire starts to die down. Father retires to bed. Watching his eldest with sparkling green eyes as he quits the room. Iris is preoccupied looking into her lap at her sewing.

She too heads for bed. Feigning tiredness even though she’s never been more wired. Never been so wide awake. And she was trying not to do anything out of the ordinary as per her usual routine.

She walks past her mothers and her sisters with a lump in her throat. Committing the last few scraps of moments of them to memory. “Goodnight Flora, Posy. Goodnight Mama.” She says simply as she crosses the room.

They call affable words her way. Mother opts for a single word in passing. “Night.”

Iris wonders if she’ll realise one day that would be the last words she ever spoke to her.

She opens the parlour door and slips out. The fire in the foyer hearth crackles. She sees father is in his study. Judging by the slithering glow of candlelight under the door.

She so badly wants to rush in and sob her goodbyes into his chest. Cry that she doesn’t understand how he could’ve sat there and watches Mama push and shove and pummel her around. She’ll never understand - but all the same, that doesn’t stop her from loving him dearly.

She thinks better of it. Climbs the stairs for bed. Confines herself in her dark bedroom. And then comes the true test of her bravery. She has to wait.

And wait and wait. And listen. Hearing as the whole house slowly drifts to dark. To sleep. For everyone to take to their beds.

She can’t read a novel. She can barely stand sitting still. She sits by the fire. Watching the door. Her bag was packed hours ago. Her meagre clutch of possessions. Some loved items and a couple of her favourite dresses and chemises.

She had penned a note for her family explaining every detail of her reasons for leaving. She left a separate letter for a Hux. Though he’ll probably cast it in the fire when he hears the news.

She’ll be leaving the heirloom engagement ring sat on top of it. Leaving the two ruinous sheets of paper on the end of her bed. Waiting for tomorrow. When it’s discovered she is gone.

Her bag sits by her feet. Along with her coat. She sits in the dark like a lonely widow and lets the amber glow of the fire die.

She’s already laced into her new wool lined boots. She wore two sets of stockings and her heaviest chemise.

She’s in a thick ruby wool dress that will be adequate for travelling. It’s rather a plain gown but it’s warm - he had said to dress warm.

She puts her hair into a free loose bun at the nape of her neck. Tied back with a snip of gold muslin. Her skirts will wrinkle in the coach but she doesn’t care about such a thing. She probably looks dishevelled and not at all pretty. But she cares not-

Everything is ready. Now there is only noiselessness. And anticipation

She hears her sisters dainty thumping treads. And then mothers stern steps. And then Meg and Julia gabbing about something, a man most likely, as they extinguish the candles on the landing and all over the walls and hallways. Putting the whole house into thick dull silence and darkness. Putting the day to rest.

She listens to their footsteps creak and creep up the attic stairs. The door closing in their wake.

Iris crosses to her door and opens it a crack. Peering out she can see nothing but the dull moonlight striping from the far landing window, across the floorboards. Silver streaks chase up to her door in the fluttering moonlight swaying in drips off the tree being fussed in the wind outside. Snow is starting to flake down onto the windowpane.

She shuts the door again. It was nearly midnight and her hour is approaching. She prays her bravery rises to meet it.

Father hasn’t come up yet. He was still in his study most like - she can get out the house without disturbing him. She’s certain. He’s dozed off in his armchair or got his head in his business letters and ledgers for the farm.

She puts her coat and slips her gloves on, she has second thoughts about her scarf and shoves it in her bag.

It contained her life, this travel bag, yet it seemed laughably light. And it carried everything she cherished. There’s something a little tragic about that, she decides.

She seized her bag in one hand, and her modest bonnet in the other. To disguise her hair. Should anyone catch a glimpse of her, out unchaperoned, at this time of night. If they recognised her. She can’t be too careful.

She steps to her door, bonnet and bag in hand. Coat on her back, and she stands there, glancing around at what’s left. She spied the two innocent squares of paper sat on her neatly made bed.

Such small things. And yet the words inked within those pages will alter lives. It seems an odd sort of cruel madness.

She silently steps out into the hall. Shuts the door on her room for good. Shuts the door on all this kind of life had offered her. She edges slowly along the floorboards. Listening to the clock in the foyer tinkle the chimes of the half hour before approaching midnight.

She wished she could give her siblings proper goodbyes. She thinks this as she tiptoed past their door. Her shoe creaks the whining boards and she freezes. Heart thudding up to choke in her mouth.

She feels horrified and sick, until her ears strain for noise and all she can hear is night drawing on around the stone walls outside.

She relaxed and crept further along the landing. The tips of her new shoes avoiding the truly noisy spots. She makes it to the top of the stairs and edges down inch by hushed inch. Glove skimming along the banister in a scraping soft hiss as she goes. When she gets to the foyer she creeps toward the door to the kitchens.

A figure awaits her in the armchair. By a dwindling fire.

Iris gasps and almost drops her bag. Her fear bubbled up and made her lip tremble terribly. She’d been caught out. Oh god no. She opens her mouth to speak but no defence comes.

Her father turns his head from where he’s sat fireside in his dressing gown, in his slippers breeches and shirt. Persian house slippers on his feet. His glasses were folded in his hands and there is a pensive weight on his greying brow.

“Papa...” She squeaks in a horrified whisper.

He eyes the bag and her coat. He is not a senseless man. He’s already well assessed what this means.

He swallows and rises to his feet. Lumbering up to his full, tall height. Pushing himself up off the chair by the arms. Like an aged old oak standing proud.

When he turns into the path of the moonlight flooded window behind him, it’s then that she sees the tears in his eyes. And ones that already stained down his cheeks. Her mouth gapes.

“Forgive me. I didn’t intend you to see me in this state...” He glances at her with red rimmed eyes. Raw and stark against the hazel bottle green of his pupils.

Iris is saddened for him. Turns out she wasn’t the only being in this house to cry alone.

“You are... leaving. So I see.” He comments offhand.

“I can’t marry him. Papa.” She blurts out in a hush.

“I’m sorry. I know you’ll want to stop me. That I’m ruining the family with reckless abandon. To convince me to stay. But you can’t. I cannot do it. I can’t walk into a life I will be leading falsely...” She tries summoning and explanation.

Her father cuts through her speech. Coming closer and clasping her hand in his. “Iris. Iris my dear-“ He soothes. He draws both her hands into his.

“I know.” He answers.

“I have no intention of stopping you. I only wished to detain you for a moment, to give you my blessing.” He offers.

She could be taken down with a tiny waft of a feather.

“Don’t mistake me. Please do not think me blind to your happiness, like your mother is.” He begins.

She’s aghast.

“I have watched you for these past few weeks. Grinding your teeth and holding that tongue of yours back when that entitled boy makes a remark you don’t agree with. I have watched him belittle and ignore you. And pass you over. To treat you as no more than a fertile vessel or commodity to be won. I want more life for you, than his meagre offering.” He holds firm.

“He dulls you. My dear. And you are too sharp and curious and intelligent to marry such a mulish man, who would never appreciate what a strong, kind and capable wife he has.”

Iris cries.

“He already sets your jaw on edge, even now. I can see it. And I cannot, will not, suffer the pain of seeing you trapped unto a marriage where your partner can never love nor respect you.” He tells her. “I know the pain well. It is not palatable.” He sighs.

He drops his eyes in shame. “I have not been a decent father to you. I have let my influence and opinion be set aside in favour of your being governed and bullied by your mother.” He bites out. His eyes fill with more tears. Voice strained.

“I am a coward. Iris-“ He begins.

She shakes her head. But he’s resolute to continue.

“No. I am. I am. And I’ve been weak. And what’s worse still is that I was a silent coward. I didn’t even speak up for the joy of my own daughter. I will never live that... dishonour...down. So long as I breathe. And for that, I am so very sorry. And you have all of my penitence for such a crime.” He says to her. Wringing her hands in his desperately.

“Oh, papa.” She cries. Voice no more than a croak. She throws herself in his arms and he sobs as he clutches her. Sways her into a hug and buried his mouth in her hair. Holding her close. He sniffs and sobs. She feels his chest bob with his cries.

“There is nothing you need apologise for.” She assures him.

Mr Ashton smiles. She was the sweetest soul under this roof. And he’ll miss her with every passing minute.

He pulls back and cups her hands. He doesn’t hide his tears. He doesn’t hide any of it and Iris aches with love for him.

“There is a great deal I must be sorry for, My sweet. I will live out the guilt of it eventually. So long as I’m contented that you are safe and happy.” He says gently. “That can be my saving grace.”

“Lord Ren is a very decent man by all accounts. I’m sorry I can’t claim to know him better than I do.” He counsels.

“I love him.” Iris says freely.

The first time she’s admitted it aloud and it makes more tears come. Father gives her his kerchief and tells her to keep it for the journey awaiting ahead of her.

“Then he is the most worthy and decent man living. Because you are every good thing embodied. And he couldn’t be lacking of those virtues either, or he simply wouldn’t be deserving of you.” He comments truthfully.

He sighs a deep breath. “Get out of this cursed god-forsaken village Iris.” He squeezes her hands tighter. Shaking his head.

Be free.

“Get out of this rotten bloody place and go to him. Marry the man your heart wants. I never did wed for true love, and it’s haunted me, my entire life long.” He promises.

She was the only decent thing his marriage has ever brought to him.

She hugs him again. “I’ll miss you most sorely.” She pledges.

“And I, you.” He strokes her back. Shuts his eyes and savours his daughter before she’s lost to him for who knows how long.

She pulls away he strokes hair off her cheek. Blinking in the sight of her face in the moonlight. For the last few seconds of her in actuality. Committing her to memory. For that’s all he’ll have of her soon.

“With you gone, I sincerely doubt I shall hear anything sensible cross your relatives tongues for quite some time.” He japes.

“Remark upon me in my poor state, once in a while, won’t you. And pray for my dear fraying sanity.” He sweeps more tears away. She blots them onto the back of her gloves.

“I’ll pray daily.” She smiles weakly. Bag in hand. Aswell as her bonnet. If that didn’t educate on the silliness of her sisters - nothing would.

He pauses to retrieve something from the mantel. She sees he clasps a little curved silver item. No bigger than a matchbox. Swirled with ornate silver gilding. He takes it and pressed it into her palm. It strikes a sudden zing of cold at her palm. She knows this ornament. It is the music box. The small Fabergé one that sat on the shelf in his office. His grandfather had imported it from Paris on his travels for her grandmother.

“I would like you to have this. So you have a piece of Ashton heirloom in your pocket as you go away to a brave new world.” He insists.

Iris opens the lid and the little while nightingale pops up, springing free to sing it’s call. She clasps it gently.

“I couldn’t-” She sobs. She remembers her sisters admiring it too. It seemed unfair he should gift it to her.

“No tears. My dear. No tears, I beg you. It’s yours and I’m bestowing it to you. I want you to see it and remark on those here at home, who still and have always loved you. Even if we didn’t show it as we ought.” He insists. Taking his hands from her.

She looks across at him. She’d been mistaken to think herself unloved by her parents. He did love her. He could just never bring himself to say so. Iris is awfully glad he’s taken this moment before all is lost.

“Go now. Make haste. Don’t linger too long bidding me farewell.” He offers. Walking with her across to the hallway leading to the kitchen. She tucks the music box safely in her bag. It chimes and chirps as she nestled it into her clothes. She reaches for him once more.

Iris squeezes his hand. “You have all my love. I’ll write when I can. Not for her.” She shakes her head, biting the word crossly. “But for you-“ She pledges.

“Send it to Mr. Grayson at the farm. He’ll see it reaches me safe.” He urges. She smiles. Nodding. Tears sparkling down her face.

“I’m sorry to say I will have shrouded this house in shame and gossip come the morning.” She frets.

He shakes his head with a fond smile. “We are tougher than we look. Never more so than when we are tested.” He assures. Such confidence in his Apple green and red raw eyes. She instantly believes him.

She throws herself into a hug. Fists a hand in his dressing gown shoulder and takes a deep breath of him one last time. Old leather musk of books and the sting of peppermint. “I love you.” She gasps with sad finality.

He nods. Swallowing a lump of stony sadness down in his throat.

“I wish you all the luck in the world, my dear dear girl.” He smiles. Eyes wet again. He cups her face and admires her for a second.

She clasps his hand tight at her cheek. And then she lets go-

He doesn’t have the strength to watch her leave. It’s too sad. Too hard.

He looks away and doesn’t return his eyes until the latch on the kitchen door softly clicks back into place in its frame.

The air hums with the absence of her. He prays to any god listening to convey her safely into Lord Ren’s arms.

He’d accompany her himself if it wouldn’t be so ruinous to explain come the morning. Why he was out of bed and out of doors at such an hour should anyone wish to seek after him. And she’ll move quicker without his old legs slowing her down.

He turns his eyes up to the snowy swirled heavens. And wills for her to have a better life than the one he could offer her here. He hopes he can see her again one day. When all this has passed. The hope for her is his salvation.

She scarpers across the moonlit lawn. Grass cold and crunching with frost under her feet. Snow is beading gently out the sky.

The clear moon of earlier has been replaced by chowder thick clouds. The cold wraps around her in a harsh biting embrace. Stinging at her exposed skin and making her hurry along all the more.

She takes the back lane to the woods. She didn’t wish to risk walking out in full view of the front of the house, down the drive. The road is pale with ice and dusted with snow. Icing sugar powder of it spills over her shoes.

The woods are already thick with it. Black trunks loom thin and warped; born out the white blanket of the ground. The tips of the trees blaze with flakes caught between them. Flecking the leaves.

She crunches her way along the lane. Her stride was something between a skip and scurry. Breath ghosting up in the air and her heart rattling in her ears. Her lungs sting and burn dry with cold as her breath drags into her body.

She cuts through the woods. Afraid her interlude with her father has made her late, and now Kylo would be worried she’d snubbed him.

She runs quick through the trees. Snapping slushing and scuffing twigs, frost and snow underfoot. Cold sneaks up her skirts where she holds them up to run but she doesn’t care- doesn’t even notice.

The trees are so gathered, that the branches rip at her skin as she sprints through them. Tears at her hair and her clothes. Snags are her and her cheeks sting. She bats away the grabbing things. They were like hands trying to tug her back. Trying to keep her tamed. To root her to this place. She’s having none of it.

Her hair got tangled in the snatching trees too. Pulls and only when she feels loose strands lap at her neck does she realise that the muslin had been torn and ripped right out. She presses onwards.

Her face stings and her eyes stream with cold. She comes up the lane that leads her to the church. Gnarled and slanted stubby shapes of the mossy gravestones are fog grey against the snow and the dark. Broken teeth of them rearing like lumpy beasts up out the snow. She throws the church gate open. Doesn’t care that it creaks. She runs up the worn grass path shoes scuffing at the pristine falling snow.

She comes out into the code of woods the other side of the church. The thing emerged out the snow with shimmering silver stone and the slate of its roof is edged with white where flakes settle. Oozing between the cold stony cracks.

The stained glass windows look dead and dull. The colours murkier in the dark. Smoky black and bleeding crimson staining the glass. The whites of the painted saints eyes seem to be arcing and watching over her in derisory disappointment.

She doesn’t glance back. She makes for the woods where she knows he’ll be waiting. She holds her skirts and she laughs as she runs. Her lungs puffed dry and freezing. But she’s so giddy she feels like her sides will split. Her cheeks ache from smiling. Not far to tread now. The cyclops of the moon hiding behind murky clouds watches her too. Silently keeping her secret.

She clears the worst of the trees and her heart soars when she sees a stark black shape of a coach up ahead. With an equally as tall dark haired man. His back to her as he stands in the snow. Head bowed down in his hands. Hair ruffled and dotted with flecks of it.

She presses a hand to her tummy where she suspects she now has a stitch. Because it simply feels so stupid - the amount of love and bliss thats coursing through her blood.

Kylo is outside the coach, of course he is. He’s much the same as her. He can’t sit still.

The gigantic elegant thing that will convey them to the Highlands set by the edge of the snowy muddy road. He’s pacing on it. Horses stamping in the cold. A shivering driver bundled up in pelts and thick coats.

He’s on the painful knifes edge of fretting. She’s not here yet. And it’s well past midnight. He’s worn circles in the snowy road. His coat heavily lapping and catching at his calves. The cold doesn’t bother him. Doesn’t touch him. He’s wearing a white shirt with the collar left undressed and pulled open.

It spills down his marble carved chest. Revealing him to the dark bitter woods and the snow.

He keeps bringing his silver pocket watch to hand - she’s ten minutes delayed. He watches the eleventh minute tick over.

His mind runs with the possibilities. She could’ve fallen and broken something in her haste.

She might’ve been discovered sneaking out and her mother tied her down, locked her in her bedchamber and threw away the key for good measure. His brain bubbles with mania and panic at the possibilities that could keep her from him.

He turns another circle and scans the horizon again. Sharp eyes not missing a thing. A cold breeze shudders across him from up the road. He stops dead in his tracks. That scent.

That was her. She was here.

He whips around, hands falling by his sides. Just in time to see her emerge quickly from the misty white of the woods.

Clad in her blue coat and a red dress. Her bag in hand. Her hair loose, curling and spilling over her shoulders. Cheeks are red and icy cold. Stung by the wind.

She’s never looked more lovely. So wild and free. And all his.

Her smile grows so great. As does his. She slows to a stop. Panting for breath that she’ll never catch. Not now. Not with him stood there looking all dashing.

Iris hikes her skirts and coat up, and runs straight to him and she’s no shame about it either.

She drops her bag on her way to him, uncaring for its contents. He meets her halfway. Their bodies clash in such a tempest of love.

She throws herself into his chest and he hauls her up so her feet don’t touch the ground. His strength was always so vastly great and he shows it in the way he lifts her so easily. Cradles the precious small weight of her in his big arms.

They collapse into glad sighs and she strokes her hand over his hair. Smiling out in bliss as she holds the back of his head. He clutched her back and her hair and buried his face in the crook of her cold neck. It delights and thrills her and she can’t conceive she can deserve so much happiness-

He sighs into her neck. Smiling into her skin. He draws back and looks right at her beautiful cold-kissed complexion. “Ready for this adventure? Lady Ren...” He asks. Cupping her cheek and most of her jaw.

“Wholeheartedly.” She answers.

He plucks a soft lingering kiss at her cheek and sets her down. Scoops up her bag and her hand and leads her through the crunching snow into the coach.

He opens the door for her and she clambers in. Erland snorts and shifts and stamps at her even from up the front of the carriage. Determined to have his share - he was such a diva he could never be left out.

“She’s coming with us, you great big fool.” Kylo comments to his horse. Iris laughs at their exchange as she settles herself in the plush velvet lined carriage.

Scarlet draping over every inch of it. A watery patch of moonlight slanted and cast down from the windows in the doors. She scoots across the bench for Kylo to sit next to her. He then commands his driver to set off.

Pelts and blankets and garnet silk brocade bolster-cushions line the seat opposite. He’s stuffed it with comforts for her. There’s a basket hamper of food and bottles of drink and a stack of leather bound books. She requires rest and sustenance. He seldom does. Not more than a handful of hours per night. But he’ll enjoy slumbering next to her.

Kylo shuts the door after himself. A gust of snow blooms with the force of it. Puffing into the velvet space. They are quite alone. And the carriage lurches off into that snowy dark midnight. Their new life together begins.

He greets her properly. Makes sure she’s snug in pelts and blankets and tips her face up to his by the chin to kiss her again. Her face pulls into an expression of agonised bliss. Tugs her closer closer closer.

Wraps his fingers around the back of one hip. Slithered his fingers between her coat and her dress.

He nudges her jaw out his way with a cheeky smile and shoved his nose into her hair to push it aside, nips and nibbles sucking teasing kisses down her neck that makes her shiver. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. You’ve no idea how long I’ve been dying to kiss your soft neck.” He grumbles.

He sucks an open mouthed kiss over her pulse and she moans and pants his name. Fingers trapping into the blankets as she says his name like she’s chiding him. They can both feel the desire marching over every vertebrae of her spine.

She shivers. God that felt good. Made her weak. Made her eyes roll back.

“Oh kylo.” She moans. Her toes curl with the sheer raw power of his seductive kisses.

He finds her left hand on her lap and strokes the empty space on her fourth finger.

“Now. I think I had better make this elopement of ours authentic. Had I not?” He smirks. Reaching for his coat pocket.

Then he’s drawing something small out the shadow coloured wool. Her lips part in a smile when he snaps open a small blue velvet box. She’s blinded by diamonds and sapphires.

A cluster of them all crowning a gold band which is set with more gems. Two sapphires surround a large round diamond. Rounded and sparkling gems.

He’s watching her carefully - with a smug expression taking over him as he plucks the ring out its silken nest and slips off her glove slowly, then slots it up onto her finger. It glides on and sits perfectly. He lets her admire for a second. Before lifting the back of her hand to his lips.

“It’s too beautiful.” She comments. Amazed at it. He reaches for the curtain at the window and draws it back. Let’s the moonlight shimmer off the cluster of stones. Fractured light drips everywhere.

“Now that looks a worthy decoration to sit on that pretty kind hand.” He smiles. Before he frowns and turns her head towards him. A curl of copper and iron drifts into his nose.

“Dove. You’re bleeding...” He remarks. When he turns her face there’s paper thin red scratches swiped across her cheeks. She raises her hand to her skin and brings away a dribble of blood.

“I ran through the trees. I must have hurt my cheeks and not realised.”

“How could you not realise?” He asks her as he brings her finger to his mouth and naughtily, suavely puts that fingertip on his tongue and sucks off the blood. Curls his tongue around her taste to savour the way most men would appreciate a fine burgundy wine.

It makes something throb between her legs when he gets his lips on her. His eyes look like they could cut her with a look.

Her blood coating his tongue is too sweet for words. Sweet sweet bouquet. An agonising temptation that he only wants more of.

“I was smiling too much to notice.” She admits in a blush. Chewing on the inside of her lower lip.

He kisses at that blushing sore cheek. Pressing his lips to the barely bleeding cut. It should help soothe and close it. “That makes me insatiably glad to hear.” He smiles.

She searches for his hand and holds it. “I’m sorry I was late to meet you. I ran into my father as I was leaving.” She explains as he leans in to kiss her jaw again.

He pulls back and his face turns rather serious and stern. “He didn’t try and stop you?” He seeks.

“He could not stand to see me wed to such a loveless man as Hux. He gave me his blessing to wed you. I didn’t think I’d be walking away with that.” She tells.

He suspected there was a reason to Mr. Ashton’s silence. And now he knew; it was guilt. He’s glad to see she is loved from her fathers quarter. It soothes him.

“I’m glad you were able to make your peace with him.” He confesses. Holding her dear sweet little hand in his own massive grasp.

She looks up at him. At that handsome earnest face that is watching her so intently. So full of love and desire.

“As am I. But for now. Can I be terribly audacious and ask you to kiss me again?” She seeks with a grin.

She squealed nearly as Kylo tugs her tight into his lap. Folds her thighs over his. One hand covering her ribs under her dress. Fingers teasing under the swell of her breast. His smirking lips kiss and nibble under her jaw and she gasps in bliss.

“Thought you’d never ask...” He smirks and growls into the scorching heat of her neck. It tumbled right through her and she knows more desire is to come.

”And if you hadn’t? I’d have had to taste those pretty lips without your permission.” He sighs cheekily.

He swoops up and takes her mouth and she truly things she might burst into flames.

His silky tongue falls like cream running along her lower lip. She shivers at the sheer erotic desire of it. And this is only the start-

He’ll need to be careful. Or he’ll have kissed her lips raw by the time they reach Scotland.

#between wolves & doves #vampire!kylo #kylo ren x oc #adam driver #Regency era #slow burn

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reallifesultanas · 5 years ago

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A mohácsi csata áldozatairól, 1526 egy másik szemszögből / About the victims of the battle of Mohács, 1526 from a different perspective

This post consisted of the translation of several recent Hungarian articles about the excavation of mass graves related to the battle of Mohács. The articles are listed at the sources.

Painting of Than Mór

Prologue

History is something that needs to be examined objectively in all cases, especially when someone is writing educational articles about it. However, there are times when this is difficult. At the end of the portrait of Sultan Suleiman, I have already referred to this in the epilogue. Then I wrote:

"As a Hungarian, the research about Suleiman is a very complex task, because objectivity is the basis of every historical research, but it is difficult to ignore the often cruel acts committed by the Ottomans against the Hungarians. My feelings about Suleiman are always mixed, for we can “thank” him for the fragmentation of our country, but on the other hand he was such a glorious ruler, that only a few like him lived in history. And his death always fills him with shivers. I respect this 71-year-old man, who wants to die as a glorious sultan with his last strength, but in vain he wants, Szigetvár just doesn’t want to fall. I respect his perseverance, but at the same time, I am extremely proud that Miklós Zrínyi and the other defenders defended Szigetvár so strongly and gloriously! Unawares, I ask myself what would have happened if the news of the sultan’s death came to light? If Sokollu can’t keep it a secret? The soldiers might have collapsed, and the defenders with Zrínyi would give new strength and the history of Szigetvár would turn out differently… "

In connection with the battle of Mohács, this feeling is even stronger. This was one of the bloodiest battles between Suleiman and the Hungarians. And it was full of cruelty. I have already referred to this in my youtube video about the life of Bali Bey, as it was Bali Bey who was sent forward to the capital city after the battle of Mohács and Bali Bey was the one who executed unarmed civilians despite they surrendered and asked for mercy. One might think that it was only Bali Bey who was cruel and would try to find excuses for Suleiman, but the events in Mohács make it clear that Suleiman himself had a similar opinion about us Hungarians.

But what happened at Mohács?

Although Suleiman's intention had been known since the beginning of 1525, the weakened Kingdom of Hungary did not have sufficient resources to build a defense system. Contributing to this was the fact that the Hungarian nobility did not hold together, did not take the threat seriously, and was very divided. By the time the threat became apparent, it was too late. In vain did they ask for help from the other Christian empires, they received only promises. The only one who would have actually been willing to help was Henry VIII, but he made the decision too late. By the time he decided, there was no chance to save the Kingdom of Hungary. Henry's soldiers sent for help reached Pozsony in 1527.

The Hungarian army, which thus consisted of only 24,800 men, was equipped with 85 cannons (53 of which were in use), and a few more Croatian corps were available. The forces of the Ottoman army are put on sixty thousand regular sipahis and janissaries, but this, according to historical research today, is too much, the regular stock of the entire Ottoman army was sixty to seventy thousand, and it did not take part in this battle. In fact, the number of elite units could have been 30,000, with the addition of irregular troops, asabs and akincis, and other units. Thus the Turkish army of sixty thousand was formed from this.

Ottoman miniature about the battle of Mohács.

The Hungarians were already lined up at the dawn of the battle-day. The Ottoman army began to appear in the early afternoon. The army was led by the Rumelians, followed by the Sultan with the court mercenary armies, and finally the Anatolian corps. It tells a lot about their difficulties that although they set off from the camp early in the morning and were only had to cover a distance of 10 km, yet, the Rumelians arrived around noon, and Anatolian Corps arrived on the edge of the terrace with an additional delay of 1-2 hours. According to sources, the troops were so tired that the sultan held a council, as a result of which they decided to postpone the battle and gave the order to camp.

Presumably, the Hungarian military leadership also learned that the Rumelians were building the camp and so some nobles recommended that the Hungarian king should return to their own camp. However, the king's chief advisers suggested the opposite, expecting that if the battle was fought that day, they could defeat the sultan's army in parts individually. Indeed, it was the only chance to win. Lajos II therefore ordered the attack.

The court mercenaries led by the sultan may have been on the edge of the terrace resting, the Rumelians had already built their camp when parts of the Hungarian army stormed them in full gallop. In any case, the attack of the cavalry caused confusion in the Rumelian corps, and the Turks began to flee. Backward, however, the side of the terrace blocked the way, so they split in two directions. In the meantime, the Janissaries who arrived at the scene welcomed the Hungarians with gunfire, so they were forced to retreat. With their retreat, the battle was essentially over.

The other Hungarian corps could not reverse the status of the battle either, the part of the cavalry that survived the Janissaries' gunfires had already fled, but the infantry fighting in front of the cannons was surrounded by the Ottomans and most of them were slaughtered. In the battle of just one and a half to two hours, the Hungarian army suffered a devastating defeat. 4,000 cavalry, 10,000 infantry, 7 bishops - including Archbishop Tomori and another main bishop László Szalkai of Esztergom and another 5 bishops - and 16 ensigns and 12 lords fell. Tomori's body was found by Suleiman, and his head was tied to a spike in front of Suleiman's tent. His peculiar cruelty is a good indication that Suleiman was particularly angry, and although they had won thanks to their headcount superiority, the Hungarian army successfully surprised them due to the poor field conditions.

Map for the battle. Source: http://www.e-kompetencia.si/egradiva/zgo_ds/17%20mohacs/index31.html

The causes and significance of the defeat are still the subjects of heated debate to this day. According to some, the reasons for the defeat are the divisive Hungarian nobility and the deliberate delay of János Szapolyai, the later King John I. However, based on our current knowledge, the blame for Szapolyai does not acceptable. Even if he wanted, Szapolyai could not have reached Mohács, because Szapolyai was still waiting in Torda on 15 August, a good 400 km from the battle site, and on 29 August he was only in the area of Szeged. According to others, under those circumstances, no European state formation, including Hungary, would have had a chance to win against the Ottoman Empire, which had the most modern and equipped forces in the world at that time. However, if the other Christian empires had given support to the Hungarians, the outcome of the battle would not have been so clear.

After the end of the battle, the Turks were armed all night, waiting for the Hungarian main forces... That main forces which actually was already slaughtered. Only after some time, the sultan realized that there is no other army, that's was the whole. So after the surprising victory, Suleiman gave a short rest to his army, and then they started to march for the main goal of his campaign to Buda. The raiders marched in front of him and also robbed, destroyed cities, and executed unarmed civilians begging for mercy. Meanwhile, on August 30, news of the loss of the battle arrived in the capital, by which time the entire court had fled to Pozsony that night. The next day, almost the entire population followed them. The sultan arrived in Buda on September 12. He inspected the castle, on the 14th the city was set on fire, the treasures found in the palace were placed on a ship, including the giant cannon that János Hunyadi had captured in 1456 under Nándorfehérvár. The Sultan's army marched back to Istanbul on September 25th. By then, his raiders had destroyed the areas around the capital from Eger to Győr. Only a few walled cities escaped.

After the battle of Mohács, the country's capital, Buda, was defenseless. The king and with him a significant part of the nobility died, and there were difficulties in organizing further defenses. Practically only the Transylvanian army of 15,000 men remained under the command of János Szapolyai, but he could not and would not fight. He had no choice but to make a deal with the Ottoman Sultan. That's how he became the vassal of the Ottomans and the king of what remained from Hungary.

Painting of Bertalan Székely about the funeral of Lajos II.

Discovery of mass graves

In 1902, miller Demeter Pavlovics wanted to build a trade next to the mill on the Csele stream, but his workers found bones during the extraction of the land, which bones were then found in such quantities that the work itself was obstructed. Most of the bones were already strongly calcified, although some skulls and teeth remained almost completely intact. As they found coins of Lajos II near the miller's place it was possible to link the bones he found to the battle [1].

Although mass graves have been examined several times since then, thanks to advances in science these days, now it is possible to extract information from the grave. The 500th anniversary of the Battle of Mohács is approaching, and this round anniversary and the associated subsidies have greatly helped to establish this huge national cooperation in the excavation of the mass graves. Especially since they want to rebury the remnants of the martyrs on the occasion of the anniversary.

Of the five mass graves currently known in Mohács, the number three is now under investigation, it is the smallest though, about 15 square meters. The identification of bone remains is a huge professional challenge for anthropologists, emphasized György Pálfi, Head of Department of Biological Anthropology, University of Szeged [2].

The mass grave number three on the photography of György Pálfi. Source: [3].

Who and how many can be in the mass graves?

It was already successfully discovered in the 1960s that victims of Christian armies were found in the graves. This could be determined on the basis of the highlighted number of German, Czech and Hungarian coins. We know: Lajos II's army was made up of Hungarian, Transylvanian, German, Polish and Czech soldiers, and even a small number of Croats and Serbs were present in the army [3].

Examining the graves revealed a chaotic sight for the researchers. Looking at the mass grave excavated by archaeologists and prepared for anthropological research, the incredible mixing of human bone remains is astounding to the expert as well. The examination of the mass grave number three and the identification of bone remains is a huge professional challenge for anthropologists, as in addition to the confusion of the many human bones, the extraordinary decay conditions due to the special burial and the subsequent damaging factors, also make the work harder [3].

In the 1970s, the number of dead in the case of mass grave number three, was estimated at around 130, but it is now clear that the compaction in the lower strata and especially at the edges of the grave pit is much greater than expected. It is now visible that the skeletons were compressed in an almost irrationally small place. Based on this, it is believed that the previously estimated number of deads in the mass grave can be doubled. Researchers estimate the number of remains in mass grave number three, which is the smallest among the mass graves, to 300 [3].

Due to the entanglement of skeletons, researchers often have to proceed in parallel with the remains of 8-10 individuals. As a result of the tests, the number of registered bone remains varies. It often turns out that the skull and the skeleton of a person do not really belong together at a glance, in which case the numbers increase. But the opposite also happens. For example, skeletal remains, which were considered separate in 1976, were also reexamined and they found it belongs to the same person, resulting in a decrease in numbers. Exploring bones, often chaotically mixed, is quite time-consuming. The skeletons accumulate in several layers in the mass grave number three [3].

Anthropological observations may also clarify the conclusions that can be drawn from archaeological finds. The people in the mass grave in Mohács are Christians. The excavation and anthropological identification of skeletons of one of the five mass graves known so far have begun. Based on the approximately 200 human remains, 90 percent of the people in the Mohács mass graves are young or relatively young adults, 18-40 years old. A smaller number of adolescents because they also identified people who died around the age of 14-16. They have encountered one or two adolescent children aged 12–13 years, some older men, and a skeleton that can be identified almost certainly and two presumably as women [3].

Can the results help to find the exact location of the battle scene?

Identifying the location of the battlefield is still unresolved. Archaeologist Gábor Bertók - who is the leader of the present excavation - and his staff are constantly looking for the site of the battle of August 29, 1526. This is assumed to be on the outskirts of the village of Majs, because large quantities of rifle bullets, weapon fragments, and plenty of horseshoes were found there. Of the approximately 250 projectiles, nearly 170, or more than two-thirds of the finds, are relatively small compared to the size of a typical rifle bullet of the age: 10 to 15 millimeters. Exploration of the mass grave can also contribute to the identification of the battlefield. Namely, when highlighting bone remains, researchers found such a small rifle bullet, next to the spine of a skeleton. It was also found that this man had been executed, based on the ijuries on his skull and neck. Because of the bullet “preserved” in his body and now find, we can conclude that the skeleton belongs to a prisoner of war who was wounded in the Battle of Mohács, but his injury was not fatal but was later executed as wounded and thrown into this mass grave [3].

Since it is indisputable that the size of the bullet in the victim's body is the same as that found in an area 4-5 kilometers from the mass grave, it is also clear that the victim was injured in battle. This projectile could give another boost to research related to the battlefield. In the near future there will be intensive archaeological excavations in the area, as by 2026, the 500th anniversary of the Battle of Mohács, archaeologists want to find the most probable place for the battle so that we can remember the historical turning point 500 years earlier. Thus, since the victim was certainly executed after the Battle of Mohács and the bullet found in his body is the same as the bullets discovered in the nearby area, it can be safely assumed that the battlefield was 4-5 kilometers from the mass graves [3].

Painting of Bertalan Székely about the battle. The area was very swampy as it is visble in the painting as well.

Who can these people be in the grave? Were they died during the battle or executed later?

Some suggest that based on the head injuries, they may have been the victims of the "Hungarian chariot camp" cut down by the Turks. What was this cart camp? After the battle of Mohács, the country's capital, Buda, was defenseless. The king and with him a significant part of the nobility died, and there were difficulties in organizing further defenses. The only serious resistance during the march of the Ottomans toward Buda, was gathered near Pusztamarót for an "army" of 25,000 peasants, setting up a chariot camp, but they were also quickly smashed and slaughtered by the well-armed Ottomans [3]. In fact, this version is not very possible, as Pusztamarót is a long way from the place of the mass graves.

Other researchers had previously considered the place of mass graves to be the site of the battle. There is also a third option, based on written memoirs of the “great public execution after the battle”. It is known from the archives of Suleiman I that the next day of the battle of Mohács the sultan ordered a large solemn gathering, watched the procession of his glorious army from the tent, and then led the prisoners of war in front of him. He did not allow his lieutenants to keep prisoners of war but organized a large public collective execution. So far we have known - actually from Suleiman's archives - that more than two thousand prisoners of war have been executed after the Battle of Mohács. Based on a 1976 surface survey, it was estimated that about a thousand people's skeletons are buried in the five mass graves. However, based on the new investigations of the third mass grave, researchers believe that the number of skeletons found in the mass graves in Mohács may be more than double of the previously suggested 1000. This is relatively in line with the number of people executed by Suleiman. And a thorough examination of the victims also makes this option more and more likely, as the examination of human skeletal remains at the third mass grave shows that it is the mass grave of wounded people. Researchers have identified a number of cases where it is clear from the trace that a kneeling man with a bowed head was killed from behind. A human skeleton has also been found showing that that man was struck from above two or three times 494 years ago. Several cases have been uncovered where the same cervical vertebrae have been cut twice in parallel, which is very difficult to imagine during battle. Based on the contemporary descriptions and the drawing of the execution after the Battle of Nikápoly more than 100 years ago, it can be assumed that the soldiers captured at Mohács were executed in a similar way by the Sultan. Thus, the third mass grave of the Mohács National Historical Monument shows barbaric post-massacre conditions [3].

Sword traces on a skull highlighted from a mass grave. Photo: György Pálfi. Source: [3].

Cut marks on the cervical vertebrae suggesting beheading. Photo: György Pálfi. Source: [3].

What's next?

Anthropological examination of the mass grave may continue in the spring. Removal of the remains can be done in 3-4 months, but laboratory processing of the findings can take years. During this time, anthropological and, if necessary, genetic methods can be used to isolate the remains of individual victims, but they can also reach facial reconstruction through radiological and genetic analyzes. The main goal is to sort the remains of the martyrs buried in a humiliating way for the 500th anniversary of the Battle of Mohács and then bury them in individual graves [2].

Used sources: [1]: http://ujkor.hu/content/mohacsi-tomegsirok-nyomaban-korabbi-es-legujabb-feltarasok [2]: https://mult-kor.hu/a-szegedi-tudomanyegyetem-antropologusai-is-reszt-vesznek-a-mohacsi-tmegsir-feltarasaban-20201209 [3]: https://u-szeged.hu/mohacsi-csata?objectParentFolderId=19396

* * *

Ez a poszt a mohácsi csatához kapcsolódó tömegsírok feltárásáról szóló több friss magyar nyelvú cikk fordításából állt össze. A cikkek a forrásoknál listázva vannak.

Prológus

A történelem egy olyan dolog, melyet minden esetben objekíven kell figyelni, különösen ha valaki ezzel kapcsolatos ismeretterjesztő írásokat készít. Vannak azonban esetek mikor ez nehéz. Szulejmán szultán portréjának végén az epilógusban már utaltam erre. Akkor ezt írtam:

"Magyarként Szulejmán tanulmányozása igen összetett feladat, hiszen mert bár az objektivitás a történelmi kutatások alapja, nehéz eltekinteni a sokszor kegyetlen cselekedetektől, melyet az oszmánok követtek el a magyarok ellen. Szulejmánnal kapcsolatban mindig vegyesek az érzéseim, ugyanis neki “köszönhetjük” az ország feldarabolódását, de a másik oldalról egy olyan dicső uralkodó volt, amihez fogható kevés élt a történelemben. Halála pedig mindig borzongással tölt el. Tisztelem ezt a 71 éves férfit, aki utolsó erejével dicső szultánként akar meghalni, de hiába akarja annyira, Szigetvár csak nem akar elesni. Tisztelem a kitartását, ugyanakkor borzasztóan büszke vagyok, hogy ilyen erősen és dicsőn védték Szigetvárt Zrínyi Miklós és a többi védő! Akaratlanul is eszembe jut, mi történt volna, ha a szultán halálának híre kiderül? Ha Sokollu nem tudja titokban tartani? A katonák talán összeomlottak volna, Zrínyiék pedig új erőre kapnak és Szigetvár története talán máshogyan alakul…"

A mohácsi csatával kapcsolatban ez az érzés még sokkal erősebb. Ez volt ugyanis az egyik legvéresebb csata Szulejmán és a magyarok közt. És tele volt kegyetlenkedéssel. Erre a Bali Bég életéről szóló youtube videómban már tettem utalást, Bali Bég volt az, akit Szulejmán a mohácsi csata után előreküldött a főváros felé és Bali Bég volt az, aki fegyvertelen civileket végeztetett ki annak ellenére, hogy azok megadták magukat és könyörületet kértek. Gondolhatnánk, hogy Bali Bég volt csupán kegyetlen, mentegethenénk Szulejmánt, ám a mohácsi események egyértelművé teszik, hogy Szulejmán maga is hasonló véleményen volt rólunk magyarokról.

Than Mór festménye a mohácsi csatáról.

Na de mi is történt Mohácson?

Bár 1525 eleje óta tudott volt Szulejmán szándéka a meggyengült Magyar Királyságnak nem volt elegendő forrása, hogy védelmi rendszert építsen ki. Ehhez az is hozzájárult, hogy a magyar nemesség nem fogott össze, nem vette komolyan a fenyegetést és nagyon széthúztak. Mire a fenyegetés nyilvánvalóvá vált, már késő volt. Hiába kértek ekkor segítséget a többi keresztény birodalomtól, csupán ígérgetéseket kaptak. Az egyetlen, aki végül ténylegesen hajlandó lett volna segíteni VIII. Henrik volt, ám ő is későn döntött. Mire döntött, már esély sem volt megmenteni a Magyar Királyságot. Henrik segítsége 1527-ben érte el Pozsonyt.

A magyar sereg, amely így mindössze 24 800 emberből állott, 85 ágyúval volt felszerelve (ebből 53 került használatba), s még néhány horvát hadtest állt rendelkezésre. Az oszmán hadsereg erőit hatvanezer reguláris szpáhira és janicsárra teszik, ez azonban a mai történelmi kutatások szerint túl sok, a teljes oszmán haderő reguláris állománya volt hatvan-hetvenezer, s ebben a csatában az nem vett részt. Valójában az elit egységek száma 30 ezer fő lehetett, amelyhez hozzájöttek az irreguláris csapatok, az aszabok és az akindzsik és a többi egység. Így ebből állt össze a hatvanezer fős török sereg.

Török miniatúra a mohácsi csatáról.

A magyarok a csata hajnalán már felsorakoztak. Az oszmán sereg kora délután kezdett kibontakozni. A csapatok hadrendben vonultak fel, már amennyire ezt a terep megengedte. A sereg élén a ruméliaiak haladtak, mögöttük a szultán az udvari zsoldos hadakkal, és végül az anatóliai hadtest következett. Nehézségeikről sokat elárul, hogy bár a táborból kora reggel útnak indultak, és a csatatérig csupán kb. 10 km-es távolságot kellett megtenniük, mégis, a ruméliaiak dél körül, a derékhad és az anatóliai hadtest pedig 1-2 óra további késéssel érkezett meg a terasz peremére. A források szerint a csapatok annyira elfáradtak, hogy a szultán haditanácsot tartott, melynek eredményeként a csata elhalasztása mellett döntöttek, és parancsot adtak a táborverésre.

Feltehető, hogy a magyar hadvezetés is értesült arról, hogy a ruméliaiak tábort vernek, és a királynak a táborba való visszatérést ajánlották. A király főbb tanácsadói azonban az ellenkezőjét javasolta, arra számítva, hogy ha aznap vívják a csatát, külön-külön verheti meg a szultáni sereg egyes részeit. Valóban ez volt az egyetlen esély a győzelemre. II. Lajos ezért parancsot adott a támadásra.

A szultán vezette udvari zsoldosok a terasz szélén lehettek, s talán már meg is kezdték leereszkedésüket a magaslat pereméről, a ruméliaiak pedig már a tábort építették, amikor a magyar jobbszárny teljes vágtában megrohamozta őket. Mindenesetre a jobbszárny lovasságának támadása zavart idézett elő a ruméliai hadtestnél, és a törökök menekülni kezdtek. Hátrafelé azonban a terasz oldala elzárta az utat, ezért két irányba szétváltak. Időközben a helyszínre ért janicsárok sortüzekkel fogadták a magyarokat, így azok kénytelenek voltak visszavonulni. Azzal, hogy az első lovasroham kifulladt, lényegében a csata is eldőlt.

A többi magyar csapat sem tudta megfordítani a csata állását, a lovasságnak a janicsárok sortüzeit túlélő része ekkor már menekült, ám az ágyúk előtt harcoló gyalogságot az oszmánok bekerítették, és nagy részüket lemészárolták. Az alig másfél-két órás csatában a magyar sereg megsemmisítő vereséget szenvedett. Elesett 4000 lovas, 10 000 gyalogos, 7 püspök – köztük a fővezér Tomori és Szalkai László esztergomi érsek és másik 5 püspök – és 16 zászlósúr, valamint 12 főúr. Tomori holttestét Szulejmán megkerestette, fejét pedig a sátra előtt karóra tűzette. Különös kegyetlensége jól jelzi, hogy Szulejmán különösen dühös volt, és bár a túlerőnek hála nyertek, a magyar sereg a rossz terepi körülményeknek köszönhetően sikerrel lepte meg őt.

Térkép a csatához. Forrás: http://www.e-kompetencia.si/egradiva/zgo_ds/17%20mohacs/index31.html

A vereség okai és jelentősége a mai napig éles viták tárgya. Egyesek szerint a vereség okai a széthúzó magyar nemesség és Szapolyai János, a későbbi I. János király szándékos késlekedése. Mai ismereteink alapján azonban Szapolyai hiábztatása nem igen állja meg a helyét. Szapolyai ha akart volna, se érhetett volna Mohácsra, mert Szapolyai augusztus 15-én még Tordán várakozott, jó 400 km-re a csata helyszínétől, augusztus 29-én pedig Szeged térségében volt csupán. Mások szerint azon körülmények között az akkori világ legmodernebb és legfelszereltebb haderejével rendelkező Oszmán Birodalommal szemben esélye sem lett volna a győzelemre egyetlen európai államalakulatnak, így Magyarországnak sem. Azonban ha a többi keresztény birodalom támogatást ad a magyaroknak, a csata kimenetele korántsem lett volna ennyire egyértelmű.

A csata vége után a törökök egész éjjel fegyverben voltak, várták a magyar főerőket, csak miután a szultán számára is világossá vált a némileg meglepő győzelem, rövid pihenőt adott hadának, majd megindult hadjáratának fő célja, Buda felé. A kiküldött portyázók előtte jártak, és raboltak, pusztítottak, kegyelemért könyörgő fegyvertelen civileket is. Eközben augusztus 30-án a csatavesztés híre megérkezett a fővárosba, mire az egész udvartartás még aznap éjjel elmenekült Pozsonyba. Másnap csaknem az egész lakosság követte őket. A szultán szeptember 12-én érkezett Budára. Megszemlélte a várat, 14-én felgyújtották a várost, hajóra rakták a palotában talált kincseket, köztük azt az óriás ágyút, amelyet Hunyadi János zsákmányolt 1456-ban Nándorfehérvár alatt. A szultáni sereg szeptember 25-én indult vissza Isztambul felé. Addigra portyázói a főváros körüli területeket Egertől Győrig elpusztították. Csupán néhány fallal erődített város menekült meg.

A mohácsi csata után az ország fővárosa, Buda, védtelen volt. A király és vele együtt a főnemesség jelentős része meghalt, a további védekezés megszervezése nehézségekbe ütközött. Gyakorlatilag csak az erdélyi, kb. 15 ezer fős had maradt ütőképes Szapolyai János vezetésével, de ő nem vállalta és nem is vállalhatta a harcot. Számára nem maradt más esély az életben maradásra és emberei életen tartására, mint egyezséget kötni a török szultánnal.

Székely Bertalan festménye Il. Lajos temetéséről.

Tömegsírok felfedezése

1902-ben Pavlovics Demeter molnár a Csele patakra épült malma mellett liszt- és vegyeskereskedést akart építtetni, munkásai azonban a vert falhoz szükséges föld kitermelése során csontokra bukkantak, amelyek azután olyan mennyiségben kerültek elő, hogy magát a munkát is meggátolták, így nem lehetett nem tudomást venni róluk. A csontok legnagyobb része már erősen el volt meszesedve, bár egyes koponyák és fogak még csaknem teljesen épen maradtak. Mivel a molnár a közelben éppen II. Lajos király (1516–1526) pénzeire bukkant, adódott a lehetőség, hogy a megtalált – feltételezhetően tömeg- – sírt a csatához kössék [1].

Bár a tömegsírokat azóta is többször vizsgálták, napjainkban sikerült csak igazán érdekes információkat kinyerni a sírból a tudomány fejlődésének köszönhetően. Közeledik a mohácsi csata 500 éves évfordulója, és ez a kerek évforduló és a vele járó támogatások nagymértékben segítették azt, hogy létrejöhessen ez a hatalmas országos együttműködés a tömegsírok feltárásával kapcsolatban. Különös tekintettel arra, hogy az évforduló alkalmából szeretnék újratemetni a mártírok maradványait.

A jelenleg ismert öt mohácsi tömegsír közül a hármas számú, jelenleg kiemelten vizsgál, a legkisebb, mintegy 15 négyzetméteres. A csontmaradványok azonosítása óriási szakmai kihívást jelent az antropológusok számára – hangsúlyozta Pálfi György a Szegedi Tudományegyetem Embertani Tanszékének tanszékvezetője [2].

A mohácsi III. tömegsír. Fotó: Pálfi György. Forrás [3].

Kik és hányan lehetnek a tömegsírokban?

Azt már a hatvanas években is sikerrel derítették ki, hogy a keresztény hadak áldozatai találhatóak a sírokban. A kiemelt német, cseh és magyar pénzérmék, e kis mennyiségű régészeti információ alapján lehetett ezt meghatározni. Tudjuk: II. Lajos seregét magyar – a mai magyarországi, de természetesen felvidéki és erdélyi területekről is –, német, lengyel és cseh katonák alkották, sőt kis részben részt vettek benne horvátok, szerbek is. Úgy mondhatjuk, hogy a mai „visegrádi országok” elődeiből, valamint német és délszláv területekről származó keresztény és zömében közép-európai haderő vette fel a harcot Mohácsnál a török túlerővel [3].

A sírokat vizsgálva kaotikus látvány tárult a kutatók szeme elé. A régészek által feltárt és az antropológiai vizsgálatra előkészített tömegsírra pillantva az emberi csontmaradványok hihetetlen keveredése megdöbbentő a szakember számára is! A sok tízezernyi emberi csont összevisszasága mellett a speciális betemetés miatti rendkívüli bomlási körülmények és a későbbi károsító tényezők miatt a III. tömegsír feltárása és a csontmaradványok azonosítása óriási szakmai kihívást jelent az antropológusok számára [3].

A hetvenes években a hátmas számú tömegsír esetében 130 körülire tippelték a halottak számát, ma már egyértelműen látszódik, hogy a vártnál sokkal nagyobb az összetömörödés az alsóbb rétegekben és különösen a sírgödör szélein. Most vált láthatóvá, hogy szinte irracionálisan kicsi helyen préselődtek össze a csontvázak. Ennek alapján vélhetően minimum megduplázható a tömegsír korábban becsült leletszáma. A kutatók 300 körülire saccolják a hármas számú - egyébként legkisebb - tömegsírban található maradványok számát [3].

A csontvázak összegabalyodása miatt sokszor 8-10 egyén maradványaival párhuzamosan kell haladjanak a kutatók. A vizsgálatok eredményeként a regisztrált csontmaradványok száma változik. Gyakran kiderül ugyanis, hogy a ránézésre egy személyhez tartozó koponya és váz valójában nem tartozik össze, ilyenkor növekednek a számok. De ennek ellenkezője is előfordul. Például az 1976-ban különállónak gondolt csontváz-maradványok esetében is történt utólagos egyesítés, ami a számok csökkenését eredményezte. A sokszor kaotikus módon keveredett csontok feltárása meglehetősen időigényes. A csontvázak ugyanis keresztül-kasul, több rétegben halmozódnak a III. számú tömegsírban [3].

Az antropológiai megfigyelések is pontosíthatják a régészeti leletekből levonható következtetéseket. A mohácsi tömegsírba került emberek keresztények. Az eddig ismert öt tömegsír közül egynek kezdődött el a feltárása és a csontvázak antropológiai azonosítása. Az eddig fölszedett 120 körüli csontváz és a felszínen korábban szemrevételezett legalább 80 emberi maradvány, vagyis körülbelül kétszáz vázról összegyűlt információ alapján kimondható: a mohácsi tömegsírba kerül emberek 90 százaléka ifjú vagy viszonylag fiatal felnőtt, 18-40 éves férfi. Kisebb számban serdülőkorú, mert 14-16 év körül elhunyt személyeket is azonosítottak a kutatók. Egy-két 12-13 éves kamasz gyerekként, néhány idősebb férfiként, továbbá egy szinte biztosan és két feltételezhetően nőként azonosítható csontvázzal szintén találkoztak [3].

Hozzájárulhatnak az eredmények a csata helyének pontos megtalálásához?

Máig megoldatlan a csatatér helyének a beazonosítása. Csatára utaló jelek – golyók vagy fegyvermaradványok – ugyanis nincsenek a Mohácsi Nemzeti Történelmi Emlékhely területén. Bertók Gábor régész – aki a jelen ásatás vezetője – és munkatársai folyamatosan keresik az 1526. augusztus 29-i csata helyét. Ezt az emlékhelytől 4-5 kilométerre lévő Majs község határában feltételezik, mert ott nagy mennyiségű puskagolyó, fegyvertöredék és rengeteg lópatkó került elő fémkereséssel. A körülbelül 250 lövedék közül közel 170, vagyis a leletanyag több mint kétharmada a kor jellegzetes puskagolyó méretéhez képest viszonylag kisméretű: 10-15 milliméteres. A csatatér azonosításához hozzájárulhat a tömegsír feltárása is. Ugyanis a csontmaradványok kiemelésekor a kutatók találtak egy ilyen kisméretű puskagolyót. Az egyik csontváz gerincoszlopa mellett, körülbelül 25 centiméterre a felső rétegtől, a feltárás második rétegében. Megállapították azt is, hogy ezt az embert kivégezték, amire a koponyáján és a nyakán látható sérülések miatt gondolhatunk. A testében „megőrzött” és most felszínre került golyó miatt arra következtethetünk, hogy a csontváz egy olyan hadifogolyé, aki a mohácsi csatában az oldalán megsebesült, de sérülése nem volt halálos, ám később sebesültként kivégezték és bedobták e tömegsírba [3].

Mivel vitathatatlan, hogy az áldozat testében lévő golyóó mérete megegyezik a tömegsírtól 4-5 kilométerre található területen felfedezett golyókéval, az is egyértelmű, hogy az áldozat a csatában sérült meg. Ez a csontvázak közül kiemelt lövedék újabb lökést adhat a csatatérhez kötődő kutatásoknak. Mert a közeljövőben intenzív régészeti feltárás lesz azon a területen, hiszen 2026-ra, a mohácsi csata 500. évfordulójára meg szeretnék találni a régészek az ütközet legvalószínűbb helyét, hogy ott méltóképpen emlékezhessünk az 500 évvel korábbi történelmi fordulópontra. Tehát mivel az áldozat bizonyosan a mohácsi csata után lett kivégezve és a testében lelt golyó megegyezik a közeli területen felfedezett golyókkal, biztonsággal feltételezhető, hogy a tömegsírtól 4-5 kilóméterre volt a csata helyszíne [3].

Székely Bertalan festménye a mohácsi csatáról. A festményen is jól látszik, hogy a csata területe igen mocsaras volt.

Kik lehetnek ezek az emberek a sírban? Csatában elhunytak vagy kivégzett hadifoglyok?

Az elsőre is látható fejsérülések alapján itt nagy valószínűséggel a törökök által lekaszabolt „magyar szekértábor” áldozatai lehettek. Mi volt ez a szekértábor? A mohácsi csata után az ország fővárosa, Buda, védtelen volt. A király és vele együtt a főnemesség jelentős része meghalt, a további védekezés megszervezése nehézségekbe ütközött. A törökök Budára vonulása során komolyabb ellenállást egyedül a Pusztamarót mellett összegyűlt kb. 25 ezer fős paraszt- és jobbágysereg tanúsított, amely szekértábort hozott létre, de a jól felfegyverzett törökök hamar szétverték és lemészárolták őket is [3]. Tulajdonképpen ez a verzió bizonytalan lábakon áll, hiszen Pusztamarót nagy távolságra van innen.

Más kutatók korábban inkább a csata helyszínének tekintették ezt a helyet. Létezik egy harmadik, eddig háttérbe szorított opció is „a csata utáni nagy nyilvános kivégzésről” szóló írásos emlékek alapján. I. Szulejmán archívumából lehet tudni, hogy a mohácsi csata másnapján a szultán nagy ünnepi összejövetelt rendelt el, a sátra elől szemlélte a dicsőséges seregének a fölvonulását, majd elővezettette a hadifoglyokat. Alvezéreinek nem engedélyezte a hadifoglyok megtartását, hanem nyilvános, nagy kollektív kivégzést rendezett. Eddig annyit tudtunk, hogy több mint kétezer hadifoglyot végeztek ki a mohácsi csata után. Az 1976-os felszíni vizsgálat alapján azt valószínűsítették, hogy az öt tömegsírban körülbelül ezer ember csontváza van. Ám a harmadik tömegsírnál végzett eddigi vizsgálatok alapján valószínű, hogy a mohácsi tömegsírokban fellelhető csontvázak 45 éve feltételezett számnak inkább a duplája lehet valószínű. Ez aránylag jól egyezik a Szulejmán által kivégeztetett személyek számáéval. És az áldozatok alapos vizsgálata is egyre jobban valószínűsíti ezt az opciót, ugyanis a harmadik tömegsírnál az emberi csontvázmaradványok vizsgálata alapján látszódik, hogy ez lenyakazott emberek tömegsírja. Rengeteg olyan esetet azonosítottak a kutatók, amikor egyértelműen látszik a vágásnyomból, hogy a letérdeltetett, a lehajtott fejű embert hátulról végeztek ki – nyakazással. Találtak olyan emberi csontvázat is, amelyen látszik, hogy arra az emberre 494 évvel ezelőtt kétszer-háromszor sújtottak le felülről. Több olyan esetet is feltártak, ahol ugyanazt a nyakcsigolyát kétszer párhuzamosan átvágták, ez pedig csata közben nagyon nehezen elképzelhető. A korabeli leírások, illetve a több mint 100 évvel korábbi nikápolyi csata utáni kivégzésről készült rajz alapján feltételezhető, hogy Mohácsnál a foglyul ejtett katonákat hasonló módon végeztetette ki a szultán. Tehát barbár mészárlás utáni állapotokat mutat a Mohácsi Nemzeti Történelmi Emlékhely harmadik tömegsírja [3].

Kardvágásnyomok egy a tömegsírból kiemelt koponyán. Fotó: Pálfi György. Forrás: [3].

Lefejezésre utaló vágásnyomok egy nyakcsigolyán. Fotó: Pálfi György. Forrás: [3].

Hogyan tovább?

A tömegsír antropológiai vizsgálata tavasszal folytatódhat. A maradványok kiemelésével 3-4 hónap alatt végezhetnek, a leletek laboratóriumi feldolgozása azonban évekig tarthat. Ez idő alatt antropológiai és szükség esetén genetikai módszerekkel megtörténhet az egyes áldozatok maradványainak elkülönítése, de a radiológiai és genetikai elemzéseken át eljuthatnak az arcrekonstrukcióig is. A legfontosabb cél, hogy a megalázó módon eltemetett mártírok maradványait a mohácsi csata 500. évfordulójára szétválogassák, majd egyéni sírokba temethessék [2].

Felhasznált források: [1]: http://ujkor.hu/content/mohacsi-tomegsirok-nyomaban-korabbi-es-legujabb-feltarasok [2]: https://mult-kor.hu/a-szegedi-tudomanyegyetem-antropologusai-is-reszt-vesznek-a-mohacsi-tmegsir-feltarasaban-20201209 [3]: https://u-szeged.hu/mohacsi-csata?objectParentFolderId=19396

#mohács #mohaç #mohacs #ii. lajos #louis ii #hungarian kingdom #ottoman empire #battle #battle of mohacs #Suleiman the Magnificent #Suleiman I #Suleyman I #szapolyai

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