SUCCESS IS MEASURED BY THE NUMBER OF VICTORIES. / A CHILDHOOD PLAGUED WITH DEFEAT, BUT NOW THER IS RESURGENCE OF POWER. there it is again, the arrogance of boyhood resurging fiercely through him. yes, he would have answered right on the spot as though it were the simplest answer. as though he intends to storm the richly decorated corridors, swing the heavy chamber doors open and make his uninvited presence known to the throne room. he has earned the authority to do so, technically speaking.
( and emperor iedolas grows madder with each day, the servants whisper frightfully. he hears voices and sees faces whrre there are none. if ravus were to storm in, would the ghost of the king consort of tenebrae take his place before the emperor's eyes? )
❝ either i succeed or i cripple his majesty's full military forces which he has so gracefully gifted to me. ❞ this is perhaps the first time in years in which he has spoken words that hold a vague air of treason. the implication of potential sabotage could cost him his head should the wrong ears overhear. when glauca fell, there were hisses amongst the jealous crowds who still suspected the former boy - king held lingering loyalties of his kingdom of ash. bestowing his oppressor's military with such a heavy title was akin to giving him the keys to the kingdom. he would bring ruination, some claimed, but their concerns were waved away. those few were right to suspect and fear. this decision would be their own undoing.
even in this moment of anger though, he retains common sense to not elaborate any further than that. he intends to have this mattered settled at once. but lunafreya -- frustratingly stubborn & self - sacrificing as always is she -- stands before him, the obstacle to her own salvation.
❝ lunafreya, ❞ a warning edge to his tone, exasperation and frustration which are merely extensions of his love. ❝ stand aside. i am ordering you as the high commander, not your brother. ❞
┊ ˚˖↷ @slainstar / this old thing.
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RAVUS & NOCTIS: A COMPLICATED MATTER
so we’re essentially given breadcrumbs at best in regards to defining the relationship between ravus and noctis. the basic outlook is that the two in the present gaming timeline don’t get along and that ravus despises noctis; but i think it’s more than that, i want to take it further than that. so, to some extent, this is headcanon based and applicable only to my blog ( and the noctis whom i have developed this meta with )
Keep reading
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HONOR AND DUTY AND RETRIBUTION. / WHAT IS THE WEIGHT IN VALUE OF IT ALL, AS COMPARED TO THE FEEL OF HOLDING YOUR FIRSTBORN? a boy. born red - faced, squalling, kicking fiercely. a stubborn little thing, but thankfully, everything had gone accordingly. a boy. a fine little thing, he overhears someone say, his ears cannot seem to distinguish. and his vision is disoriented, blurred by tears, there would have been no use in turning to see. all of his remaining senses are devoted entirely to this. him. a boy.
my son. / our son. aranea rests, because it is much needed. what she does not need in a moment such as now as him stumbling over words and a thousand thankful love proclamations. but that is exactly what she has been receiving for the past several minutes or so. i love you. i love you more than the astrals think possible of love’s capabilities. i love you. do you hear me? i love you.
( our son. the ancestry tree of house nox fleuret had wilted, faltered. some branches had been severed prematurely, there was fear for the future. but come spring, come bloom. there is hope ; he is hope. )
what is the weight of the boy, one must wonder, for his arms are weighted down. the steel of his false limb has never felt heavier. his entire being threatens to collapse, he was wise to remain seated. his son’s cries have settled to a quiet mewl, head resting comfortably in the crook of his arm. it was akin to two puzzle pieces, made to fit together.
❝ you have bestowed me the greatest joy. ❞ his voice quivers, all the steel rusts and weakens, all the ice melts away. all that remains is the man of mortal flesh. his mismatched eyes are tear - streaked. no words of gratitude will ever suffice, this much he knows. ❝ there is no entity, mortal or immortal, that could ever compare to your ethereal complexion, your magnetic presence, nor the scorching inferno of your spirit. and thus, i shall say it again — i love you, aranea. ❞
┊ ˚˖↷ @arahnea
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““When they ask how I died, tell them: still angry.””
—
Quellcrist Falconer in Altered Carbon (but really, Richard K. Morgan)
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Glimpse of a memory.
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Game of Thrones Season II - Ramin Djawadi
Winterfell
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“…I loved you. And I love you now.”
— Franz Wright, from Old Story (via cashmerebambi)
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we're so fucking back (tenebrae is ashes, mother and lunafreya are dead, i have no crown or heirs, ardyn is stabbing me to death)
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Royal grey 👑
(Episode Ignis, Possibilities)
At the hills of Tenebrae,
A different king watches the coming dawn.
Blues dress the Fleuret son.
* :· ✧ ·: * * :· ✧ ·: * * :· ✧ ·: *
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WINTER. a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the closed windows. a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold. full length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.
SPRING. the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym/training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.
SUMMER. lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end. beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool. drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3am, loud and proud. palms trees on sunset boulevard. longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust. nights spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk. relaxation.
FALL. the leaves changing colours. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness. abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of work. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter after crying. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.
tagged by: @serophs
tagging: @cetrith 😎
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marina tsvetaeva sentence starters. quotes taken from the penguin classics book of selected poems. as always, change pronouns/language as you see fit.
i know the truth.
give up all other truths!
look — it is evening. look, it is nearly night.
what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?
how true we are to ourselves.
we shall not escape hell, my passionate sisters.
we have been the queens of the whole world!
we have bartered away heaven.
gentle girls, my beloved sisters, we shall certainly find ourselves in hell!
yes, he is responsible for my fate.
he was always unreliable as a friend, but a tender lover.
i know nothing mattered to him any more than last year’s snow.
i’m glad your sickness is not caused by me.
thank you for loving me like this.
for you feel love, although you do not know it.
thank you for the nights i’ve spent in quiet.
the sun will never bless our heads.
take my sad thanks for this: you do not cause my sickness. and i don’t cause yours.
no one has taken anything away.
there is even a sweetness for me in being apart.
i kiss you now across the many hundreds of miles that separate us.
our gifts are unequal.
what can my untutored verse matter to you?
you have stared into the sun without blinking.
can my young gaze be too heavy for you?
no one has ever stared more tenderly or more fixedly after you…
i kiss you — across hundreds of separating years.
you throw back your head because you are proud.
whose attentive hands have touched your eyelashes, beautiful boy, and when or how many times your lips have been kissed?
where does this tenderness come from?
so many eyes have risen and died out in front of these eyes of mine.
today or tomorrow the snow will melt.
shall i pity you?
your lips have gone dry for ever.
surely when you were still young your girl lured you into a joyless house.
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over a once lively home now spread an unnerving quiet -- the halls, once full of laughter, of life, now devoid of anything even resembling it. children remained, yes, but more as prisoners now, not residents, no matter how their captors may try to twist it to appear otherwise. “ -- what’s to happen to us now, you think? ”
we were but children then / and now we are fickle creatures of grief
HE ENVISIONS THE SPECTRAL OF HIS MOTHER NOW. promise me, she would ask of him with gentle hands of ivory, without ash and without the cold of death nor heat of unforgiving flames, cupping his face. a morbid thought of coping, as though this were a natural ordeal of time. as if enough time has appropriately passed and this were more of a deathbed’s final calling of an elderly queen as opposed to the vicious martyrdom of a matriarch uninvolved in the petty affairs of another’s war. if he closes his eyes, he will see the shadow of her back before him in place of a spectral, being consumed by fires intended for him. the ghost remains a necessity, his only source of comfort and retention of sanity. be a good and just king, she asks of him.
how? he would ask, lip quivering and feeling younger than a boy of ten - and - six. how can he be a good and just king when he knows so little of how to simply be a king? tenebrae needs him. the people depend upon him now. and here he sits, nursing his wounds and imprisoned in his own castle as though a child sent to their room without supper for throwing a tanturm.
but she does not answer. she is only a depiction in his own mind, and so this version of his mother cannot supply any much needed advice anymore than he can think a solution for himself. be good to your sister, she asks of him, protect her. this, she asks of him. as if he can protect himself. but he must remember, must no longer think of himself. they will come for her like coyotes circling outside their door, scratching and begging to be let in. they will come for her magic and drain the life of her for it. with her death, hope falls. ( he is king / he is disposable. ) she is indispensable. above all else, she is his sister. he cannot lose her. he cannot.
❝ i don’t know. ❞ he answers honestly. there is so little he can give her now. but he owes her this. he will not create facades for her, even though she deserves the preservation of innocence, something tells him that doing so is akin to a death sentence. she must survive, above all else. ❝ they won’t kill us. we’re too vauluable. but we aren’t invincible. we have to be careful now, always keep close -- ❞
he had reached out to her to place a hand on her shoulder, but this triggers a sharp reaction, and he hisses midsentence in pain. his arm stings still, despite the treatment given. if anything, he wonders sourly, perhaps he has purposefully been given a botched job. perhaps they’ll let an infection fester and take his arm from him. they have already robbed him of his home -- what is the cost of an arm and a leg now, too? but he cannot share these upsetting sentiments with her. he must be honest with her, but he mustn’t vent to her. he steadies himself with slow, exhausted breaths.
HE PRAYS TO THE GODS FOR A SPELL. / LET THE BOY OF SIXTEEN BECOME A WISE AND WELL - EQUIPPED MAN NOW. as if lightning will crackle down from the sky and turn him into such. as if, in an instant, he will become a lionheart and all will follow. it does not happen, of course. but it never hurts to want, never hurts to ask. there is unnerving silence from the gods, even now. but surely there is a greater purpose beyond all that? he surmises his mother would say something like that.
he kneels down to her, at eye - level now. he is ashamed of circumstances beyond his control and how little he can give her. he cannot create a happier world for her nor shield her from the horrors of this. a frightful, pessimistic part of his mind is warning him now that things will worsen. but hopelessness and helplessness will do little. and then he realizes, that while he cannot create a facade of the world for her, he can compose one of himself for her: a fearless, all - knowing brother.
❝ we’re going to be alright, ❞ he assures her. a spark comes alive in his eyes as he speaks a feverish vow. ❝ and they’re not going to get away with this. the people of tenebrae will never forget. and their king will never forgive. ❞
@shedgrace
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ORPHANED AND DETHRONED. / THERE IS A LACK OF WORD FOR ONE WITHOUT A SIBLING. it is an unimaginable concept for souls inseparable as theirs. this is a concept which ravus has learned to fear for well over a decade now. it is a ragged torment that festers within, a cold paralyzing hand which grips him through sleepless nights. it whispers to him prophecies of the inevitable -- you will lose her, it sneers matter - of - factly, as you have lost others before. he is blind to recognize that, in essence, he has already lost her. ( in this uniform, he is a pale imitation of the boy - king brother she would run to embrace ; he has embraced the very thing he promised to destroy ) and now. . .
❝ you’re sick. ❞ he observes, tone indecipherable. indecisive. he is visibly shaking and no soothing words or prayers will quell him -- is it rage or fright? rage at his failures or fright for knowing what is coming? -- and he has nearly lost control at the forceful grip of her hands; hands white as sheets, dreadful and thin and cold. how was he so amiss to the signs?
❝ i will send word to the emperor myself; consequences be damned. you are no longer partaking in this little circus display of healing, do you understand me? ❞
┊ ˚˖↷ @shedgrace
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‘Part of me always hoped that I might see you happy one day. With burdens lifted. Free to live and love as you please.’
Finally. I painted Luna. And Ravus. I love them both. If there was a question 'who’s your favourite beside the bois’, it’s these two. They’re both so strong. And determined in their own ways and… they both break my heart. Listened to Never Let Me Go soundtrack (and other work by Rachel Portman) to destroy myself even more. Congratz, me!
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@ ffxv art concepts / published illustrations: stop being fucking cowards and showing ravus standing awkwardly in the bg of things (ie: luna’s wedding) he’d be blinking back tears of joy!!! he’s the one who walks her down the aisle!!! hE’S GONNA HUG NOCT AND THEN CRUSH HIS SHOULDER WITH HIS METAL ARM BC NOCT’S A SHIT AND LMAO WELCOME TO THE FAMILY. HE WOULD DO THESE THINGS AND IN THIS ESSAY I WILL--
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King Arthur by Charles Ernest Butler (detail) c. 1903
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