#(from the elegy of emptiness)

[skullbowz]

Dear Lord, Let Me Never Be Digestable.

Eyeless Jack and Mitch Harlan (og eyeless Jack protagonist) one-shot blurb thing.

Cryptic!eyeless Jack (it/its user.)

“Mitch was EJ’s victim & killed his brother”shhh they are besties now and Jack lives rent free w him 🫵🫵

Only content warning is cannibalism n stuff

—

“Jack, is this really necessary?” The sleepy blonde yawned. The night tyrant could only nod eagerly in response to him and plopped down a medium-sized cardboard box in front of Mitch.

Mitch had to put up with the creature's bullshit for several years now and wasn’t too sure how he did it either. It was like taking care of a dog. And Mitch never liked having pets because he could hardly take care of himself, let alone something completely out of this world! It didn’t help that Jack had the audacity to bring back strays. STRAYS!! As if Mitch didn’t consider it a stray itself!! Though he still somewhat cared for EJ.

Through the course of the three years, he had to unfortunately know of the unearthly being; he lost his brother (to Jack) and that house as well. It doesn’t help that before he moved in with Edwin his house was foreclosed. And of course, he refuses to live with his parents; he ends up in some shitty run-down apartment with some screamo-obsessed ripoff emo Rake. He had to be lying if he said it was totally bad being with Jack though, it could be silly and enjoyable at times actually! Sometimes he felt like the two together were in an Eddie and Venom situation. . minus the M!preg stuff and yeah! (I’m so sorry for the reference 😭)

Speaking of the man-eating boogeyman—Mitch never knew what he’d wake up to or what surprise awaited him when he entered his apartment. Once Jack started making itself way too comfortable in Mitch’s personal space, the man in question barely got a lick of sleep. Tonight was no exception either. It was the night of Christmas Eve before Christmas Day and Mitch was celebrating by sleeping in. Something that was so rare since work and Jack were always up his ass. He didn’t bother with all the Christmas stuff; He’d rather get stoned and pass out watching some shitty 80s movie. Not this year though, Jack had other plans.

Jack had been gathering some Christmas decor from some of its victims' houses for the past two weeks! Which explained the box thing. Inside, the decorations varied from Christmas lights, Christmas tree ornaments, a mini Christmas tree you’d find at the dollar store, and some other jolly knick-knacks. It came down to presenting the box to Mitch at 11:39 pm because it just loves fucking up his favorite person’s sleep schedule.

It did take a while to drag Mitch Harlan out of bed, and while he wasn’t too happy about being awake for something so silly, Jack wasn’t taking no for an answer. How Jolly could a monster possibly be? Mitch mentally complained.

The answer was somewhat jolly. Jack watched with anticipation as Mitch pulled out each separate trinket from the box and laid them on the kitchen counter. The male gave Jack a questionable look but sighed. Which was Mitch’s way of saying fine

Jack couldn’t help but grab all the stuff it wanted to set up and get it set up — frankly, it left Mitch with the hardest decor to put up. Jack grabbed the mini tree and the ornaments for it and scurried off to find a placement holder for it. Jack ended up choosing to prop it on a shelf in the living room.

Jack was too ecstatic setting up the small white tree. It was funny. Who knew such a large being could care about something so small? Which would’ve weirded out of any normal person. The tree looked even more ridiculously small when Jack (who was hardly standing) had an abnormal structure and height. It was a funny sight to foresee.

The maneater was taking extra precautions and care to make sure all the fake white bristle branches were perfectly angled before sliding on the ornaments. It varied in colors mostly consisting of red and green! Mitch on the other hand was struggling to hang up the Christmas lights throughout the apartment, he was an averagely heightened man but he still needed a stool or chair to reach the ceiling. This was obviously Jack’s job but it was rather occupied with the childish-looking decor. Jack couldn’t even stand straight in the apartment that’s how fucking lengthy it is. But of course, it only cared for what it was interested in.

“A little help over here?” Mitch strained. He turned his head a bit to try and see if Jack was even bothering to pay attention to him, and he caught wind of Jack shaking its head. Mitch let out an annoyed huff.

“I’ll let you pick the movie for tonight if you help!” Mitch offered, and seconds later the lanky monster came right over and took over the lighting. The pale man was pleased he was able to persuade Jack into doing something he wanted for once and went back to the kitchen to see what else Jack gathered for tonight. It was just some little decorative toys like a snow globe, Christmas-colored deer, a door reef, and some other things that seemed too boring for Mitch to bother with - what he found interesting though was the elf on the shelf that looked like the elegy of emptiness? Strange.. But the Blonde shrugged it off. He ended up placing the elf on the shelf next to the Christmas tree that was also sitting on the shelf. It surprised Mitch how it didn’t tip and fall over, the tree to be exact.

Not even 30 minutes later Jack and Mitch were done. Mitch was hardly feeling any more awake than he was just 40 minutes ago and exhaustedly flopped down on the brown cushioned couch. He squinted a bit when Jack turned on the bright LEDs. White, red, and green lights lit up the dark apartment.

Jack happily came trotting over with its Invader Zim blanket Mitch once had very begrudgingly bought for it. And snacks of course- two containers containing pre-cut mangoes and pickled eyeballs. It happily set those on the brown coffee table.

“Delicious,” the man sarcastically grumbled. A year and a half ago Mitch tried figuring out what Jack would eat that was besides human organs n shit since back then they sickened him more then now. Jack refused to try and digest anything besides Mangoes. Unfortunately for Mitch, Mangoes aren’t cheap and constantly leave his pockets hurting. In the end Jack still doesn’t let its love for human organs go.

Mitch zoned back into his and Jack’s world when the couch sunk in and the said creature already had the remote in hand, curled up in the surprisingly large cartoonish blanket. Fortunately for Mitch, Jack ended up picking Krampus which wasn’t too bad of a movie. Of course the blue masked-faced whatever tyrant paired up the horror film with some classic Christmas music that was only slightly audible; You just gotta love the overstimulation!

Jack happily scarfed down all its mangoes and pickled eyeballs in the first 30 minutes of Krampus. If any other normal civilian witnessed Jack devouring whatever it is it consumed, they puked and fainted all over!

Funny enough, Jack once urged him to even try cannibalism! and with some encouragement, Mitch eventually caved he was rather curious himself and

ended up eating cooked organs. You would’ve expected a bad reaction from him but honestly? He didn’t think human meat tasted too bad. He enjoyed it a bit more than he should have - and that didn’t end up being the last time he ate other humans too. Maybe Jack has managed to fuck up his influence quite a bit.

Eventually, Mitch did end up passing the fuck out sometime during the first hour of the film, waking up wasn’t the funnest experience. His back was stiff and his neck ached due to the uncomfortable position he slept in, not to mention Jack’s heavy ass was lying on top of him. Mitch couldn’t help but groan miserably.

Hey- When did the elegy-looking elf move to the coffee table???

—

This is so awfully written im so sorry </33

[crownshattered]

|| holy shit I forgot how downright CREEPY the statues are in Majora’s Mask—

[comingdownwithme]

Can we see more of Jeff and Toby also is Ben and Ej I’m the comic of not what are your headcanons for them??

Jeff and Toby have always been my favs since I was a kid, so you'll definitely be seeing more of them!

As for the comic, the whole thing is more of snippets and peeks into my interpretation of Creepypasta instead of a solid, sequential storyline, so not a whole lot is concrete, and I won't be posting a whole, fleshed out comic since it's very time consuming. I'm definitely sure Ben and EJ would show up though, especially during Jeff's directionless wanderings

Anyways, Woe! Headcanons be upon ye!

Eyeless Jack

Jack Nyras is a man just trying to survive after he had been left disabled and transformed from putting his trust in the wrong people. Even as the demon contorts and shapes it's host as if it were trying to fit itself it's host's own flesh, Jack remains conscious, all too aware of what is happening to him and the dizzying, maddening hunger that drives him forward

He's gone from a 5'6"-ish guy to a whole 6 foot something of a man after the incident. The demon disfigured and stretched his body to "make itself at home", though it isn't too obvious with his shitty posture and what he wears

He used to go to medschool and was about to graduate as a Valedictorian.

He carries a roll of surgical knives in his hoodie pocket! (My best friend gave me this idea :)))

Burn scars over his eyes! Hot tar does that to you ig, and it harmed him enough to last despite his new form's accelerated regeneration

He's still sane enough to have morals (or at least, he believes he's sane enough), so though he isn't exactly picky, he prefers kidneys since his victims would usually survive with only one, and he strikes at night when his "patients" are sleeping

He's good friends with Jeff (even if neither would admit it, ESPECIALLY not Jeff). They first started out as seeing each other as nothing more than "easy body disposal" and "free meal provider", but each time they bump into each other, they've began to get along past their perceived usefulness

BEN drowned

An angry, vindictive spirit that's been freed from the confines of where he had been sealed. Even still, he can't remember his own face, so despite his newfound freedom, he had taken the form of the model he had been using during his digital imprisonment to manifest. He now wanders the world, vengeful and curious, yearning for a peace he might never get.

His face is stuck between 2 expressions: the calm, neutral look of the elegy of emptiness (which is his usual), or a more expressive- albeit heavily distorted face- during moments of heightened emotion like anger, sadness, etc. Nothing changes from his expression, not even his mouth moves.

The latter is also a reference to how fans usually drew Ben, along with just... .EXE characters in general-

His clothes are always soggy :(

He can manipulate and change his physical form, but the binary scarred into on his calf stays no matter what he does, whether that be changing forms entirely or removing the limb from his "model", in which case the binary moves elsewhere.

Ben is telepathic. He can choose who can understand him at any given moment, whether it be a group, a pair, or a singular person. Everyone else outside of the conversation could hear only gargling, wheezing and coughing.

Avoids areas where water is usually found in large amounts. I.e, lakes, rivers, bathrooms, etc.

[stygiansun-totaleclipse]

Curses by the Crane Wives matches so much with MC to me, I mean, come on

"There's a fire in my brain and I'm burning up" no comments on that

"The smoke clears when you're around" the you could be litteraly anyone, siblings, ROs, Luca, and I love that

"This house says my name like an elegy" feels like it could apply both for the rumours about us in the Theian palace and to when we eventually go to Celestyl and the king clearly wants to kill us

"The devil's after both of us" MC and Nour.

"This tired old machine is a-rumbling - singing songs to the secrets behind my eyes" our premonitions

I could go so much further but I got other songs from this band to talk about so here it goes

-Hollow Moon and The Wolf, idk what to say about these, just. I can see the vibes on them and I won't take any arguments against it, you can pry it from my cold dead hands

-Time will change you and Scars just... fell like MC's grief, pure and bottled up into the instrumentals, with a hint of our premonitions in scars like

"Tell me it's inevitable that I'd end up with scars" and "nothing could have been done, is thst right?" Both feel like MC talking to themselves and whoever gives them their premonitions, angry at themselves for not being able to stop their siblings' deaths

"I’m trying to come to terms with what you’ve done, In the fumes of your anguish, oh my blistering pride, I’m still burning like a tire fire deep down inside" look I can't just see us screaming this at the Celestyl King, I can feel it in my bones and it makes me want to bite something

-Empty Page and holding the siblings at pedestals, thinking we're only ever trying to echoe what they once were, I'm just going to point at "I have hands that shake when there are cuts to make, you do it better show me how" and take my leave on this one

-And to end with a flourish of a knife in the guts, I present to you Never Love an Anchor and Farah.

Oh wow, I wonder what my favorite band is

Ooh I had someone recommend Never Love an Anchor for mc and Farah a while back (🥺😭😭💔) and that introduced me to the Crane Wives 💕 :D I really like them! I have to go thru more of their songs—I really like their lyrical work ❤️❤️ (also clearly you’ve put a lot of thought into this 👀👀👀 literally every song I listen to now I have to tie into sste somehow lol) And all those songs feel so fitting 💔💔💔💔💔😭 (sorry mc)

"Tell me it's inevitable that I'd end up with scars" and "nothing could have been done, is that right?"

Also that line 👆makes me think of MCs whole conversation with Luca after Aurora’s scene and the vision with Nour—thinking it had to be predestined by Fate and thus nothing mc could have done could have stopped it 💔💔

also:

"I have hands that shake when there are cuts to make, you do it better show me how"

ugly crying

[daisy-01-blog]

Sugarplum elegy (Geto x reader) 

A/N: Angst. Listen to sugarplum elegy by Niki if you haven’t! 

I love you too much to stay in love 

“I’m going to move to another country” Geto said to you through the calls. And you feel your heart falling apart. 

You’ve been dating Geto for a year, his position in his company is important so you rarely even meet him anymore. 

“...can I join?” your voice is shaky, you already know what his answer is going to be. 

You already know, but you hope something magical will change his mind. 

“No” he said to you “what about your family and your job?” 

He should’ve said he didn’t want you to join, it would be better-it would’ve been better that way. 

“I can find a job there,” you said to him. 

“(Y/N)” he’s angry, but you’re the one who should be. You sighed as you try to take a deep breath and calm yourself. 

“When are you going?” you asked him. 

“Tomorrow” 

You feel like your world is falling apart. 

“Tomorrow?” you asked him “and you didn’t even think of meeting me?” you hold your tears. You’re in public, and you wouldn’t let people see you crying because of a man. 

“(Y/N) I-” 

You turned off the call, feeling like the sky will fall upon you-you wished it did.

You first met Geto when you were freshman year, he’s older than you. It’s appealing to have someone older than you who dated you. 

You chased after him, and you believed you melted his cold heart. 

But maybe you’re mistaken, maybe it’s just a fantasy you made-since nothing changes from him. He’s still cold. 

Maybe he’s only tolerating you, and the idea makes you feel sick. 

Your phone is ringing and you muted it. 

It’s hard to meet him when he’s around. Now that he’s in another country how can you ever see him? 

All the happy memories pass by your mind and it makes you feel sicker. 

Maybe these are all just a sick mind game to him, you thought. 

You forced it to be a sign, swear that he’s the one. Bragging him to your friends saying that he’s the best boyfriend ever. Maybe you’re just trying to convince yourself. 

This has to stop. 

*** 

The weather is nice today, but there’s a rumble in your heart. 

You meet him at the airport. And you’re certain now. 

“(Y/N)” he said to you “you have to understand, I didn’t mean it that way” he muttered “we can still video call to see each other’s face right?” he said to you. 

You stared at him “Let’s break up” 

He looks sad and distraught, but you won’t trust his game anymore. 

“I won’t take this offer” he said to you “I’ll stay here with you” 

You smiled bitterly, because you know he didn’t mean it. 

“Are you sure?” 

He stared at you, and you already knew his answer. 

“...no” 

You smiled at him “I love you too much to stay in love” you said, and he held your hands and you wondered if he mean it. 

“I’m going” he said hoarsely “and I’m sorry” 

You nodded with a genuine smile and an empty heart. 

As he enters the airplane, you left and never look back. 

Permanent taglist: @sayheysaeyoung

[vamp0rivm]

summary: You’ve been in Jackson for three months; you’ve been stuck in a perpetual cycle of guilt and ravenous grief, trying desperately to recover from what went down between you and your brother before you left home and came here. Needless to say, you’re fitting in like a lego block in an 1000 piece puzzle, and you realise you’re better off going back to the old house, where you can succumb to the thoughts that plague you. Maria tries to help here and there, shoving you into patrol with people she prays you’ll get along with, namely Ellie Williams. Rather than that, you expectedly remain strong in your stance, both of you as closed off as each other. You come to appreciate the mutual understanding you’ve reached, giving each other space, only ever making slightly critical remarks, to the point where you think you see cracks start to form in your iron shell. But iron is iron, after all.

ch. 1 -

You’re not getting better, definitely worse. Patrol is the only force beckoning you to leave your den of misery, patrol with Ellie. Not much luck there either, you return with an injured ankle and an Ellie who is slightly less awkward and icy, similar to you. Though, when you’re alone with your thoughts again, you are utterly helpless.

ch. 2 -

Progress is dwindling, regress is massive; you’ve been inside for a fucking long time, with your only motivation for getting outside off the table. The numbness is overwhelming, so the knocking goes unanswered as you merge with your mattress. You told yourself you’d leave Jackson once you can walk again. Then, Ellie breaks the door down, with a very important food delivery. She profusely apologises, but the blizzard raging outside captures your focus. She can’t get home now. Sleepover?

ch. 3 -

This chapter contains smut.

The tension is high after last night’s events. Ellie’s on her way soon after, and the consequences of her busting through your door fully set in when the woman from the infirmary manages to get inside to check if your ankle is healing well. Good news: it is. So, you can set off soon. Ellie returns, to your surprise, and she comes bearing gifts. You learn something new everyday, e.g. weed makes you and Ellie horny.

ch. 4 -

Ellie’s departure was a gentle slaughter of your heart, leaving you dazed and empty. It’s time to go. One last meeting with the people of Jackson at the party Ellie left you to help with, and you’re off, leaving nothing but a note and a confused Ellie to read it behind.

ch. 5 -

She’s searching for you, she’s desperate, and hungry, and exhausted, but she’s been worse. There’s no way she won’t find you.

ch. 6 -

This chapter contains smut.

Recovery is a slow process, but Ellie is someone you’ve historically found comfort in. Each day, she expands the bounds of that comfort, and each day, you’re sure you want to live to see another.

playlist:

[thepersonalwords]

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies

[lady-arcane]

The Shape Of God Left Unfinished :

_________________________________________

Before he was legend, he was a boy abandoned at the temple gates.

They left him at the temple like a broken offering, too afraid to name what they had made.

But even gods begin somewhere. Even monsters once had empty hands.

(A study of Sukuna, before he was Sukuna. Before the world remembered his name in fear.)

_________________________________________

He was abandoned at the temple the way people leave things at riverbanks.

Softly. Quietly. Like the act of abandoning was somehow a prayer in itself.

A last attempt.

A gentle kind of cruelty, dressed up as hope.

The villagers didn’t even accuse him out loud.

They didn’t shout curses.

They didn’t shake their fists at the sky and demand an answer for the wrongness they saw.

No — they just looked at him.

Like he was a crack across clean porcelain.

A small mistake in an otherwise perfect creation.

“He has something wrong in��him,” a woman whispered. Maybe his mother. Maybe not.

Or maybe no one spoke at all.

Maybe their silence said it better.

The monks accepted him.

Like they accepted stray dogs and broken tools and dying birds.

With open hands and quiet eyes.

Not kindness.

Not cruelty.

Just a terrible, bottomless kind of patience.

The boy was six.

Or seven.

Thin.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

When they shaved his head, he didn’t cry.

When they poured the cold wash water down his spine, he didn’t flinch.

When they gave him a name — Reien—

("Distant Flame.")

he didn’t react at all.

He just stared at the stone floor like it had whispered something to him,

in a language no one else could hear.

-----

The temple was kind.

In theory.

They rose at dawn.

Washed in silence.

Chanted in circles that never really closed.

Everything smelled like sandalwood and cold air and damp robes.

Things were clean here.

Predictable.

But Sukuna?

He was not a creature of clean things.

He learned fast.

Too fast.

By the second week, he could sit longer in meditation than boys twice his age.

By the third, he could recite the Heart Sutra backwards.

By the fourth, he could mimic the elder monks’ chants so perfectly it sounded like mockery.

Not cruel.

Not playful.

Just... empty.

One of the older monks said, almost reverently,

“He’s gifted.”

Another muttered, almost afraid,

“He’s hollow.”

Both were right.

-----

They named him Reien, but he never used it.

When called, he looked up slowly, like surfacing from somewhere deep underwater.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t play.

Didn’t cry when the other boys whispered things like

witch-child

thing with teeth

born wrong.

Once, during morning chores, a boy kicked over the water bucket Sukuna was carrying.

Sukuna just watched the water spill and said, almost conversational,

“I think people hope temples make monsters polite.”

The boy blinked at him, stunned.

Sukuna shrugged.

A soft, almost gentle movement.

“But I was never rude," he added. "Just honest.”

-----

They thought maybe structure would save him.

Routine.

Compassion.

Years of stillness pressed into the ribs of a bad thing, until maybe it softened.

It never did.

He lit the incense with perfect fingers.

Poured the tea without spilling a drop.

Knelt in the meditation hall so still he looked like a statue left behind by a god who had gotten tired of waiting.

When he whispered the sutras,

they didn’t sound like prayers.

They sounded like elegies.

Like grief, recited backward.

-----

There was one monk.

Old.

Kind.

Tired in the way that made you trust him.

He brought Sukuna extra rice on cold mornings.

Helped him knot his robes when the others wouldn't get too close.

Once, he said, with a strange sadness,

“You remind me of a bell before it rings.”

Sukuna looked up.

“You’re waiting for something,” the monk said.

“I don’t know what. But I hope it’s peace.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

But later that night, he buried the monk’s prayer beads under the snow.

Not out of malice.

Not out of disrespect.

Just because he didn’t want anyone to believe too much in rescue.

-----

Years passed.

Sukuna grew.

Not into someone better.

Just into someone more.

More silent.

More watchful.

More wrong, in ways nobody could name.

His eyes started to scare people.

He never raised his voice.

Never raised his hand.

But once, during chores, a boy shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.

Sukuna only leaned in and whispered something into the boy’s ear.

Soft. Calm. Almost kind.

No one knows what was said.

But the boy never spoke again.

-----

Sometimes, at night, Sukuna sat under the old Bodhi tree.

He would stare at the stars, muttering broken fragments of the sutras.

Not the full prayers.

Just scattered syllables.

“Form is emptiness..." he’d murmur, half-laughing.

"...emptiness is form.”

It wasn't madness.

It wasn't joy.

It was a boy telling a joke no one else understood.

-----

Once, a traveling girl came to the temple with her father, a rice merchant.

At lunch, she sat beside Sukuna and offered him a peach.

Bright-eyed. Fearless.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

Just took the peach, holding it like something he didn’t deserve.

She grinned. “I think you’re pretending to be a monk.”

That night, Sukuna didn’t sleep.

He just stared at the peach pit in his hand for hours, wondering why it made him feel anything at all.

She never came back.

And that was the first time he realized—

Even kindness leaves.

-----

The breaking didn’t happen all at once.

Not like a sword through the ribs.

Not like a shout in the night.

It was slower.

Like water over stone.

Like moss growing over something sharp.

Small cracks.

Soft erosion.

A boy watching compassion become something

quiet and useless.

-----

One winter evening, Sukuna found a dying bird in the courtyard.

Shivering.

Mouth open.

Tiny heart hammering too hard.

He sat with it for an hour.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t look away.

When it died, he buried it with his bare hands.

And for the first and only time, he whispered the full Heart Sutra over its grave —

voice low,

steady,

almost tender.

-----

Later, when the elder monk was dying of fever, Sukuna sat beside him.

The monk clutched his prayer beads like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

Through cracked lips, he asked,

“Do you believe in rebirth, Reien?”

Sukuna stared at him.

Soft-eyed. Almost gentle. 

“Maybe you’ll come back as something… softer,” the monk whispered.

Sukuna leaned closer, voice light and cruel as snowfall:

**“This is my second life. I think I was something softer before.”**

The monk wept.

-----

Sukuna left the temple not long after.

No one remembers how.

Some say he disappeared into the snow.

Some say the temple doors opened once and never closed again.

Some say he burned it all.

But here’s what’s true:

He carried the chants with him.

Not because he believed.

Not because they saved him.

But because belief was the first lie anyone ever told him.

And lies are harder to forget than gods.

_________________________________________

(The gods see not with mercy, but with memory.)

[multifamdomfan]

Hi! I'd like to request a ficlet of Rosekiller flirting, but, instead of normal flirting, they're comparing each other with obscure books.

Annotations of a War

Characters: Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr

Setting: Sixth Year, Slytherin Common Room, 1:37 A.M.

Mood: Flirtation disguised as literary warfare

Warnings: Sharp tongues, ego clashes, books as weapons of seduction

---

The Slytherin common room smelled like old parchment and smoke. Most of the students had retreated to bed, and silence reigned like a jealous queen. Only the fireplace dared make noise, its green flames flickering ominously against the stone walls. On one of the leather armchairs lounged Evan Rosier, sprawled sideways like a painting of lazy aristocracy. His shoes were off. His tie hung loose. And in his hand, an obscure book: Nihil et Aeternum: An Inquiry into Magical Futility.

Barty Crouch Jr. sat on the floor like some cursed academic monk, back against the foot of the armchair, legs stretched out, pages fluttering in the heavy copy of The Blood Ink Theorem. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour. Neither had Evan. Not because they didn’t have things to say, but because they were both waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It came, as it always did, with a sigh.

Evan yawned. Loudly. “You read like you’re trying to convince a corpse to fall in love with you.”

Barty didn’t look up. “You talk like you’re waiting for someone to be impressed by your ability to pronounce Latin with flair and absolutely no comprehension.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from the boy who annotated The Martyrdom of Mind with, and I quote, ‘finally someone understands me.’”

Barty snapped his book shut and twisted to glare at him. “At least I don’t use The Veil is a Metaphor as a personality.”

“You’re upset because I understand it,” Evan drawled. “You just liked the bit where the protagonist tried to drown his therapist in a Pensieve.”

“I liked it because it was an accurate depiction of your emotional intelligence.”

Evan’s grin was all teeth. “Admit it, Crouch. You get off on thinking you’re the smartest person in the room.”

“And you get off on being the most tragic,” Barty shot back, standing up with slow, deliberate movement. “You’re like Vesper’s Final Elegy—style over coherence, an aesthetic of suffering. And just like the book, I keep hoping I’ll find something beneath the posturing, and all I get is another empty metaphor.”

Evan stood to meet him, expression flickering between mock offense and genuine interest. “You think I’m an elegy? Darling, that’s almost poetic. Would you like to read between my lines?”

Barty stepped into his space, close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “I do read between your lines, Evan. Every sneer. Every quote you think makes you look clever. You’re desperate to be understood, but too much of a coward to admit it.”

“Oh?” Evan’s voice was a purr, sharp at the edges. “And what does that make you? A walking contradiction? Daddy’s perfect little political puppet who spends his nights translating banned Romanian blood rituals for fun?”

“At least I don’t pretend apathy while screaming for attention in footnotes.”

“I am mysterious,” Evan hissed, smiling.

“You’re a walking prologue that thinks it’s a climax.”

Evan laughed. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

“And you’re so fucking transparent.”

They stood there, the heat between them more volatile than the fire behind. There was no softness here—just barbs and brutal honesty masquerading as foreplay.

Evan’s voice dipped low. “You want to break me open like a book, don’t you?”

Barty smirked. “Only so I can highlight the parts that lie.”

For a moment, it looked like they might kill each other. Or kiss. Or both.

Instead, Evan reached over and snatched the book from Barty’s hand. Flipped it open. Scanned a page.

“You annotated this chapter with ‘agony should be efficient.’ You’re insufferable.”

Barty leaned in again, this time whispering, “You underlined an entire paragraph in On Death’s Doorstep just to write ‘me’ in the margins.”

Evan shrugged. “I have flair.”

“You have trauma.”

“You’re aroused.”

A dangerous pause.

Barty’s voice was quiet. “What if I am?”

Evan didn’t answer. He just handed the book back, his fingers brushing Barty’s with electric intent. Their eyes locked, unblinking. Challenge hung heavy between them like fog.

“I like books that bite back,” Evan said.

Barty’s smirk returned, lazy and lethal. “Then you’ll love me.”

Evan stepped back, deliberately slow. “I think I already do.”

They didn’t kiss. That would’ve been too easy. Too cliché. Instead, they returned to their books—spines cracked, pages dog-eared, tension mounting.

Their war would be long.

And beautifully written.

[therogueflame]

The Bronze Reign Chapter Seventeen - In Her Wake

hi,

...i'm sorry about this one too.

The song for this chapter is Elegy for Dunkirk by Dario Marianelli and The English Chamber Orchestra.

✨ My Masterlist ✨

🖊️My AO3 🖊️

📝 My WIP List 📝

❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

Summary: In silence, something sacred slips away, and the shape of Vysaria’s world begins to shift. What follows is not collapse, but a quiet, irrevocable turning.

WC: 4.4k

Warnings: 18+, major character death, mourning/funeral imagery, vysaria is once again a total bitch LMFAO i love her bye

previous chapter

MDNI!!!

The throne room was quiet. No courtiers. No court.

Just her—and him.

Vysaria stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the step, the green-sealed letter still clutched in her fingers. The room smelled of cold iron and scorched oil, the scent that always lingered after too much silence. Daemon was brought in under guard, still shackled, and shadowed by two knights who kept their hands close to their swords. He looked no different than the last time she had seen him: hair unkempt, eyes sharp, posture too loose for a man who should feel any shame.

The guards stepped back. Daemon looked around the empty chamber and let out a soft breath.

“I’ve missed this room,” he said.

Vysaria didn’t smile.

“You think I brought you here for nostalgia?”

“I think you brought me here because you’re done pretending I’m not necessary.”

“You murdered my husband in this room.”

Daemon met her gaze without flinching. “And yet you’re still calling on me.”

“I’m calling on the blade,” she said. “Not the man.”

That made him smirk.

“You always were good at drawing lines where they didn’t exist.”

“You’re not forgiven,” she said. “You never will be. But Otto has raised his banners. And I will not fight this war while my strongest weapon rusts in the dark.”

He stepped forward, just once, testing how close she would let him come. She didn’t retreat.

“War suits you,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “Grief does. War is just what comes next.”

Silence stretched between them. The Iron Throne loomed behind her, jagged and watching.

“Then you’ll use me?” he asked.

“I’ll use everything I have.”

A beat passed.

“Even me.”

Especially you, she didn’t say. She looked to the guards.

“Escort him from the chamber. He may dress. He may eat. But he is not to leave the Red Keep until summoned again.”

The guards moved to obey. Daemon gave her one last look. It was not angry. Not regretful. Only unreadable. As they led him away, she spoke again, her voice like ice cracking.

“Bring me the Hightower girl.”

The throne room remained still after Daemon's departure. The door had barely stopped echoing when it opened again. Alicent entered the throne room with Ser Criston trailing just a step behind, his white cloak pristine even in the dim torchlight. Vysaria’s gaze flicked to him with a faint frown.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice even, but cold. “You may go, Ser Criston.”

He hesitated, his eyes lingering on Alicent, but when she gave him a slight nod, he turned and left without a word, the door shutting softly behind him. Silence followed. Alicent stepped forward slowly, her posture as graceful as ever, her green gown sweeping across the stone floor. She didn’t bow. Vysaria didn’t expect her to.

“You summoned me,” Alicent said.

“I did.” Vysaria remained seated on the throne, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, her expression unreadable. “I find myself wondering, Alicent, how much my hospitality truly meant to you.”

Alicent’s brows knit slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“Haven’t I always treated you well?” Vysaria asked, her tone soft, almost indulgent. “I offered you comfort when you came to court. I gave you warmth, protection, a place at my table. I welcomed you as a friend, perhaps even as a sister.”

“I never asked for any of that.”

“No,” Vysaria agreed. “But I gave it freely. And in return, I expected loyalty. Not blind obedience. Just… honesty. A little trust.”

Alicent’s lips parted, but whatever retort she had faded before she could speak.

“You sent a raven to Oldtown,” Vysaria continued, her voice still calm. “Without my leave. Without a word.”

Alicent straightened. “My father deserved to know that Gwayne had died. I would not let him hear it through whispers in the wind.”

“You would not let me decide how to deliver the news,” Vysaria said, her tone sharpening. “You took that choice from me. Just as Gwayne was taken from me.”

A flicker of guilt crossed Alicent’s face, but it passed quickly, masked behind practiced composure. “Otto is my father,” she said. “He lost his son. He had a right to know.”

“And I lost my husband,” Vysaria replied, her voice turning cold. “He stood beside me as consort. As king. He was mine.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“I did what I had to,” Alicent said at last. “For my family.”

Vysaria’s lips curled into something too bitter to be called a smile. “And yet you still stand in my court, wearing my colors, living beneath my roof, dining at my table.”

Alicent didn’t flinch, but her hands folded more tightly before her.

“I will remember this,” Vysaria said softly. “I will remember what you chose.”

“And if I had told you?” Alicent asked. “If I had come to you before the raven flew—would you have let me send it?”

“No,” Vysaria said simply. “I would have told you no. And you would have had to decide if you were brave enough to defy me.”

A beat passed.

“And now I have my answer.”

Alicent’s throat worked in silence. Her gaze dropped for just a moment before lifting again.

“You still have my loyalty,” Alicent said, though the words rang softer than steel—more like a hope than a promise.

Vysaria studied her from the throne, gaze sharp and unreadable. The torchlight caught on the gold of her crown, on the black of her gown, on the green-sealed letter still resting beside her fingers.

Then, quietly, she said, “We shall see.”

She let the silence hang for a moment longer before adding, cool and final, “You are dismissed, Lady Alicent.”

Alicent lowered her head—not a bow, but something close—and turned without another word. The heavy doors closed behind her, leaving Vysaria alone in the vast, silent hall.

She did not rise immediately. The echoes faded. The fire guttered in its sconces. And for a long moment, she simply sat there, beneath the Iron Throne, with the weight of power pressing down from above—and grief curling quiet and sharp beneath her ribs.

When she finally stood, it was not to return to council. It was to see her mother.

 The queen mother’s chambers were dim, the shutters drawn against the rising sun. The scent of herbs hung in the air—lavender, camphor, and something bitter Vysaria didn’t recognize. A basin of water sat beside the bed, steam curling from its surface. One of the maesters stood nearby, quietly packing away his instruments as if the room itself were too fragile for noise.

Vysaria entered without a word. Baelon was on her hip, drowsy but awake, one small hand curled in the collar of her cloak. He looked around the room with quiet curiosity, blinking up at the maester and the soft fluttering curtains with the blank, open trust of a child who had not yet learned what death looked like.

Aemma lay propped against a mound of pillows. Her skin was pale, lips dry, eyes dark-rimmed with exhaustion—but she smiled when she saw them.

“You’ve come,” she whispered.

Vysaria crossed the room slowly, careful not to disturb the air. “Of course I have.”

The maester inclined his head. “She is resting more now. The fever has not worsened.”

“But it hasn’t broken.”

“No, Your Grace.”

Vysaria’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She sat at the edge of the bed and shifted Baelon into her lap. The boy looked up at Aemma, then reached out, babbling softly.

Aemma’s smile wavered as she brushed a trembling hand along Baelon’s cheek.

“He’s grown,” she murmured. “So fast.”

“He never stops moving,” Vysaria said. “Or talking. I don’t know where he finds the breath.”

“I remember when you were like that,” Aemma said. “You would chase your father’s boots down the corridor and refuse to sleep unless I sang the Queen’s Hymn twice.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I do.”

Her voice was thinner than before. But the warmth was still there. And the sadness, too. Baelon pressed his forehead lightly against Aemma’s hand, still reaching for her. She tried to hold him, but her arm was too weak, her grip too light. Vysaria shifted closer, guiding Baelon into the crook of Aemma’s arm, supporting both of them.

“He’ll be two soon,” Aemma whispered, her fingers curling gently into Baelon’s sleeve. “So soon.”

“Too soon,” Vysaria murmured.

Aemma looked at her then, her gaze clearer than it had been in days. “And you’ll be eighteen.”

Vysaria didn’t answer at first.

“It doesn’t feel like anything worth marking,” she said quietly.

“It is,” Aemma replied. “Even if you don’t light candles for it.”

“Is there nothing more that can be done?” she asked the maester quietly, eyes still on her mother.

“There are tonics to ease the fever. Roots to calm the breath. But the strain…” He trailed off. “Her Grace has not recovered since—”

“You can say his name,” Vysaria said, voice flat.

The maester lowered his gaze. “Since the funeral.”

Aemma’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened again. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know what’s coming.”

“No.” Vysaria’s voice was sharper than she intended. “You’re not dying.”

Aemma smiled. “You always hated being told something couldn’t be done.”

Vysaria didn’t answer.

Baelon murmured something soft and pressed closer to his grandmother’s chest.

For a moment, all three of them stayed like that—still, and close, and quietly breaking.

In the days that followed, Vysaria returned to her mother’s chambers again and again, sometimes twice in a day. She brought Baelon with her each time, letting his presence fill the dim silence with soft laughter and bright-eyed curiosity. He would press his tiny hands to Aemma’s blankets, babble at the shadows, and fall asleep curled beneath her frail arm. The maesters spoke softly and brought fresh herbs, always with the same rehearsed caution in their voices, but Vysaria no longer asked them for answers. There were none left to give. She spent hours by the bedside—reading court letters by candlelight, feeding Baelon dried fruit, sometimes saying nothing at all. She watched her mother sleep, the rise and fall of her breath growing thinner, more fragile. It became routine, almost sacred. A ritual she did not name aloud: to sit, to wait, to hold on to what little time remained.

The afternoon sun fell gently through the latticework of the queen mother’s chambers, casting soft patterns of gold across the rugs and walls. For the first time in days, the shutters had been opened wide, letting in the sea breeze and the far-off hum of a city preparing for war. But here, within these walls, the air was still.

The celebration had no name, no herald, no call to court. There were no trumpets. No feast. No dancing in the halls. Just a quiet arrangement of chairs pulled close to Aemma’s bed, a small table covered in linen, and the warmth of family gathering not to mark Vysaria’s birth, but to keep her from feeling alone on the day that marked her stepping into womanhood.

Aemma had asked for it—whispered it, more like—days before, when her voice still held strength. She wanted the windows open. She wanted her daughter’s nameday to be observed here, in the light. Not with fanfare, but with softness.

And so they came.

Rhaenys arrived first, her cloak a deep amethyst that caught faint glimmers of the sun. She stepped into the room with the quiet composure of a woman who had seen too many farewells to pretend they could be held off forever. She greeted Aemma with a kiss to her forehead and then embraced Vysaria, resting her forehead against her niece’s for a breath too long to be casual.

“Eighteen,” she murmured. “And still your eyes give everything away.”

“I’ve learned to let them,” Vysaria replied.

Corlys followed, stepping in with the stride of a man who had only just dismounted. Salt and wind clung to his hair, and his fingers still bore ink from letters half-sent. He brought no gift, but when he pressed a kiss to the top of Vysaria’s head, he whispered, “You’ve come further than most ever do. And you’re just beginning.”

Laena and Laenor arrived together, their laughter preceding them into the room like birdsong. Laena carried a tray from the kitchens: honey-drizzled pastries and sugared almonds shaped like stars. Laenor had a folded map under his arm, marked in fresh ink and creases, already soft at the corners.

Vysaria greeted them all with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but none of them asked her for more. No one mentioned the war. No one mentioned the council. No one said Gwayne’s name.

And then Daemon arrived.

He said nothing. Didn’t bow. Didn’t smile. He walked into the room as if it belonged to him—as if he had always belonged in it—and stood at the edge of the firelight, arms crossed, watching. He did not look at Aemma. Not at first.

Vysaria noticed. She said nothing.

Baelon came tumbling in moments later, chasing after one of Laena’s falling pastries, his feet clumsy on the thick rugs. He ran straight to Vysaria, nearly colliding with her legs, and laughed when she caught him beneath the arms and lifted him high.

He smelled of warm linen and honey and the lavender water the maids used on his curls. He leaned into her shoulder, whispering something only she could understand, then reached a hand toward Aemma with a soft, breathless “Nana.”

The room stilled.

Aemma, propped against a small mountain of cushions, opened her arms. Her hands trembled, but she reached for him anyway. Vysaria guided Baelon into the space beside her, gently tucking him beneath her mother’s arm. The boy curled up instantly, his head resting on her chest, small fingers tapping absently against the quilt.

“He’s grown so much,” Aemma whispered. “His face changes every time I see him.”

“He’s nearly two,” Rhaenys said softly from her seat. “Time moves whether we ask it to or not.”

Aemma smiled, but the sorrow beneath it was hard to miss. “And Vysaria... eighteen today.”

She turned her head toward her daughter. “I remember the moment they placed you in my arms. You did not cry. Not once. You looked up at me like you were already judging the world.”

“I was,” Vysaria murmured. “It didn’t impress me.”

A soft ripple of laughter moved through the room. There were gifts, eventually.

Corlys presented a seadragon pin of carved silver, simple and bold. “For when you must be both seen and obeyed,” he said.

Laenor handed over the map, rolled and tied with a thin red ribbon. “The Stormlands. I thought you’d want to see where the lines have shifted.”

Laena offered a string of glass beads, rich gold and garnet red. “For your hair,” she said. “For your days to come.”

Rhaenys gave her a cloak—deep gray, soft to the touch, lined in crimson silk. “For when you need warmth,” she said, “and cannot ask for it.”

Daemon gave nothing. He simply met her gaze once across the firelight, and when he nodded, it was not mockery. Not a smirk. Not a challenge .It was respect. 

They poured wine, eventually. Just a little. Enough to toast in quiet voices. They didn’t speak of years past or plans for the future. They told stories instead.

Laenor recalled Vysaria climbing the old tower at Dragonstone barefoot and shouting she could see the Wall from there. Laena told the tale of how Vysaria once tried to fly a saddleless pony off a stairwell, claiming it would glide like a dragon.

Even Corlys smiled, recounting how a twelve-year-old Vysaria once lectured three lords of the Narrow Sea on ship angles and trade winds—and was right. Baelon laughed without understanding, chasing shadows, climbing laps, eventually dozing with one sticky hand curled around his grandmother’s wrist.

And still, no one spoke of endings. When the sun began to dip low, one by one, they began to rise.

Corlys and Rhaenys were first. Rhaenys kissed Vysaria’s cheek. “Rule as a queen,” she said. “But live as a woman.”

Laenor and Laena followed. “We sail with the tide,” Laenor said. “But we’ll come when you call.”

Daemon was the last to leave. He lingered only a moment. Met her eyes. Said nothing. Then turned and was gone. Vysaria remained by the bed, Baelon nestled in her arms, Aemma’s hand still resting in his curls.

She did not speak. Neither did her mother. But for that moment, nothing more was needed.

The days after her nameday passed in a haze of quiet hours and fading light.

Vysaria spent nearly every waking moment in her mother’s chambers. She brought Baelon in the mornings, letting him climb across the quilts and chatter to the shadows while Aemma watched with soft, tired eyes. She stayed long after the maesters had gone, reading letters by firelight, brushing her mother’s hair in long, slow strokes, whispering fragments of old songs they both remembered.

Aemma spoke less with each passing day. Sometimes she slept for hours without stirring. Other times she would wake and simply watch Vysaria from across the bed, as if trying to memorize her one last time.

They did not speak of death. Vysaria would not allow it. And Aemma no longer needed to.

When the final night came, it arrived softly. No storm. No omen. Just the quiet crackle of the fire burning low, and the heavy stillness of a room that had seen too many sunrises.

Aemma stirred just once near dawn. Her eyes opened faintly, glassy but aware. Her hand moved across the sheets, searching. Vysaria was already there, seated beside her, fingers already reaching, already waiting. She took her mother’s hand and held it tightly.

“I’m proud of you,” Aemma whispered.

Vysaria leaned in, her voice raw and low. “You’ll see it. All of it. You’ll see everything I do.”

Aemma smiled. “I already have.”

Her breath slowed. Then stopped. For a long time, Vysaria did not move. She only sat there, her mother’s hand still cradled in hers, as the quiet settled over the room like a final curtain. Then, slowly, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to Aemma’s.

Her eyes closed. And she cried.

Not loudly. Not brokenly. But deeply—her body trembling with the kind of sorrow that made no sound, only ache. Her tears slid silently down her cheeks, soaking into Aemma’s silver hair. The heat of her grief warmed her skin, but did not wake the woman she loved. At last, Vysaria lifted her head, wiped her face with one unsteady hand, and crossed the room to the door. A guard stood waiting just beyond.

“She’s gone,” she said quietly. “Send for the maesters.”

The door shut softly behind her as she turned back to the room. The fire was burning low. The sky beyond the window had begun to pale.

And Aemma Arryn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was gone.

The maesters came in silence. They arrived before sunrise, cloaks still damp with dew, their hands steady and reverent as they prepared the queen mother’s body. Vysaria did not watch. She remained seated by the fire, her face unreadable, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

She had not spoken another word since telling the guards. There was nothing left to say. The sun climbed slowly, dull gold across a city that seemed to hold its breath. In the courtyard below, preparations began. Torches were lit. Black banners were drawn from the towers. Cloaks were fastened. Bells were readied.

By midmorning, the tolling began.

Their deep, sonorous chimes echoed from every tower, every dome, every gate of the Red Keep. They rang for the queen who had ruled quietly, steadily, through joy and through sorrow—and who had passed without spectacle. The city held its breath beneath the weight of mourning.

In the Dragonpit, the pyre had been built high. Cedar and myrrhwood, hewn and stacked with sacred oils and folded silks. The air smelled of smoke already, thick and cloying, clinging to skin and hair and memory. Flowers had been scattered across the stone in silence—white lilies, winter roses, and pale blue skyblossoms. All her favorites. All fading.

Aemma’s body lay atop the pyre, wrapped in soft silks of cream and grey, her hair loose and combed, her hands crossed over her chest. A simple silver band adorned her brow. No crown. No burden. Vysaria stood at the front of the gathered crowd, draped in deep black, her veil pulled back. She did not weep. Not now. Not where the court could see her. But her jaw was tight, her hands clenched at her sides.

Beside her stood Baelon. He was too young to understand, but not too young to notice. His small hand clutched hers tightly, and when the bells rang again, he flinched but did not cry. His silver curls were neatly brushed. He wore a tiny black cloak. He stared at the pyre, wide-eyed.

Rhaenys stood behind Vysaria’s left shoulder, tall and still. Corlys beside her, his face carved from stone. Laena and Laenor stood near, silent in mourning. Ser Harrold and the rest of the Queensguard formed a line of white along the outer edge of the procession. Lyman Beesbury. Lord Redwyne. Lady Staunton. Every house still loyal, every knight still present, stood beneath the sky with bowed heads.

Even Alicent. She wore dark green, a thick veil drawn over her hair. Her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles had gone white.

And Daemon stood apart, but not distant. He was dressed in black from shoulder to boot, his face unreadable. He did not look at the fire. He watched Vysaria.

A quiet wind stirred the edge of her cloak.

Above them, Vermithor circled. The bronze wings swept once, twice, before he descended into the pit with a crack of air and stone. Helanded with a thunderous crack of wings and stone, his bronze scales catching the light of the setting sun. He lowered his head, smoke curling from his nostrils, waiting.

Vysaria stepped forward. Baelon’s hand slipped from hers, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on the pyre. On the shape of her mother. On the stillness that had not moved in days.

She opened her mouth to speak—but the words caught in her throat.

Her hand trembled at her side. She tried again.

“Dra—”

Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, her eyes stinging, tears slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them. Baelon whimpered behind her, sensing the change in her, but she couldn’t look back. She took a breath, chest rising sharply, and tried again.

“Dracarys.”

Still too soft. Vermithor did not move. The pyre remained untouched.

Vysaria clenched her fists at her sides. Her jaw trembled. Her shoulders rose with another breath—shaky, unsteady.  She took one final step toward the pyre, lifted her chin, and through the tears, through the shaking, through the ache that had hollowed her from the inside out, she gave the command once more.

“Dracarys.”

This time, Vermithor answered. The fire roared forth, hot and violent, crashing into the pyre like the wrath of gods. The silks vanished in a heartbeat. The wood cracked and split. The air filled with heat and smoke and ash. The flame swallowed her mother.

The fire still roared.

Wood cracked, silk curled into ash, and the scent of burning myrrhwood clung to every breath. The court stood in silence, heads bowed, the flame reflecting in their eyes.

But Vysaria did not move. She stood closest to the pyre, still in black, her face streaked with tears she no longer tried to wipe away. Her jaw was tight. Her hands clenched. Her mother was gone, and she had been the one to give the order. She had spoken the word herself. And now she stood in the heat of it, letting the fire touch her without flinching.

Footsteps came softly behind her. She did not turn. She didn’t need to.

Daemon stopped just beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the flame reflected in her eyes.For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, in High Valyrian. 

 “Iksā kostōba”  You are strong.

She didn’t look at him. Her voice was hoarse.

“Nyke jorrāelatan ñuha muña.”  I loved my mother.

“Nyke gīmigon” I know. 

A pause.

“Jaelzi nyke naejot pryjagon,” she said. They want me to break. 

Daemon glanced at her, eyes shadowed. “Nyke gīmigon.”

She looked down at her hands, still trembling.

“Nyke jeldan tolī jēda.” I wanted more time. 

He didn’t respond. The fire snapped. Vermithor let out a low, quiet sound—something between a growl and a breath. Vysaria finally turned to look at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, but steady.

“Skoro syt issi ao kesīr?” Why are you here?

He held her gaze.

“Syt ao.” For you.

They stood like that for a moment—two creatures of smoke and sorrow, watching the last of the pyre collapse. The heat had begun to fade, but the weight remained. Heavy. Final.

No one approached them. No one dared.

Around them, the fire crackled lower. Ash began to drift. And slowly, as if the moment had stretched too long for mortal hearts to bear, the court began to move.

One by one, they slipped away—nobles, knights, courtiers, even the septons. Cloaks rustled. Boots whispered over stone. The bells tolled one final time.

But Vysaria did not move.

And neither did Daemon.

They stayed long after the last cloak vanished through the gates, long after the voices had faded and only the fire remained, licking low at blackened wood.

Ash curled around their boots. The air was thick with smoke, salt, and something heavier.

Her eyes never left the flame. She watched the last flickers die, the cedar bones collapse inward.

Daemon remained silent beside her.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but steady.

“Have the council summoned.”

Daemon turned slightly, brows low, but said nothing.

She didn’t look at him. She stepped away from the pyre—slowly, deliberately—her black cloak trailing through the ash, the wind tugging at its hem. Daemon followed, his footsteps close behind. And behind them, the fire finally went out.

All roads lead to war. Read ahead on AO3 (Ch 1-21).

[front-facing-pokemon]

Not a pokemon but..Can we get the elegy of emptiness from Majora's Mask?

okay i was worried this would happen. am i going to have to move "i don't take requests, it was an april fools joke" to the TOP of the FAQ instead of the bottom. guys. guys. this is why i had asks closed for like three days

also,

this happens to me a lot with retrofit evos and prevos. i understand why they're ordered the way that they are but sometimes it does feel a little arbitrary. i think it would be cool if they ordered the natdex in like. the order the pokémon were designed/conceptualized. that'd be pretty cool

anyway. still don't do requests. if you came here from all the april fools jokes, those were april fools jokes. this blog runs on a queue and that is how it has always been and i do not do requests except on april fools

[thy-valhallen]

Batfam Voices as Instruments

Batfam voices as instruments bc i think of things very musically and it struck me others don't

Bruce: bass guitar. he's low and deep and when he speaks, you feel it in your eardrums, straight into your jaw. his words are like injections into your skull, feel intense and impossible to ignore-- but he has softer moments, too. quiet, gentle plucking of strings, the careful, slow strums of a man who plays only for the ears who will know what the notes will mean

Alfred: viola. slightly deeper than a violin, but mostly just warmer. a voice you hear and want to hum along to, a voice that sits in your ears before it sinks into your chest. it's gentle and sways with grace across strings and notes, it plays a harmony that supports and compliments, that is a steady through-line for everything that surrounds it

Dick: trumpet. brassy and loud and present and fuck do you KNOW when he's in the room. he's so bright and warm and MEANT to be heard. you hear him in your heart, every time he speaks, feel it deep in every vein like he's writing gospel into your DNA. and usually it's jazzy, it's excitement and riffs and improv and leaping off the page and doing cartwheels across a music staff-- but he's just as capable of whispersoft confessions of heartbreak and loss in D minor, can let loose a lament of all he's lost in an elegy of epic proportions

Barbara: harp. a challenging instrument to understand and play, and one she plays with ease. she is plucking strings with careful fingertips, strums across them all with a single hand. she's a melody that glides past your ears, a song that doesn't sink in-- if you're not paying attention to the hooks that latch into your brain. she is careful compositions and sweeping songs arranged for each audience with care. yet when she feels wrath, she shreds herself to make sure you feel it-- she takes scissors to her own strings to cut deeper than the song could alone

Jason: cello. deep and contemplative, with a sort of vibration that bites into your bones from the moment he opens his mouth. waxing poetic is his native tone, and it sounds like a bow dancing across strings and fingers traversing the frets like they were made for it, a soothing melody that could be a lullaby. when fury comes, the sound alone is so sharp where it's settled into your joints that you can't fight back; it's vicious strokes across the strings that shred the bow's hairs without care, wrath in every pull like it's a sword. he can settle into the orchestra or he can sweep them all offstage to stand alone against the conductor that dared to direct him

Cass: marimba. light and soft and so very deliberate. all those bars close together, and each hit with precision, because when Cass speaks, each sound and syllable is effort and choice and control. she is range and gentle dancing note to note and a sound that settles on your skin like a gentle rain, clinging and soft and so very present. to hear it is to hear if a storm could sing and serenaded the sky it calls home. she is echoing in an empty room until she fills it herself (i think of this specifically)

Tim: piano. it's all about the force put into it-- he can be the most careful, calculated guy in the room, playing with all the rigor and rigid professionalism of a NY Symphonic pianist. but the real Tim is the one who's fingers flutter playfully over the keys, who's voice cracks from laughter and sleep deprivation and stress, who trembles between octaves as his fingers tire but makes the leap anyway. he is clear ringing notes in a crowded room and rambling words like a glissando back and forth across the ivories, he is a song quiet enough to fall to the background but a complex and delicate tune if you care to listen

Steph: drum kit. she is all intensity and living in the moment and sharp impacts and a beat that never stops, never waits for the rest. she can get lost to the rest of the voices in a room, but you'll never shake that she's in your head, that her voice is there and present and presses against the base of your skull like it wants to worm straight in. she's rhythm and motion and changing things up just to do it; her voice hops from the snares to the bass to the snares and back to bass and never lets you think between notes, she's moving so fast, because it's all her, nothing she ever has to question, even if she makes you question with every slam on the cymbal

Damian: violin. he is careful in his every motion, ever meticulous with all he does; he lives in fear of being out of tune, of off-key notes for a long time, and so each one is practiced and known to the point of monotony. but over time, he thaws and the notes become more loose, more free-- he speaks less like his eyes are glued to the page, furiously tracking each note he'll play and more like the natural he is-- he becomes sharper in a different way than the rest of him, notes out of place that jut from the rest and it's okay that they do, a hum of songs that don't follow classic melodies and don't feel the need to. don't mistake it though-- his voice has always been as regal and pointed as the rest of him was raised to be, and his voice grabs both your ear and your eyes, dragging you to look at him, for him to be seen and noticed and given attention

Duke: saxophone. he is deep and rich and resonating. his voice is emotion and expression and honesty. his voice sits on your tongue because hearing him makes you want to speak, want to talk and chat and ramble with him, to reply to his melody with any harmony to match. he is a voice meant to be heard by many, who may not stand out in a room naturally but makes himself stand out by the passion in his voice. he is a slow, experimental hand that plays notes with hesitance until the rhythm hits him and suddenly, it's a melody of energy and power and a presence that he doesn't even know he has

[halloweenbitch2764]

How You Meet

Slenderman

Growing up, you had always been told to avoid the woods at the local park. Your father told you stories of a monster that hunted children in them. A horrible creature lacking any facial features and being as tall as the trees himself. You always felt an almost pulling sensation when around the woods, trying to get you into them. Never did you set foot into them, though.

Being older, you realized it was just a scare tactic to keep you out of them. Your father had likely not wanted you to go and get hurt. It was easier to watch you on the playground. Still, your relationship with the forest was complicated. You weren't necessarily scared of them, but you were weary.

After a rough day of work, though, you decided to go for a walk. You had driven past the park but decided to double back. After parking, you sat and stared at the trees for a moment. You parked and got out, heading into the heart.

The walk started off well. The birds chirping and dirt beneath your feet helped you relax. You nearly forgot your fear of the forest. Nearly. Until you felt eyes on you. You looked around, and nobody was there. Of course not. You hadn't seen anybody.

Suddenly, a sharp stabbing started at your temples as a headache set in. Great. Just what you needed. Surely, it was a side effect of such an awful day. You failed to notice how silent the forest had fallen. You felt something wet on your lip and saw a couple of blood drops meet the dirt.

You reached up to attempt to stop it as your mind became more fuzzy and clouded. You looked around, wondering if there was a source when you saw it. The same tall, featureless creature that you thought your dad had made up.

It was at least 8 feet tall, thin, had a suit and red tie, and a snow white, featureless face. Your eyes widened with shock, and you stumbled back. You caught yourself and turned before booking it out of the forest. The blood gushed from your nose, and you focused on just getting out of there.

You got to your car and got into your car, high tailing it out of there. You were so focused that you didn't notice said figure watching you speed away.

BEN Drowned

A new video game, how exciting. Even if it was probably a bootleg copy. Better than nothing.

You were a college student, and in being one meant you couldn't really afford much of anything. You had brought your N64 and some games with you, but you wanted some new games. So you started finding garage and yard sales to try and find some new games.

The first couple you went to were busts. But then you found a copy of Legend of Zelda Majora's Mask. One of your favorite childhood games. The label had been taken off, and the name was written in Sharpie on the front. Still, something was better than nothing. The old man who sold it to you didn't seem like someone who would have such a game. Maybe it was his grandchilds? You didn't put too much thought into it and continued on your search for some other games.

When you got back to your dorm, you booted up your console and noticed the first save file was named BEN. 'Guess it was his grandsons.' You thought before picking the second save file.

You played the game and decided to do a cheat to avoid the moon crashing into Hyrule so quickly. Soon enough, things started to go awry. The Elegy of Emptiness was randomly summoning and following you around. You would glitch to the Skull Kid fight and get set on fire, and then die. Or it would just glitch to show Link dead on the ground by Skull Kid.

The Happy Mask Vendor was also just doing some weird stuff. Then, the game would refer to you as BEN. "What the fuck?" You mumbled. Sure, you figured the game was going to be a little fucked up. But this?

After another death, the screen went black, and "YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT" flashed on the screen. You rubbed your temples as you tried to comprehend everything that was happening.

"BEN WANTS TO PLAY" flashed next and was the final straw. You turned the game off at the console and tried to turn on something to help creep you out less.

Eyeless Jack

Everything had started off relatively normally. Well, as normal as it could be considering a kidney eating maniac was ravaging the town you lived in.

It was on every news broadcast even when there were no new updates. You sighed and turned the television off as you got ready for bed. You checked your doors and windows to make sure they were locked, considering the situation at hand. Then you went to your room and got ready for sleep.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't scared about the killer. Your town had been relatively peaceful until he came. You closed your blinds and double-checked that you had your knife under your pillow. It was just a kitchen knife, but it helped ease your nerves. You dressed in your pajamas and crawled into bed.

You had had a pretty busy day, so you slipped away to sleep fairly fast.

You woke up to the pitch blackness of your room (save for a small nightlight by your bed and the door). Initially, you didn't understand why you woke up. Usually, you slept through the night without waking up.

Your body shifted, and you locked eyes with...a lack of eyes. The person above you had a mask with blacked out eye sockets and a tar like substance that cascaded down the mask. There wasn't a mouth on the mask, and the person was dressed in all black.

Before you could scream, a gloved hand pressed itself over your mouth to stop you. You slowly moved your hand to try and reach the knife under your pillow without alerting the person.

"Don't even think about it." A rough voice commanded and before you could say something he had jumped off of you and ran towards the window he came in from. You felt frozen, just staring at the doorway, before you got up and found which window he used to get in. You closed and locked it, adrenaline slowly subsiding.

Hoodie

You had just started at a new college, and the butterflies were in full effect. You had moved to a new area to go to the college because they had a great program for film. Which meant you didn't know anybody. You hoped you would make at least one.

You walked into the building and sat down in the class. You set your backpack beside the desk and pulled your notebook out. You started making small doodles in the margin of the very back page when you heard someone clear their voice beside you.

When you looked to the person, it was a man. He was fairly tall, had sandy dirty blonde hair, a mustache, and had a yellow hoodie on. "Hey, is this seat taken?" He asked and motioned to the seat next to you. "Oh! No, it's empty. You can take it." He smiled at you, and the butterflies worsened. He wasn't bad looking at all. "So, are you new here? I haven't seen you in these kinds of classes before." You nodded.

"Yeah, I just moved here for school. Don't really know anybody in the area yet." You confessed, and he gave a smile as he nodded. "Well, I can give you a tour of campus." He offered. You smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that sounds nice." He nodded in response, "I'm Brian, by the way. And you are...?" "I'm Y/N." You introduced yourself. "Nice to meet cha." After some small chit chat, the teacher came in.

After the class was done, you both packed up and grabbed your bags before heading out. After a bit, he had shown you around the fairly small campus, and he smiled at you. "I gotta get to my next class, but we should hang out later. You can meet my friends if you want." You smiled brightly and nodded, and the two of you parted ways.

Masky

You had been struggling with your mental health as far back as you can remember. In and out of different therapists and then psychiatrists. Nobody seemed to know what was wrong with you, but they decided on schizophrenia. You wondered if you'd be able to get the prescriptions. Your pharmacy had been a bit weird with refills lately. You were walking in when you collided with someone. You fell back and landed on your butt.

You looked up and were met with a man who appeared to be late 20s or early 30s. He had dark brown hair, sideburns, and matching eyes. He smelled of cigarette smoke and was wearing an off-yellow jacket, black t-shirt, and jeans. He had initially seemed annoyed before he softened and offered you a hand.

You took it and stood up, brushing any debris off your rear end. "Hey, I'm really sorry about that. I wasn't even paying attention." He apologized, and you smiled. "It's alright. I should have been paying more attention anyway."

He chuckled and shrugged a bit. "Well, can I take you out to coffee sometime? As a way to apologize." Normally, you would deny such an offer, but he was pretty cute. "Oh sure." You felt the heat rush to your cheeks. You grabbed a piece of paper and pen and wrote your number down, handing it to him. "Oh, what's your name, by the way? I'm Y/N." You smiled. "I'm Tim."

"Well, nice to meet you, Tim. I gotta go to my appointment but I'll talk to you soon?" He nodded in agreement and the two of you parted ways.

Jeff The Killer

You had known Jeff before the incident, though you hadn't been close. You had gone to school with him. Rumors of what happened spread like wildfire across town. You felt bad for him, of course, but life moved on. From the rumors you heard, he wasn't even in town anymore.

Years passed, and you were in college, staying in your own apartment in a nearby town. You had forgotten about Jeff until a news segment came up while you were cooking dinner.

"Breaking news! An unidentified man has killed two people by stabbing so far in T/N. No witnesses were at the scenes, and his appearance is unknown. Lock your doors and windows and stay vigilant."

You watched the TV curiously as you stirred the pot on the stove. "That's not good." You mumbled. You left the pot to simmer while you went around and double-checked all your doors and windows were locked. You kept a knife under your pillow normally anyway (for safety reasons).

Your night continued normally, and the news segment drifted to the back of your mind. You cleaned up and got ready for bed as usual. You laid down, and soon enough, you drifted off.

You awoke suddenly, though, unsure why. It didn't take long to figure out you were being watched. A man stood beside your bed and watched you sleep. The dark made it hard to make out any specific features. You could only make out shaggy, dark hair, and his lips looked abnormally long.

Before anything could happen, he dashed out of the room and into your living room. You grabbed your knife and attempted to chase him, but he was gone when you got to your living room. The only evidence left was the open window and curtains blowing in the breeze.

Laughing Jack

Your sister/brother had a sudden emergency come up and needed you to watch your niece, Lily. You didn't mind watching her. In fact, she was a pretty sweet little girl, around 4 years old. She was shy around most people except for you and her immediate family.

Soon enough, your sister/brother dropped Lily off along with some clothes and stuffed animals. You started playing a board game with Lily after her mom/dad left. It started off normally. You let Lily keep winning, and suddenly, you noticed she was staring behind you.

You raised your eyebrow at her behavior and looked behind you. Of course, nothing was there. Not that you could see. Lily continued staring before she giggled. "Lily, what are you looking at?" You questioned.

She stopped staring to look at you and grinned. "My friend, Jack!" Ah, an imaginary friend. A soft smile came to your lips. "Yeah? What's Jack like?" You pressed curiously. "He's a super, really tall clown! He's black and white colored." She described him to you, and you nodded. "He gives me candy sometimes. Well, he tries to. But mommy/daddy takes it from me every time." She frowned slightly.

"Ah, is that right? Well, maybe I can spare some candy after dinner. How does that sound?" She grinned once again at the offer. Suddenly, she seemed to be paying attention to Jack.

She giggled and went back to playing the game with you. You brushed off the incident, figuring your sister/brother already knew about it, and continued with the game. Soon enough, she got bored and headed to the guest bedroom to play with her stuffed animals.

It didn't take long for her to start giggling, and you could tell she was talking to someone (though you couldn't tell what she was talking about). Soon, she walked out with her stuffed dog in her hand and her other hand in a loose fist. "Jack said I should give you this. He wants to thank you for giving me candy since he can't."

She opened her hand, and she had a small bar/bag of your favorite candy in it. You had no idea how she had gotten the candy. You had finished your candy off a couple of days earlier and were positive there wasn't any left. 'Maybe she had some already on her.' You rationalized and took it from her.

"Well, you tell Jack that I said thank you." She giggled and nodded before going back to the guest bedroom.

[mostmagical]

He's alone. After all, he's always been alone, and he's always been good at it. (Chat Blanc poem)

.

Rating: T Words: 847 Additional Tags: Angst; Grief/Mourning; Suicidal Thoughts; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

Read on Ao3

Alone.

He’s always been alone, for as far back as he can see.

Tonight is no different, beneath the hollow of what was the moon, or

at least, he thinks it to be tonight, despite the bleak, empty sky.

There was a moment, some seconds, a brief and fleeting time,

in which, for a bit, he hadn’t been in that aching solitude.

Marinette— chère Ladybug, with her love and warming hugs,

she had held onto him— tight for dear life— as she cried,

and he felt the pull, the hook, tugging along his ventricle.

Alone.

He would never let her be alone, for he would always be there.

He’d swore it before, and he swore it again then once more.

By her side, he would be sword and shield, to both her body

and heart, cage it from the icy loneliness that hangs overhead.

It was fine; they were well, or so he had thought, but,

love isn’t meant for him; it had all been for naught.

For when they believed it to be won, that’s when

it all came crashing, shattering, in the guise of his mom.

Alone.

Oh, how he had felt so alone since she’d gone.

Daily lessons spent with Nathalie were long and lonely,

until Mère walked into the room, and time stretched, with

a simple smile, and loneliness fled, peeling the edge of

rose-colored everything, with warm eyes and flaxen hair.

He loved her, loved her so much, the hook akin to an anchor,

and so when he saw her, asleep in that casket, it dragged,

disturbing his heart’s fragile riverbed and feeble shoals.

Alone.

That small part of him had accepted she left him alone,

but to see her there, time stopped at once, reality split.

She had never left, she’d been— she was here, all along,

just waiting, sleeping, or suspended, just under his home.

The call of “Adrien—” in his voice cut like the sharpest knives,

scoring old and newer scars, with “for us” used as though

there had been so much of an “us” in the entire year that

Emilie had been gone, and they, the two, were both—

Alone.

From there it’s a blur— a hit, a smash, a bleed,

tears burning his eyes, over things he can’t yet see.

His father, his father, there, with an outstretched hand,

begging, pleading, words falling on aching ears of

guilt, so much guilt, and plays on his deepest fears.

He had screamed out “Stop it, stop it!” louder than ever,

but still— and yet— for Père, it would never be enough.

And then he— He couldn’t, he hadn’t known what to do.

Alone.

How could he act, knowing, again, he would be all alone?

But still, it didn’t matter; he ruins everything he touches.

Emotional, reactive, he was bound— meant— to lose all control.

Tears stream down now, over masked and rounded cheeks,

and he wonders How could I, how could I do this?

If only he were stronger, if only he could bear the weight,

then, perhaps, he could have saved her, saved everything,

and their love would be enough to keep him from being so—

Alone.

Perhaps, or maybe— maybe, yes, it’s better this way.

He stares down at his hand, white pulse of destruction,

and for a moment, he thinks Maybe, maybe more than a moment.

But his chest, it pounds, heart beating heavier, heavier,

and his breaths quicken, his lungs burning drier, drier.

His palm thrusts down on the concrete, to splinters and cracks.

It crumbles to decay, splashing to the endless sea, née Paris,

rippling for seconds that pass, then over, silent, it all glasses.

Alone.

As silence reigns louder in his ears, he’s reminded, again.

He’s never felt it stronger than now, staring, staring—

He thinks he can see down to the lifeless, very bottom.

The water’s yet murky, but it’s unstirring, so placid.

It looks so quiet, quiet enough that he could rest,

and he’s so tired, tired of it all and everything.

So he wonders, should he lay there, curled in the substrate,

the knight at his fallen Lady’s feet, prostrated, repentant? 

Alone.

After all, without her, he’s worse than nothing—

A speck, a wreck, nothing but emotional waste.

His heart, it pulls, forevermore towards her—

It’s physical, it’s aching, bleeding and pussing,

as though there’s a hole clean through his chest.

He drops to his knees as he cries, fists clenched,

salt-tasting tear tracks stinging reddened skin,

as he remembers how unfit he is to fix anything.

Alone.

He can feel it, everything looming down over him,

stalactite of sorrow aimed directly between pointed ears.

Behind the bars of his bedroom, it’s formed over mere

years of his own heart, exposed, unprotected and bare,

with solitude and loneliness, armed weapons of pain.

He can’t keep anyone close, he can’t keep them in sight;

he always finds a way to hurt them, soon in time,

so it’s better he’s learned now, to keep to himself.

He deserves this, it’s true, more than anything else.

…and so, now, Chat Blanc is—

alone.

[songbird-and-her-fos]

Dance Lessons

Emmrich/F!Rook

Emmrich likes to indulge in the finer arts, including dance, and wants to share this with Rook. Sadly, Rook has little confidence in her dancing abilities

-

A quiet day at the Lighthouse. Lyrei “Rook” Ingellvar didn’t know what drew her to the small hidden room with the big piano, but she found herself there nonetheless. There were so many more enjoyable things she could spend her time with, she told herself, so why come here? Perhaps it was the instrument itself that attracted her to this seldom visited corner of the Lighthouse; Rook loved music, though she had never had the opportunity to learn to play. So her fingers only lightly grazed the ivories, never truly pressing any of them hard enough to produce a sound.

She missed music. Be it the lengthy elegies written for funerals back in Nevarra or lively drinking songs filling the air of taverns; she hadn’t heard any of that in way too long a time.

Hadn’t Bellara discovered an ancient Elven music box not too long ago? Just as Rook resolved to ask about it soon, someone entered the room.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, dearest. I’ve been looking for you.”

She turned around, her face lighting up with a smile. “Emmrich.”

He held up the artifact in his hands. “I asked Bellara if she would let us borrow her music box; there’s something I want us to try with it.” He placed it on a nearby table. “I had at first considered trying to teach Manfred how to play the piano for us; he was very interested, but I think he needs to focus on his magic training for the time being.”

“Now you’re making me curious”, Rook said cheerfully. “Don’t keep me in suspense like that!”

“My darling, have you ever tried dancing?”

Rook bit her lip. “I haven’t. I’m not sure I would be any good at it, to be honest.”

Emmrich stretched out his arms to pull her against him. “Nonsense. I see how you move in battle; you are a born dancer if I’ve ever seen one.”

Her eyes flitted about the room, for the first time trying to look at anything but him. “I don’t want to embarrass myself; especially not in front of you.”

Emmrich leaned forward and kissed her. “I would never judge you, you know that. Come, we'll start with a simple waltz. Without music, so you can get a feeling for the steps first.”

Rook hesitated for a moment, but found herself unable to say no to him. Not when he was so excited at the prospect of dancing with her. “...Okay, but I take no responsibility for any damage done to your toes.”

“Marvelous! It's easy, really.” He placed one hand on her waist and took hers with the other. “Start by taking a step forward with your left foot, then a sideways step with your right foot…”

This “simple waltz” felt anything but simple at first. She executed the steps just as Emmrich instructed, but kept losing the rhythm and felt her face heat up every time she stumbled. Just when she was about to ask if it was time to stop, Emmrich paused.

“Rook, my dearest, you are way too stiff. Relax. Don’t worry too much about executing every step perfectly. Just focus on me.”

Rook took another deep breath. “Focus on you. Okay. I can do that.” She concentrated on his eyes, gentle and loving as ever. No trace of judgement or annoyance. He moved, and she followed, her mind easing to a pleasant emptiness that left space for the two of them, and nothing else. She barely noticed when his hand slightly moved and the music box began playing. It was an ancient Elven song, a far cry from modern ballroom music, but it still flowed into their movements like a guiding breeze. That was her entire world in this moment; music and movement… and Emmrich, smiling at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“I knew you could do it.” Delight lit up his eyes.

“What can I say? I have an excellent teacher.”

Step by step, they twirled through the room, allowing themselves to get lost in the moment. One, two, three…

Emmrich’s hoarse chuckle slightly pulled her from her thoughts. “You are absolutely beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards. “Says the stunning man in front of me.”

He laughed, and her heart did a little flip.

The song slowly fizzled out, and with a final spin, Emmrich, kissed her and then rested his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

“And I love you. And… thank you for teaching me how to dance. Maybe we can do this more often?”

“Whenever you like, my dearest.”

[fricc-darn]

HEEYYAAA it's me again with the cross-over asks 😋😋😋 Soo lately I've been getting a little (A LOT) into the linked universe AU, and along side with that, I found out about the self aware au! (Which is basically where Link from any game realizes that he's in a game and there's someone controlling them, which mostly results to them messing completely with the game to communicate and then breaking the screen to be able to be with the player/reader) What would be B. E. N's reaction to that?? Would they get some flashbacks from the cartridge (or even from themselves)???

Hii! To be quite honest, I don't know much about the Linked Universe or the self-aware au, but I definitely get the gist of the latter!

If Link became conscious in the ARG, it would be during the early stages of when the Eternity Project was experimenting with digitization! All of that messing around with the code must've clicked something in his brain. Slowly, Link realizes things are getting weirder. The NPCs aren't acting by their usual programming, and the Elegy of Emptiness is following him around.

However, because of how the game resets, Link doesn't remember everything, only bits and pieces. The only thing he can remember is a heart-sinking dread that something bad is happening. During the time frame of when Link becomes self-aware, there's only a handful of people in the cartridge. It is also before Jad gets his hands on the game. Meaning it is just Kelbris (The Father), Ben, and BEN in the world.

Link isn't one to judge, but he does not get good vibes from certain characters, the Moon Children especially. They're off-putting. Link says/does nothing for two reasons.

One: He won't go antagonizing people based on a hunch. Besides, many of the characters he feels this way about are very cordial! He feels bad for feeling such a way.

Two: He hasn't seen them do anything bad. Only weird behavior, like being in the wrong area or talking freely. To his knowledge, these characters discuss nothing questionable.

Another thing to note is that, at this time, BEN has limited sentience (similar to Link). The members of the hive mind are aware and angry even if they tend to fall in line with their programming. They also know Link isn't supposed to be free-roaming, since there's no one who ascended that got his body.

The group keeps an eye on Link. Be nice; he may be of good use. A key to escape. They also have to play it safe; they're weak at this stage, and who knows what would happen if they died again?

The rage and malicious tendencies eventually boil over. We know once BEN gains full consciousness, everything goes from bad to worse.

When Jad gets the game, Link is at the point where he realizes the statue that's been following him around isn't a threat. That the statue is trying to talk to him. Link and Ben's attempts at communicating with Jad don't go too well. Link can only communicate when he isn't being controlled, and no one can understand what Ben is saying.

Now there's a new issue: BEN is tampering with their attempts at communication and stealing Ben's identity. I feel like BEN would try to get rid of Link indirectly!