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slothquisitor · 11 months

Text

Sever

In which Gortash dies, and Karlach rages, and everyone wonders if revenge is really the right answer. Also, shout out to my fellow folks with complicated family situations. This one is for you. Astarion x Liv, 5.5k, mostly angst.

Also on AO3.

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Liv stares down at Gortash’s still-warm body and wonders when she became so comfortable with death. The first time she had ever seen a dead body had been when her sister had died, but she hadn’t been the one personally responsible for the death of another until she had been on that mindflayer ship. She knew, of course, that all of her magic, her studies, could be used in this way. But it is one thing to summon a flame and hold that warmth in her hand and another entirely to see the burnt corpse in the aftermath.

She remembers those first few weeks in the wilderness, killing gnolls and goblins and cultists, the way she would sneak away to retch after every fight. No one had noticed, or if they had, they simply hadn’t mentioned it. Until one day, with the adrenaline rush from the fight fading, she found she didn’t need to step away. And now, as she stands over Gortash’s body, she realizes she feels…not sadness, not exactly. Instead, it’s more a sense of waste.

There’s no sense of victory when she pries the netherstone gauntlet from his hand. Though the Emperor’s voice is full of it inside her head. But this isn’t like when they rescued the Gondians and Duke Ravenguard. This isn’t like killing Ketheric Thorm and watching the shadow curse recede. It’s justice, of a sort, but it doesn’t feel victorious.

Karlach is beside her, having dealt the final blow with her halberd. Gortash’s blood still stains the blade, and Liv can feel the heat radiating from her friend. It always takes a few moments for Karlach’s rage to fade after battle, but this is different. She’s somehow heating up. She’s about to ask how she’s doing when Karlach speaks.

“So Gortash is nothing more than a pile of flesh, same as the rest of us.” She’s staring down at his unmoving body, orange eyes filled with rage and grief and ten lost years. “I feel like there should be a sunset for me to ride off into. Or an orchestral swell…or something .”

Karlach finally meets her gaze. “But there’s nothing is there? I killed the bastard who ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die. Am I fucking missing something? I can’t do it anymore. Ten years, man. It’s enough. It’s enough. He’s dead and he’s no fucking sorrier now than he was before. What was the point? I’m still dying. I’m dying. I’m going to die.”

Liv feels just as helpless, just as out of her depth as when Astarion killed Cazador. Gortash deserved to die, but Karlach is right: killing him didn’t make him sorry for what he did. “We’re going to figure out your engine problem, Karlach. There’s got to be a way.”

“Got a miracle in your back pocket you forgot to tell me about?” Karlach shakes her head. “I’m going to be as dead as Gortash any day now. Any moment. And what then? Off to the city of Judgement to waste into oblivion? Into the dirt to get eaten by maggots? Is that it for me? Is that fucking all?”

Liv flinches back as Karlach flares, heat radiating dangerously. “And you, you’ll just keep going, won’t you? Watching the stars. Reading your books. Drawing, eating, making fucking love all night - all of it. All of it.” The fire burns white hot and bright. “That’s my reward for everything I suffered. That’s why I survived years of torment. The fighting, the clawing, the loneliness, the fucking loneliness …All of it so I could rot. Because the person I trusted the most gave me away to the devil!”

And just as quick as it came, the flames diminish, banked by grief. Karlach begins to cry, face covered by her hands. “It isn’t fair. I don’t want it like this.”

Liv doesn’t want it like this either. Karlach’s anger feels different, somehow more distant than anyone else’s. There aren’t words to reach it. While she rages, screams, and yells about the unfairness, Liv has nothing to offer. Nothing that might close that distance, that might save her this. Gortash is dead, and it doesn’t matter because Karlach is still dying. Her heart still cannot survive in this plane, and it doesn’t matter what foes they defeat or if the city is saved, Karlach still won’t be. Liv fights the tears that threaten to fall. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. I hate this for you.”

Karlach wipes at her eyes. “I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to stay. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Liv steps closer, showing her that she’s not afraid, and that she’s not alone. “I don’t know. I want you to stay too.” She extends her arms and isn’t surprised when Karlach pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug.

When she pulls away, Karlach seems steadier. “I want to get out of here. I’ve always hated this place. Stupid fucking gigantic bridge or whatever. I think I need to go be alone for a while. Scream at the sky.”

Liv understands. “I’ll find you later.”

Karlach puts a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for listening. For existing. Love you.”

Love. Dropped so casually, but filled with so much heart. Despite all she’s been through, Karlach is unfailingly, unwaveringly kind. Quick to offer encouragement and praise, quicker still to offer comfort. It would be so easy for her to walk through the world with her fists raised, ready to fight off everything and everyone, to keep them all at a distance. But instead, her hands are out and open, a hug, an arm draped over shoulders, fist bumps, high fives. Always welcoming, always inviting. Liv doesn’t always know what to do in the face of all that, and now she doesn’t know how to respond. She wishes those words were as easy to say as they are to feel.

Liv hates that this is the one problem she can’t solve right now. Liv knows a lot about magic, history, languages. She has received the best education that her parents’ money could buy. But this is beyond her, for now. She’s sure that with enough time and study and perhaps help from Dammon, she can find a solution, but that is time they do not have. Not with so many other problems that seem hellsbent on presenting themselves at the most inconvenient moments.

Karlach leaves, and Liv glances around the massive office, eyes catching on their other companions. Shadowheart and Jaheira are busy tending to Lae’zel and Astarion who both got caught in those damn incineration casters that seem to be affixed to every wall in this place. She’s sure that Wyll and Gale will join them shortly, as they’d stayed below, picking off the last of the Flaming Fist who had tried to follow them up the tower. But everyone is fine. Everyone is okay.

There will be time later for her to consider how close this was. For her to fall apart while she remembers watching Lae’zel and Astarion get caught in flames. But she still has work to do right now, so she takes a deep breath and begins working her way through Gortash’s office. She rifles through cabinets, bookshelves, and desks, looking for anything that might be helpful, might give them clues about where the brain is. She keeps an eye out for anything that might implicate the people who were in league with Gortash, who funneled him support or money or simply turned the other way. Gortash seems the type to keep a list.

Once Lae’zel and Astarion are healed, everyone else joins in too, piling everything potentially useful on the table in the center of the room. Liv pores over it all, journal entries, memoir notes, invasion plans. Painting a picture of a man with more ambition than sense.

“There’s something over here,” Astarion says, and she glances his way. “Ah, how utterly predictable.” He pulls a picture down off the wall, revealing a safe.

Liv abandons the books she was looking through, wandering over to this corner of the room. “Can you open it?”

Astarion looks offended. “My dear, do you forget who you’re talking to?”

“Gods save me from certain vampires and their egos. This is the guy who rigged this whole place with concussion grenades and flamethrowers, and you’re telling me it’s a simple lock and key?”

Astarion grins mischievously. “Speaking of ego, it’s not even trapped.”

That is surprising. Astarion is already picking the lock, deft fingers working quickly. Despite his perpetual complaints for a skeleton key, Astarion seems to enjoy this. After a few moments, the lock clicks and the door swings open. Astarion steps back proudly, waving a hand in the invitation for her to go through the contents. She steps up to the safe, already reaching for the small black book that lies within.

“Is Karlach alright?” Astarion asks, words quiet though there is little chance of them being overheard here.

Liv turns away from the contents of the safe; they will keep. “Were you?”

His eyes widen at the question, but he recovers quickly. “Gods, is there no fairness in this world? Karlach may have killed him, but it doesn’t change anything does it?” His words are soft, sad even.

Liv shakes her head. “It doesn’t.” She turns back to the safe and the contents within. She picks up the book, and begins thumbing through its pages. It becomes obvious very quickly that these are Gortash’s notes, a ledger of sorts on every person who pledged him money and support. The names are written out in an inelegant hand, the black ink stains are dark and grotesque.

Her parents' names are on page five.

There is no ghastly surprise at the revelation, only resignation. Of course, their names are here. Of course, this is the way it is. She is so tired, so very tired. No matter how hard she tries, she isn’t sure if she’ll ever be able to escape her family. Because she can’t seem to hate them, can’t seem to forget them. So at every turn, with every revelation, she just ends up betrayed, somehow still young and stupid and naive even when she knows she shouldn’t be.

She tucks the book away in her bag; it feels heavier than it should.

***

Gortash is dead, and Liv is too quiet. In fact, all of their companions are. It’s almost as if they didn’t have a big victory today. They’ve got two out of the three netherstones! A bad guy is dead…as are many of the Flaming Fist following him, which, good riddance, honestly. Astarion isn’t sure why everyone is being so wet around the ears about this one.

Perhaps it is because killing Gortash has not secured Halsin’s release, and instead has revealed yet another hoop to jump through in order to rescue him. They truly have no reason to take Orin at her word, and yet, if Halsin was dead, Astarion is sure that they’d know it. The bloody notes Orin has delivered to their rooms at the Elfsong haven’t smelled even faintly of Halsin. Small comfort, that.

The somber mood might also be attributed to Karlach. He’s never seen her like this. Even in the shadow lands, she’d remained steadfastly cheerful. He remembers detesting it, her happiness, her freedom with touch after her second upgrade. Still, he wonders if he knows a little of what she’s going through.

So, despite his better judgment, he wanders over to Karlach. She’s sitting on one of the couches, alone but not quite alone. Across the sunken area of their rooms, she half-watches Wyll and Gale play a game of lanceboard while she nurses a mug of something that smells sweet and strong.

“It doesn’t feel like you’d expect it would, does it?” he says by way of greeting.

Karlach looks up from her drink, her eyes far away, lips twisted into a frown. “What doesn’t?”

He sits down beside her, on the extreme edge of the couch. “Revenge.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” She sighs. “What did it feel like for you?”

He swallows and looks away. He’s done a good job of not thinking about this, grateful for the many things that need doing that keep them all so busy. He doesn’t know if he really wants to name it, to risk giving these feelings real power outside of his own head. But somehow, he wants Karlach to know she’s not alone more. “Grief.”

Karlach doesn’t speak for a long time, hands twisting around her mug. She is almost never truly still. Finally, she wipes at one of her eyes, in a move that could be mistaken for simply scratching her nose. “Yeah. That fits.”

Astarion still isn’t quite sure what it was he was grieving anyway, but for Karlach it’s clear: her freedom, ten years of her life stolen from her. Karlach is better than most and she’s spending her last days trying to save a world that never cared about her. In his less generous moments, and of those there are many, he tells himself that ten years is nothing . Certainly not compared to two hundred. But he’s free now, and he has an eternity of immortality stretching out before him, assuming they survive everything else. And Karlach will die because someone stole her heart and now she’s bound to the hells. It’s really fucking unfair.

“I wish I could tell you that dying wasn’t so bad, but my experience has been quite…specific….I’m sorry.” He is surprised by how much he means it. How much he wishes he could change her fate. Is this what friendship is? It hurts more than he expected it would.

Karlach leans forward elbows braced on her knees, shoulders caved in. “Yeah. This just kind of sucks, you know?”

“It does…” He’s not sure what else to offer; he’s not sure that there is any comfort he can give. “I was trying to think of something more profound to say, but no. It just ‘kind of sucks’.” He is not Liv, and he does not have promises to give Karlach. However he does believe that if there is a way, Liv will find it. “You deserve better.”

Karlach’s eyes look up to the ceiling as she nods. “Yeah, so many do.” She turns to look at him, orange eyes filled with gratitude. “But…thank you.”

But he hasn’t given her anything. His confusion must show on his face because she smiles, and carefully, slowly reaches a hand up, and lets it hover over his shoulder. She hesitates, waiting to see if he’ll move away. He doesn’t, and heat radiates from the contact, warm and comforting and inviting.

“I appreciate the check-in, Astarion.” The words are infused with her usual energy, even if it does feel a bit half-hearted.

Astarion stands then, her hand falling lightly away. Something about this all feels too close, too kind of him. He straightens, determined to infuse this situation with more of his usual prickly humor. “We need you in your best fighting shape. With Halsin gone, who else is large enough to shield me?”

Karlach doesn’t laugh, but instead gives him a knowing look before taking a big drink. “Sure thing, soldier.”

He tells himself he’s not retreating by leaving that sunken area, that he’s looking for Liv, but it’s really just chance that he runs into her. She’s heading for the doors that lead downstairs with Gortash’s ledger in hand.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

Liv looks nervous, unsure. “Uh…just downstairs.”

“For?”

She holds up the book she’d taken from Gortash’s safe earlier in the day as she opens the double doors. “Percy is coming to get this.”

It’s clear that she doesn’t want to have this conversation, but that’s exactly why they probably should. He follows her without hesitation. “And you’re just going to give it to him?”

She pauses in the hallway, and he watches her take a deep breath before she turns. “Yes.”

Astarion stares at her in disbelief. “You have leverage over half of the noble houses in this city in that little book, and you’re just going to give it away? Are you serious?”

She nods.

Is she mad? They need allies. She could manipulate anyone she wanted into helping their cause, into doing so many things. He’s sure that there’s quite a large number of people in that book whose dealings with Gortash they would do anything to keep quiet. And she’d just hand it off to her brother?

“Think about the possibilities here, I beg of you. You don’t have to do anything with this information tonight or even before we figure out how to take on the elder brain, but don’t just give it away.”

Liv shakes her head. “I’m not giving it away.”

“You are though. You are aware that you don’t owe him a damn thing, right?”

“He gave us information. He helped us.”

Astarion shakes his head. “No, he helped himself. He knows you. Knows that you’d do exactly this because he asked for your help . He lost nothing telling us information we’d likely find out another way anyway.”

“I don’t think he’s what I thought he was.”

Damn her trust, her belief in people who don’t deserve it. Not everyone is going to rise up to her expectations. Not everyone has a better version of themselves. Not everyone wants to be better.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you give people the chance to take advantage of you because you genuinely believe that they won’t or because you don’t think you deserve better.” He wants to take the words back the moment they’ve left his lips. Not because they’re incorrect, but because he’s not sure he’s allowed to say any of it and still keep her at his side.

Her brows furrow and she shakes her head. “That’s not…that’s not what this is.”

He almost wants to laugh. That’s exactly what this is. Liv is his favorite person in all the realm, and that realization alone has brought with it its own sort of terrifying exhilaration. Because he knows her. Knows her better than himself. He knows that she’s quick to smile and defaults to politeness when she’s uncomfortable. He knows that she sees the bad in the world, but desperately wants to believe the best of it anyway. And he knows her instinct to offer something to everyone she meets is borne from a bone-deep fear that if she doesn’t, she has no value.

Whether she intends it or not, offering her brother that ledger from Gortash’s office isn’t about keeping her word; it’s about giving away the only thing that she perceives her brother as wanting, and then seeing what happens next. It’s an invitation for hurt, but at least it is a pain she can expect. Gods, he can’t even say he blames her. He’d done the same thing after meeting that blood merchant in Moonrise. Still, he’s not sure how to tell her any of this. How to show her these pieces of herself without it feeling like meanness, the words sharp enough to cut.

It has been a long time since he has questioned her, pushed back against a decision. It has never been this personal, and he doesn’t know how it will go. But he loves her and he’s tired of watching her take herself apart piecemeal for people who don’t deserve it.

He reaches for her hand with gentle fingers he hopes cushions the blow of what he’s about to say. “You keep giving people the opportunity to wound you and calling it kindness. You owe him nothing, and giving him this book won’t change who he is or was.”

She remains fixed on their interlocked fingers for a long time. When she finally looks at him, her eyes are filled with pain. “I just want to believe him when he says he’s going to take them down because…I don’t think I have it in me.” Her breath stutters, eyes glistening.

“They deserve to pay for what they did to you,” Astarion says. For making her feel small, for making her believe that she wasn’t worth time or energy or space. He hates them for that.

“And then what? It doesn’t bring my sister back. It doesn’t fix my childhood. It doesn’t change that I loved them and they never loved me. It won’t change a damn thing! I can’t get what Karlach said today out of my head. I can’t make them sorry, Astarion.”

He knows she’s right, but he wants her to be wrong. “You don’t know what your brother is going to do with it. He might protect them. I watched you, that day at the Audience Hall. I saw the way their indifference affected you. It was like you weren’t there. I never want to see that happen to you again.”

She had gone so distant, and it had scared him. She is always so perfectly put together, never caught off guard for long. But that day, something inside of her had broken off and rattled around all day long.

“And I don’t want to spend any more of my life thinking of them or making decisions because of them. I’m going to give this book to Percy before I lose my nerve, and then….I’m done. Whatever happens, happens.”

For her, that will be far easier said than done. Astarion still isn't happy that she's just going to hand the book over, but he supposes that if Percy turns out to be a shit, then he wouldn't feel very bad about killing him. “Alright. Do you want me to go with you?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think I need to do this alone.”

He brings their interlocked hands up to his mouth, and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “Just cast a fireball through the floor if there’s an emergency.”

She snorts, and smiles a little. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now. “I’ll try to avoid emergencies of that type.”

“I’m sure the owners will appreciate that.”

“I heard you. I promise,” she says as she steps away. And then he lets her go where he cannot follow.

***

She heads for the stairs, waiting to hear the door shut to their rooms before she leans heavily against the wall, sucking down deep breaths and letting everything Astarion just said wash over her. It’s not that she’s afraid of him seeing any of this, of the vulnerability, or the weakness. It’s just that she needs a moment alone - alone - in ways she hasn’t been since they got to the city. It’s far more convenient to stay here at the Elfsong, and she’s missed sleeping in a real bed. But she can only seem to snatch pockets of isolation. She just needs to think.

For so long she used to tell herself that the entire world wasn’t her room, wasn’t her estate, wasn’t this loneliness that threatened to eat her from the inside. And now that she’s here, surrounded by friends and love and people, she craves isolation. She needs a moment where she can just be, and no one will see. Where she can break down, for herself only and then pick up her own pieces.

Astarion isn’t wrong. She offers everything she can, convinced that if she has nothing to give that no one will stick around. And logically, she knows now it’s not true. That her friends care about her not what she can do for them, but that fear still lurks, still whispers in the darkness. She cannot give it space now though. There will be time later, space for her to think about all of this. But for now, she simply needs to go and meet her brother and wash her hands of all of this.

The Elfsong is busy tonight. There is music and dancing and games. Liv catches snippets of conversation celebrations, speculations, and the inexhaustible variety of people’s lives. She feels so small in this room, surrounded by all of these strangers. There’s something kind of beautiful about it. She sits down at a table in the corner, in a place of relative quiet, and watches the people around her in their merriment.

When Percy sits down across from her, she is pulled back from the buzz of people, from the din of voices, to this table, this moment. He brings with him two mugs of ale, which was probably wise, they’ll draw attention if they’re not drinking in a tavern.

“You look tired,” he says.

She could say the same about him. He’s dressed just as finely as the night before, but there are deep bruises beneath his eyes as if he didn’t sleep at all. “It was a long day.”

“Everyone is talking about Gortash’s death,” Percy says as he takes a drink.

Liv nods. “Yeah. About that…” She reaches into her lap, and pulls out the ledger she found in Gortash’s safe. “Here.” She slides it across the table.

Percy stares at it but doesn’t pick it up. “What do you want for it?” He’s watching her closely.

“You already gave me the information we wanted, which was not a great negotiation strategy if you really wanted me to keep my end.”

“And yet here we are,” Percy smiles, pulling the book closer to him. Perhaps, Astarion was right; Percy knew she’d do this. But he surprises her by cocking his head. “You really don’t want anything else?”

“I have some questions I’d like to ask, but there is no expectation. The book is yours either way.”

Percy stares at her for a moment. “That is fairer than I deserve. Ask your questions.”

“How long…how long have you been…this? Working against them?” This is the question that has haunted her. That there might have been more allies in that house than she ever knew, and why didn’t she know? How could she have not realized?

He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. “I’ve always hated Dad. There was an incident once, at a party. He was showing me off, making me perform for his friends. Gods, you would’ve been three years old maybe? I messed up, and his magic came for me. I think he was honestly surprised when people were horrified.

“I got sent away to Cormyr for almost four years after that so that all the gossip could calm down. When I got back, my plan was always to unseat him. To reign victorious over him and Cressida. I worked at it for a long time, until the night that..uh…” He looks supremely uncomfortable, and shifts in his chair. “Until that night.”

She knows he’s referring to Brelia’s death. It was never spoken of, even in the immediate aftermath. Her family had been so good at avoiding it, that sometimes Liv wondered if Brelia’s death had happened only to her.

“I watched them bury it, use their wealth and power and connections to cover the whole thing up. And I realized that I didn’t want to be him anymore.”

“So you joined the Guild?” Liv asked, trying to piece it all together to rearrange this person she thought she knew into the man across from her.

Percy laughs and takes another drink. “No, I got my ass captured by the Guild after a monthslong spree of drinking and gambling and trying to spend as much of the family money as I could.”

“You seem pretty cozy with them now.”

He grins. “You know what’s better than a noble you can buy off? One who actually believes in your cause.”

“So what? You joined the Guild and what? Became a good guy?”

Percy shrugs. “The Guild isn’t good, but Nine-Fingers has a vision and wants to take care of the people who have been looked down on for too long. She’s got a code. Which is more than I can say for our father.”

Still, there is something bothering her. “You knew I was trying to undermine our parents wherever I could, but you never said anything.”

Percy goes quiet then, smile fading. He is looking anywhere but at her. “Your stunts were useful distractions. Kept our parents' attention focused elsewhere.”

Liv leans back in her chair, letting the revelation hang in the air. She could’ve had an ally in that house, but instead, he’d seen her ‘stunts’ as distractions, useful to him. She had known she’d been ineffective at fighting against her parents. They had too much power, too much influence. She’d been going about it the wrong way; she can see that now.

“Well, then. Guess that’s something.” The bitterness is evident in her words, and she wishes it wasn’t. Wishes for aloofness, for calm that seems to elude her.

Percy runs a hand down his face and sighs. “I thought about it…more than once. But Liv, you were free, freer than any of us. I…I always hoped you’d get out. And you did.”

“Free? Free of what?”

“Their fucking expectations. Gods, I was so envious of you. They didn’t expect a damn thing of you!”

And that had been the problem. She had desperately tried for years and years to get their attention, their love, their approval. Something . They had remained horribly and terribly indifferent. It would have been kinder if they had been cruel or hateful. There had been nothing personal about it. And she was left wondering what on earth she had to offer anyone at all. But she had been envious of him too, of the attention her parents had paid him. “I guess the grass is always greener.”

“And you had Brelia and Roland anyway. You didn’t need me.”

She looks at her brother then, tries to really see who is around this mask he puts on and wears about, beyond the smoke and the mirrors and the insufferability. His last words are spoken so quickly, so automatically that she wonders if it is a question or otherwise a justification. She doesn’t know him well enough to guess.

“Brelia died and Roland left. In the end, I didn’t have anyone. It would have been nice to have not been alone.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing good lasted in that house.”

Liv can’t help but agree. “It didn’t.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry. For all of it.”

She’s dreamed of hearing these words from her family, for them to know and acknowledge the things done to her, the crimes committed. But she is surprised at how much she doesn’t want them from Percy. She understands now that he was just another victim of that house, of her parents. His suffering was different from hers so she didn’t see it.

“You don’t have to…”

Percy leans forward again again, looking utterly lost. “No, I owe you…we could…I don’t know…”

She wants nothing he might offer her out of guilt. And Astarion’s warning snags in her mind. “You know, Percy, I didn’t want a relationship with the person I thought you were, and I don’t know that I want a relationship with the person you are now. So…maybe this would just be easier for us both if we just let go of all expectations. You don’t owe me anything.” And she doesn’t owe him anything either.

The severing hurts worse than she expects. The relief in Percy’s eyes hurts more. And just like that, she’s cut loose the last connection to her family. Maybe after this is all over, she might have the time to figure this all out, to understand who her brother is and if she still wants him in her life, but she is not guaranteed an after. And she knows this: that she has had enough disappointment and heartbreak in her life when it comes to family; she does not need more.

Percy just nods, eyes fixed on his mug. “Yeah, alright. I…uh…thank you for your help.”

She stands then, her own mug utterly untouched. “I hope it’s enough.”

“Me too.”

She turns then, to head for the stairs when she hears him call her name. She turns back, and it’s still odd, to see her brother here.

“Don’t die.”

Nine-Fingers is well-informed enough that he should know what exactly they’re up against, how the odds are so far stacked against them. But they’ve made it this far, so who’s to say? She offers him a smile she doesn’t particularly feel. “I’ll try.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x liv #for once astarion isn't the one having the worst time #bright lost things #slothquisitorwrites

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kyshiwarrior · 7 months

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A STUDY OF JET FROM AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER . / QUOTE BY ANNE CARSON (Translator), Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

[ why does tragedy exist? because you are full of rage. why are you full of rage? because you are full of grief. ]

#avatar #jet avatar #jet atla #with the atla resurgence i gotta promote my old jet edits/graphics like my life depends on it #jets more than a pretty boy hes so heartbreaking man

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nocasdatsgay · 1 year

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From the Ashes, the Wildflowers Grow

Chapter 2: Heir and High Lord

This can be read as a standalone

Word Count: 2938

CW: Blood mentions, Emotional Distress

Chapter Summary: Beron was dead. Beron was dead, and Eris… Eris was not High Lord.

Also read it on ao3 Here

Master Post and Full Fic Summary Here.

Part 2 Here

**Typos are corrected**

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Eris felt like all the air around him had left with the way he was gasping but not getting enough to properly breathe.

Beron was dead.

Beron was dead and Eris… Eris wasn’t high lord.

He waited for the power to come to him, so sure it would rush into him the second Beron drew his last breath.

But it didn’t.

It chose Piran. The second oldest, who stood beside him and looked just as shocked as Eris. The room was silent. Even after the surge of power in Piran, neither of them moved. It felt like decades passed when Eris felt hands on him, guiding him out the blood spattered room and down a hall. He turned to see his mother pulling him along. She didn’t look at him. When they entered a study and shut the door, Eris nearly collapsed.

“I don’t understand,” he started but couldn’t finish.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to rage. He was the eldest; he spent his whole life enduring Beron in hopes of killing the bastard and taking his place. To make Autumn better. He felt warm hands cup his face and he gazed back into his mother’s eyes.

She stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Breathe my love,” she said.

“I can’t,” he all but choked on his grief. “It chose Piran. Piran. How- it was supposed to be me!”

A spark of rage came through and his fists caught fire. He quickly shook them out.

“Eris,” she didn’t let him go. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“No!” He pulled away stomping to the other end of the room. “I’m the eldest! It should have chosen me!”

His mother looked at him with what he knew was pity. “Eris. Please sit. I need you to sit down.”

“How can I sit? I have to do something. What does it say about me that I didn’t become High Lord?”

His whole identity was wrapped in being the heir to Autumn. He was raised to rule the court. He spent his life lying and cheating his way into taking out Beron. Without it, he was nothing.

Despite his protests, his mother walked up to him and without a word guided him to the couch. She forced him to sit. She sighed loudly and he looked up at her.

“I was worried this would happen,” she said softly, looking down at the floor. “I was- I hoped my bloodline and Beron naming you his heir would be enough but-“

“But what,” he said more harshly than he meant.

He stood again, restless energy humming through him. His mother grabbed his face again, cradling it in her hands as she looked lovingly at him.

“Eris,” There were tears in her eyes. “The magic skipped you because you’re not Beron’s son.”

“That’s not possible,” he snapped back immediately, pulling away again while a chill ran down his spine. “I look just like- like father.” He spat the last word with venom. Even dead he wouldn’t give that male any niceties.

“You look like me.” His mother’s voice cracked as one of those tears escaped and rolled down her cheek, “and you have Helion’s eyes, Eris.”

“That isn’t possible!” He yelled, fire once again engulfing his hands for a moment. “I was born after you married. Your affair started after the war, you told me-“

“The affair, Eris.” His mother’s own autumn powers ran along her fingers. Probably ready to fight him if he didn’t settle. “I knew Helion before I was married.”

Eris could only stare at her. “How? Father would have, he would have killed you.”

Her flames vanished and she stood straight, her face hardened. “You were born nine months after the wedding. I went horseback riding when I felt the labor start as a cover. The healer told Beron that’s why you came early and he believed it.”

Eris stumbled back, falling onto the couch again behind him when his knees gave out. He wasn’t the heir of Autumn. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“I don’t have any of those powers.” He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “I would have- I would have shown them by now.”

If he was truly an heir of Day he wouldn’t have been taken by that fucking crown. Surely he would have been able to break free from it. But I did, he remembered, I was coherent enough to hide the Made blade and feed that wretch incorrect information. The whole time growing up he called Lucien a bastard but the truth was they both were.

He looked at his mother and he knew he sounded defeated when he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was selfish.” She said, more tears falling down her cheeks. “I was scared and alone. You were my baby. I- I didn’t want Beron to find out and kill you. By the time you were old enough there was a war and I was separated from you. After… I don’t have an excuse.”

“Does he know?” Eris was crying. He hadn’t cried since he was a child but he couldn’t stop the tears. He didn’t stop his voice from raising as he repeated “Does he know!”

“No.”

Helion didn’t know. Which meant Eris couldn’t go to him. He felt his throat tighten. He wasn’t safe here. He definitely was to be a laughing stock when the morning came and everyone started finding out he wasn’t high lord. He wished humiliation could kill, then at least he would be dead.

There was a knock and he heard the door open. He looked automatically, not bothering to wipe away drying tears or hide his distress. Piran had walked in looking white as a ghost. His copper brown hair was disheveled, like he’d been running his fingers through it constantly since they’d left the room. It was almost nauseating the power coming off him in waves. He shut the door and his gaze met Eris’s.

“We can fix this,” Piran whispered. “I don’t- I don’t want to be High Lord.”

“How?” Eris snapped. “Even if I killed you, which I won’t, the power wouldn’t come to me.”

“Maybe there’s a spell,” Piran went and stood beside their mother. He looked between the two. “A transfer of power. Maybe the priestesses-“

Their mother reached over and cupped Piran’s cheek with her hand. Eris could see him shaking as she looked at him with a soft smile.

“The magic chose you. It’s alright, my love.”

“But mother,” his voice cracked much like Eris’s did earlier. “I can’t. I wasn’t trained for this. I’m not,” he stopped and clenched his jaw.

Eris wanted to vomit. None of this was going according to plan. The only thing that went smoothly was killing Beron. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees to cover his eyes with his hand.

He spoke without looking up, “we just have to accept it.”

“You can’t say that,” Piran hissed. “I will concede my status.”

Eris dropped his hand and glared up at his brother. “I can’t be high lord, you idiot. I’m not Beron’s son.”

Piran’s eyes widened. “What?” He looked to their mother. “How, you didn’t- Eris is the eldest, you weren’t-“

“I knew Helion before I married your father.” She said, not an ounce of regret in her tone.

“How could you do that?” Piran stepped back, putting distance between them. “Mother, how could you? Lucien and Eris? Was I, did you even want me?”

“I am your mother, Piran.” Eris had never heard his mother speak so harshly. “Of course I wanted you. I love you no more than I love any of my other children. You both were blessings from the cauldron. All seven of you were.” Eris watched his mother pull Piran to her and hold him in a way she hadn’t been able to hold any of them for a long time. “Do not ever doubt my love for you.”

Eris failed to tamper down the jealousy welling in his chest. “That’s fantastic to hear mother, but that doesn’t solve our problem.”

“I told you,” Piran said but didn’t remove himself from the hug. “I’ll transfer the power.”

“That isn’t possible and you know it.” He shot up from the couch, the heat in his body rising with his anger again. He turned from them both, staring at the bookshelf to think. “I’ll have to leave; fake my death. Live the rest of my days disguised a common fae in the woods.”

He could practically feel Piran roll his eyes. “Stop being dramatic.”

Eris felt his mother grab his arm. “I’ll send word to Helion. We can set up a meeting-“

“Helion hates me.” Eris wanted to snatch his arm away but didn’t when he glanced and saw the hurt in his mother’s eyes. “Do you think centuries of hate will disappear just because we tell him I’m his bastard son?”

Piran didn’t let their mother answer. “Mother, go call for a priestess. We will wait here.”

There was no room for protest. Their mother nodded and left quickly. There was heavy silence between them but Eris refused to break it first.

“So,” Piran asked after a moment. “How does it feel to know you aren’t the son of a monster?”

“Don’t start,” Eris scowled. “I was raised by him all the same as you.”

“But mother wanted you. You and Lucien both. I always knew you were the favorites and now I know why.”

“Favorite? I’m the favorite?” Eris scoffed. “You and the others were coddled by her long after you became of age. At least mother tended to your punishment wounds instead of leaving you to deal with them yourself.”

Piran went quiet and Eris felt he won. Until Piran replied, “Father wouldn’t let her.” Eris stared at his brother. “He said you were the heir; you needed to learn how to deal with your own problems. He told all of us if we were caught helping it would be a week in the dungeons.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He should have. But that was probably the point of it, to make Eris feel like he couldn’t trust anyone. Not even his own mother.

Eris changed the subject. “You should stay High Lord.”

“No,” Piran shook his head. “I don’t know the first thing about ruling. It’s you who have the loyalties. You have led the army. And you know damn well Asher and Cillian won’t listen to me. I bet those two don’t even know our father is dead.”

“Probably not,” the corner of his mouth ticked up. “I bet they’re both drunk and passed out in a corridor again.”

“Leave us to do the dirty work as usual.” His remark had Eris’s eyes skimming both their clothes. They were covered in now dried blood. Piran cleared his throat. “The Night Court made Crusebreaker High Lady. If they can do that, surely we can transfer the power.”

Eris laughed. “You’re really going to take notes from the Night Court? Feyre maybe High Lady but Rhysand pulls all the strings. She’s only High lady in title; he lets her think she has power.”

Piran side eyed his brother. “You’re just bitter that their Witch didn’t accept your proposition.”

“If you saw how they used her, you would have offered her a way out as well.”

They both were silent after that. They both ended up on the couch, waiting. Embarrassment settled back in but Eris was too tired to care. He could weather the humiliation of the priestess finding out. It was the whole court and all of Pyrthian learning of his predicament he wasn’t sure he could fully handle.

And Helion.

Helion would probably kill him, if only to keep Eris from inheriting Day. He doubted his mother could sway him differently. Eris was always worried about that happening with Lucien. He never dreamed it could happen to him too.

Eris mulled it over in his mind while he cradled his head in his hands. How did he not know? He looked nothing like Lucien. However, the more Eris thought about it, the more his stomach soured. He didn’t have the Spring sun to see if his skin would tan. He didn’t burn as easily as his other brothers. He had to spell his hair to keep it neat. So many little details adding up to a glaring miscalculation on his part.

And Lucien. The gods have damned him as he made promises to Lucien he now couldn’t keep. He couldn’t even- his chest tightened. What would Celeste think? She was going to come back and find him an utter failure. An heir to none and unwanted bastard of a court he never knew.

When the door opened, snapping him out his thoughts, he and Piran jumped to their feet. His mother walked in and behind her the Head Priestess. Shame washed over him as she looked at Piran with shock. Her eyes seemed to dare not glance at Eris.

“High Lord,” she said with a curtsy. “May the Mother bless your reign.”

“No,” Piran shook his head. “It will not be my reign the Mother will bless.” He looked at their mother then back to the priestess. “Priestess Rhea, I need to transfer the power.”

She shifted on her feet, staring at the floor. “My Lord, I am not sure it can be done. There are risks.”

“What are the risks?” Piran asked.

“The Magic is ancient. If it feels disrespected, there would be devastating consequences. The cauldron blesses those it deems worthy. It is a slight against the cauldron and the mother to go against those blessings.”

“But there is a way,” Piran pressed on.

“You could lose your life,” she replied softly.

Eris saw the pain that flashed in his mother’s eyes. He turned to his brother. “Piran, this is nonsense. Just stay High Lord and make me second in command.”

“No, it’s supposed to be you,” he countered. “You’re the strongest of all of us. It- it should not matter whose blood runs through your veins. It should be you.”

“Mother would never forgive me if you die trying to make me High Lord.”

“Boys, please-“ she started but Eris held up his hand.

“No, mother. You’ve suffered enough.”

Fire shown in Piran’s eyes. “Well, I am High Lord for now and I command it. Rhea, explain the spell.”

Eris glowered but couldn’t fight the command. Rhea couldn’t either. She went into detail on how the process worked. How they would have to stop at just the right time before all of Piran’s powers were drained. If they didn’t, his very life would leave him. She added with great emphasis that nothing of this sort had ever been attempted in her lifetime.

“Even if it worked,” she added, “the cauldron could curse the reign. The Autumn Court would be a shell of its former self until the magic rights itself.”

“The reign will not be cursed. The Mother blesses those who act selflessly. I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing what’s best for the court.”

Eris scoffed. “This is everything but selfless Pir. Stop being a coward and accept this is how things are meant to be!”

“The Cauldron is wrong.” Piran yelled so loudly it came as a roar. The two females recoiled but Eris stood his ground. “I can’t do this!”

“You can and you will,” Eris replied.

Eris and Piran stared each other down. It was their mother, sensing the increasing hostility, that ushered the priestess into the hall. He was uncertain what that would accomplish, but when the door shut Piran’s shoulders went slack.

“We split it.” He said and Eris narrowed his gaze. His brother pressed on. “We split the power. We both take the title of High Lord. You do politics and I will take over agriculture. We split the legions.”

“And when you get bored of sharing?” Eris snarled.

If it wounded Piran’s pride, he didn’t show it. “We make a bargain to never willingly or knowingly plot to overthrow the other.”

“What happens, when you die? The next heir only gets half the power of a High Lord? How can you not see how ridiculous this is?”

He wanted nothing more than to collapse, settling for leaning back against the wall. Dawn was going to break soon. They didn’t have time to keep arguing. And Eris was tired. So very tired.

He continued. “We need to focus on damage control. We cannot kept wasting time arguing about who deserves the power more. The governors and lords loyal to Beron need to be elimated.”

Silence fell heavy between them.

“Fine,” Piran said, sounding just as tired as Eris. “I keep the powers and you’ll be my second.”

In the future Eris knew he would make peace with that. For the moment, he was reluctantly thinking of all the things he would have done if he had been crowned High Lord. Piran was right on that front; he wasn’t trained. Eris would need to swallow his own pride for the next few weeks while he walked his brother through the ropes.

“Your first act, I request you pardon Lucien.” Piran nodded. Eris was relieved he didn’t argue. “Then you’ll call the court together before sending out formal letters to the other High Lords.”

Piran still looked worried. “And what do we tell them, Eris? What do we tell them when they see I am now High Lord?” And you are not, went unsaid.

Eris shrugged. “You tell them to bow.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Author’s note: I really wanted to play with the fact Eris and Helion have the same eyes. I also wanted to explore what would happen if Eris wasn’t high lord and how he would feel.

#erisweek2023 #Day 2: heir and High lord #eris vanserra #High Lord Eris? Not this time #I am proud of this one #I hope y’all like it #Vanserra brothers #lady of autumn #My boy is going through it #But at least Baron is dead #a win is a win #from the ashes wildflowers grow #mama autumn got a LOT of explaining to do #eris acotar #can be read as a one shot #eris week 2023 #what if

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reddragon-cowboy · 1 year

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an indie, semi-selective, and private multimuse roleplay blog. Spike Spiegel of cowboy bebop & original character Niah Foxx. narrated by dawn. black writer . she/her . +25 . oc & crossover friendly . _______ | carrd | rules | muses | promo _________MINORS DNI. BETA EDITOR. READ RULES BEFORE FOLLOWING. low-medium activity_ updated 9/07/23

❝ Why does TRAGEDY exist ? Because you are full of RAGE. Why are you full of rage ? Because you are full of GRIEF . ❞

character study in : --- character progression. softness is not a form of weakness. black femininity. emotional vulnerability. dreams vs reality. cherishing life. beauty in nature. difference between right & wrong . stuck in the past. loneliness & solitude. crime. depression. loyalty. forgiveness. love addiction. finding peace. broken warrior x healer. revenge. symbolism. poetry . predator falls in love with its prey . found family .

❝ And sometimes I have kept my FEELINGS to myself, because I could find no LANGUAGE to describe them in . ❞

[ art & icons of niah are created by me. icons & gifs of Spike are created by me.]

#pinned post.#( ooc ) the mun.#Spotify

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morally-grey-girlbosses · 1 year

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Aubrey (OMORI) Propaganda Post

First Multi-Paragraph Submission:

hear me out. shes no criminal but please.

also full of spoilers obviously general death trigger warning also

she was a pure, good kid, but when her friends all went to cope with Mari's (one of their friends) death in different ways, she felt like they were trying to abandon her, and she grew bitter because she felt that she was the only one who was actually hurt by Mari passing away.

the way Aubrey coped was not exactly the best way, as she followed through with her and Mari's promise of dyeing their hair matching colours, purple for Mari, pink for Aubrey. not only this, but Aubrey took Mari's clothes and wore them as her own, since they reminded her of Mari.

Aubrey tried to get her friends back together, but it was impossible. Kel was trying to move on and distract himself with sports and other people, Hero tried to ignore it and go to college, Sunny was nowhere to be seen, and Basil was merely a shell of who he once was. this led to her finding a new group of friends, known as The Hooligans, who are a gang (although their biggest crime is shoplifting small things such as sweets) of five other teens. Aubrey also begins to carry around a wooden bat with nails in it for intimidation when she joins The Hooligans.

one day, Aubrey went to Basil's house to study with him. when Basil went to the bathroom for an unknown reason (probably to calm himself down as shown in-game) Aubrey had noticed that he still had their old photo album, so Aubrey decided to look inside for old time's sake. what she found, however, shocked her. Basil had used markers to cover up and ruin every photo of Mari he could find in his photo album. Aubrey was understandably furious, and so she confronted Basil when he came back into the room. Basil simply stared at her, and she eventually left his house, seething with rage and album in hand. she tries her best to fix and clean the photos, eventually succeeding.

presumably not too soon after that, Aubrey and The Hooligans started bullying Basil, calling him a freak and possibly even physically hurting him. The Hooligans had no idea why they were doing this, but they weren't going to go against their leader.

depending on what ending of the "Sunny Route/True Route" you got, it shows that if Basil successfully kills himself, Aubrey feels terrible, claiming that it was all her fault due to her bullying.

so please, consider. vote Aubrey.

Second Multi-Paragraph Submission:

in the beginning of the reality section of the game, she is actively bullying her and the main characters ex best friend, basil (he deserved it). gets mad if you pull a knife on her when she fights you even though she carries around a baseball bat with nails in it (the dull side is exposed). fights you in a church later that day and admits to stealing basils prizes possession (he deserved it) and the next day she gets so mad at him she pushes him into a lake (he can’t swim, and she didn’t mean to, but i’m biased, so he, again, deserved it). she’s really just angry because she felt abandoned in her grief and felt she was the only one who cared about the death in their friend group (she says this to the guy who’s sister literally died which she was wrong for) so she was taking her feelings out on basil (he was mostly responsible for said death but she doesn’t know that <3) they end up making up but i still feel she was right for bullying basil for 4 years. for bonus points, during a nightmare the main character is having, she beats basil over the head with a baseball bat and it one shots him.

her actions are mostly ambiguous by how her actions are influenced by her anger, because if she wasn’t bullying basil, it’d be fucked up, but she just didn’t want to feel abandoned by him so she rejected him first. she’s a girlboss because she bullied basil and she’s a real sweetheart at her core, which is seen through other actions (like how she meticulously cleans damaged polaroids, even one’s with the people she felt abandoned by in)

#propaganda #aubrey omori #omori aubrey

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stormfuryd · 2 years

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LADY RHAEANA BARATHEON OF STORM’S END

#* a storm with pretty eyes and a heartbeat「mirror」#* why are you full of rage? because you are full of grief「study」

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scriveyner · 2 years

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chase forever down 27/31

Atsushi opened his eyes, the soft touch of Ryuunosuke’s fingers rousing him from a light sleep. He squinted open his eyes to see the bright blue sky through the tree branches overhead, and Ryuunosuke lifted his hand quickly, realizing his mistake. “Ah…sorry.”

Continue on AO3:

The sun was baking his legs in his uniform trousers, sticking out from under the shade of the tree, but with his head still in Ryuunosuke’s lap everything felt very peaceful. He sighed, as a soft wind rustled the branches above them.

“It’s okay,” Atsushi said and covered his mouth as he yawned. He rubbed the back of his hand over gummy eyes. Petals from the blossoming tree were floating in the air around them, caught in the gentle wind, and a few had settled in Ryuunosuke’s hair, the light pink incongruous against his dark locks. Atsushi reached up, brushing a few free. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that. What time is it?”

A smile pulled at the edge of Ryuunosuke’s mouth, he was doing his very best to suppress it and not give in. “Not too late,” he murmured, running his fingers through Atsushi’s hair again. “We still have plenty of time to study before the sun goes down.”

“Mm, yes. Study,” Atsushi said, eyes closed. Ryuunosuke was carding his fingers through Atsushi’s hair and scratching his scalp like Atsushi was his pet cat. “Sure. I can do that. Studying.”

“If you start to purr, I will stop this immediately,” Ryuunosuke said, though there was a teasing note in his voice. Atsushi stuck his tongue out and they both laughed.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Atsushi said in the silence after, wistful. “No school, no graduation, no entrance exams…”

“And what, precisely, would you be doing otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” Atsushi blew out an irritated breath, like he had turned it over in his head so many times but still hadn’t arrived at a satisfactory answer. He reached up and touched Ryuunosuke’s face, and he tilted his face into Atsushi’s palm. “But whatever I’d be doing, I’d be doing with you.”

=====

The scream that tore from Atsushi’s throat shook the building to its rafters. It was him, it was the tiger, it was grief, it was rage, it was desperation.

Everything around him blurred, his ears were full of a rushing, static noise he couldn’t comprehend but he was moving without conscious thought. Past Aslanov, who moved to strike at him as well, blade in one hand but he didn’t even see it, heard a crack but didn’t connect it to anything as his arms wrapped around his head, his head, his head—

Curled around it, screaming his throat hoarse, every ounce of his body clenched in pain, fur rippling, muscles tensing; he looked up, staring straight at Aslanov coming for him, bleeding, swinging something—he didn’t see her though, didn’t see anything, couldn’t, there was nothing else.

The noise that came from him was inhuman, twisted in rage.

In his ears, all around him, resonating, the tiger roared in response.

=====

Akutagawa turned and looked at Atsushi, and then down at the white parcel tied with a blue ribbon that Atsushi was holding in his hands. Atsushi’s face was quickly turning a very bright, very obvious shade of pink at the scrutiny because he didn’t know how Akutagawa was going to react and this…seemed about on brand, actually.

Why did he expect otherwise.

“What,” Akutagawa said, “is that.”

“Chocolate,” Atsushi said.

“Why?”

“Because…” Atsushi shifted, and scuffed the ground with his boot. “I like you?” He realized what he said a split second after the words escaped, he’d meant to play it off like, hah hah it’s White Day and I have ~all~ this extra chocolate I’m giving to my friends because I don’t need to eat all this myself, but instead he opened his stupid mouth and his stupid words betrayed him as usual. “Because you’re, you’re a friend, my friend, I like you as a friend,” he finished, cringing both internally and externally.

Akutagawa stared at him.

Atsushi didn’t think it was possible, but he turned pinker.

“What,” Akutagawa said very slowly, enunciating each word in turn, “the hell is wrong with your brain, weretiger?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my brain!”

“Having your head cracked open like an egg by every third opponent is clearly getting to you,” Akutagawa scoffed. “Friend.” He turned on his heel, making plain his intent to leave Atsushi in this alley with this stupid chocolate he’d made specifically for Akutagawa because he obviously, specifically, spectacularly misjudged something.

Atsushi’s fingers dug into the cellophane wrapper. Face blazing red, he made his final stand.

“Okay, fine,” he yelled, hopping to halt Akutagawa in his tracks. “Not just as a friend!”

Akutagawa hesitated.

Atsushi held his breath.

Rashomon erupted from his coat and plucked the package from Atsushi’s hands. Atsushi yanked his limbs back as if scalded, and Rashomon held it up before Akutagawa’s eyes for full inspection. After a moment, he nodded and took the package from his ability.

“I will accept this chocolate,” he said. “And I will permit your continued existence…for now.” Atsushi exhaled in relief; when he looked up again, Akutagawa was gone.

=====

There was nothing but white-hot rage, fracturing everything into thousands of tiny knives.

=====

Akutagawa had his hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking while his other hand pressed flat against the bedroom door, fingers curling in toward the wood. He was trying, vainly, not to laugh out loud as Atsushi said, aggravated, “we’re busy right now, Acchan.” He put his forehead against the back of Akutagawa’s neck. “Ask Ryuu-chan to help with your homework if you’re still having problems, I’ll check it after dinner.”

“Ryuu called me stupid.” Acchan’s voice was very petulant, coming from the other side of the bedroom door. “I’m not stupid!”

“No, you’re not.” Atsushi smacked Akutagawa’s bare shoulder because he tightened and now was not the time. “I’ll talk to him. And I will check your work after dinner, okay? We’re very busy right now but we can’t start dinner until we’re done.”

“Okay,” Acchan’s sulky footsteps finally padded away, and Atsushi let out all the air he’d been holding in his lungs. Akutagawa put his forehead against the door and laughed, and Atsushi squeezed his hips.

“It’s not funny.”

“I told you we needed to wait until they were in bed,” Akutagawa managed, between his fits of mirth, “but no, you were frisky now—” Atsushi shifted and moved his hips, causing Akutagawa’s laughter to stutter. “Fuck,” he breathed, closing his eyes and tilting his head forward so it gently rested against the door again. “Do that again.”

Atsushi hooked his chin over Akutagawa’s shoulder. “It’s been almost three,” another solid fuck in, “weeks.”

Akutagawa covered his mouth to keep the moan in; when he was certain he could control his voice he glanced over his shoulder at Atsushi, breathing hard, pupils blown wide.

“I didn’t say stop,” he growled, and Atsushi put his hand over Akutagawa’s on the door.

=====

“Atsushi-kun.”

A hand on his shoulder.

Atsushi twisted and sank his teeth into flesh. He comprehended a hiss of pain, and then a palm on his forehead which slid up into his hair, yanking his head back. Dazai’s face, eyes narrowed in pain.

“Do not swallow,” he said, sharply.

Swallow?

Warm metal in his mouth, invading his senses. He held it there, confused; and looked down at Akutagawa in his lap…he didn’t remember that happening. He was held together, somehow, body cold—and Atsushi shook, pulling Akutagawa against his chest. He was focused now, not coming unbound, and Dazai said, softly, urgently, “he won’t take it from me, Atsushi-kun, it has to be you,” and Atsushi pressed his mouth to Akutagawa’s cold, slack lips, transferring Dazai’s blood.

It trickled from Akutagawa’s mouth.

“More,” Atsushi demanded, twisting his head again, catching Dazai’s arm and burying his teeth in his wrist, clamped on, holding him still as he took as much as he could hold in his mouth and transferring it again.

And again.

Dazai’s blood was dripping down Akutagawa’s face. Atsushi’s eyes were blurry with tears, he doubled over Akutagawa, holding him tight, rocking. “Why isn’t it working,” he managed, his voice small, panicked. “Why isn’t it working, Dazai-san…?”

=====

The morning sun crept across the bed. Atsushi lay with his head pillowed on his arm, watching Akutagawa sleep. They’d barely made it to bed before sunrise, but Atsushi couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to, he wanted to lay here and watch Akutagawa for all time, comfortable, safe and secure.

Akutagawa snorted a little. “Go to sleep, weretiger.”

“No mind reading,” Atsushi said, and Akutagawa scoffed and finally opened one grey eye. “I mean it.”

Akutagawa’s hand snuck out from under the covers and Atsushi shifted, laying his palm face-up between them and Akutagawa slipped his hand into it, threading their fingers together. The morning sun caught off his gold ring, and Atsushi’s heart skipped a beat.

“I love you,” Atsushi whispered, utterly helpless.

Akutagawa smiled softly; his expression gentle. He rubbed his thumb along the outside of Atsushi’s thumb. “I love you too, weretiger.”

=====

Akutagawa’s hand slowly, slowly pushed against Atsushi’s cheek, trying to brush his tears away.

Atsushi let out a strangled sob, turning his face against Akutagawa’s palm and doubling over him again, holding him tight.

Outside, it started to rain.

<< Chapter 26 || Start || Chapter 28 >>

#bungou stray dogs #shin soukoku #sskk #smarch #lemony fresh #vampire fic

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sleetsong · 14 days

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---; A Character Study

Family life

Nuclear family: "In its most common usage, refers to a household consisting of a father, a mother, and their children, all in one household dwelling."

It was & is still in some cases, seen as the epitome of a successful life. The husband provides while the wife is a homemaker & her children are instilled with the modern day values that will help shape their core personality & governing them as they venture out into the world whilst being the representation of how their mother & father raised them in the home.

& while that was not the route her family took, they still married & through their love at the time, conceive a lovely child. The picture was starting to become perfect. Their home was coming together & progress was being made. & then, the careers of both began to blossom. Her father, an artist, found himself on the road alot more, showcasing his work & stockpiling money to send home. At first, it wasn't something her mother couldn't handle. In fact, his creativity was on the reason she fell in love in the first place. His colorful view of the world verses her more analytical approach created a beautiful balance between the two of them.

Then one week passed. Then two. The dust would settle & the broken heart began to set in Whenever he would come home. This pattern would happen for alittle over a year; the interaction had become minimum not just for her Saeko, but for Ami as well however, the child did not put too much stock in it for her father still tried. He could still try & keep something with her. Her mother, on the other hand, knew what had happened. The way he looked at her was different. The way he acted & held her was different. The bright colors he once brought to her life were slowly morphing into shades of grey & she couldn't understand why until---she saw it. On a shirt, inside the color, kiss marks.

Their confrontation was not explosive. It was not raging. It was not destructive. It was intense, stern & firm. "How long" Was all muttered before the conversation took place. He didn't fight, he didn't scream nor beg. He packed a bag and in the dead of night he left to gather himself think of the next steps. & With him gone, Saeko did what she tried so hard not to do infront of him for his did not deserve to see her shattered. She sat on the bed and cried into their wedding photo. And from her room, with the door ajar, a young girl witnessed the sounds of her beloved mother crying & overcome with her own emotion & inability to fix what was wrong, cried silently too.

It has been years since that day & while Saeko & her ex husband do not speak, in her daughter's presence refuses to speak ill of her. Instead, she opts to speak of him at all. Which is even more of a detriment to a child. Her father from time to time will send a painting home addressed to Ami. She keeps them but does not display them in the home out of respect for her mother & her outward disdain for her father.

Ami always wondered if that was why she was out of house & working as much as she did. There is not telling if there was any settlement or if Saeko let his ex-husband go free without a fight for her own sanity but to take on the burden of being a single parent & being responsible full time is a something Ami is forever grateful for. She didn't drag it out. She didn't allow her divorce to get ugly. She refused to cause her daughter anymore grief because the answer to the question of "why is daddy leaving" would devastate such a young soul. The love she has for her child is what keeps her working all hours of the day & night & gone for days at a time. Its why she finds herself commutating with her child through prepared meals made late at night or days in advance with notes & well wishes for the days made up to mask the silent apology for not being home again. This was her way of showing Ami that in the end, you have to be able to rely on yourself & be your own biggest support system. At the end day, no matte how many friends & relationships we accumulate, we still need to be able to support ourselves in our darkest moments. We must have self perseverance.

& it because of that, that Ami can never find herself upset or angry with Saeko. She will never deem what she did for her little family wrong. The lonely nights & quiet living space is just reminders of what she was doing & that she had to do it. As a woman, Ami empathized with Saeko. The heartbreak & betrayal she endured had to have been world shattering. The perception of love being long lasting must have also now be misconstrued. The well of love Ami has for her mother & her the respect she has for her sacrifice is overflowing.

Their family is tiny. Their family is broken. Their family is unconventional. & that's ok.

#✩｡:*•.» ☿ History doesn't repeat itself but it RHYMES ( HEADCANON )

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thedancemostofall · 1 year

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Hanif Abdurraqib on emotion

Brené Brown in conversation with Hanif Abdurraqib on Unlocking Us

BB: It’s interesting that you say this about grief, because one of the things I’ll say about your writing, and not just your writing here, but a lot of things that I’ve read, your poetry, New York Times, stories, this A Little Devil in America, You don’t swing from love to rage or from hope to despair, or from sorrow and grief to joy. You somehow manage to write in a space that contains them all at the same time. Is that a fair assessment?

HA:That’s a very kind assessment, [chuckle] I think. I’m often trying to complicate the feeling beyond the initial feeling. I’m kind of knocking on the door of the, “Why do I feel this way?” Is sometimes when I am sad, for example, I’m sad because I am envious, or I am sad because I am romantic, or I’m mad because I am lonely, these kind of things that tease out the secondary colors that kind of make up the emotional sunset that I’m always kind of staring at, it’s kind of easy for me to point at the large orange sky going down behind the skyline, but I think I like to take inventory of the colors resting beneath that because that for me is where the kind of good and complicated and more thoughtful work of the emotional archival comes into play, and that also makes it so that I am not just shouting into a void. I’m not necessarily trying to solve anything either, which is very important, I think in my work. I’m not trying to solve any emotional puzzles, and I find myself more often trying to take inventory.

BB:I’m having a moment of stunned silence, and I’ll tell you why, because I’m an emotions researcher, and I interview a lot of emotion researchers or affects researchers on the podcast, and you just said in 70 words what we spend three hours trying to explain with terms like emotional granularity and neutrality about emotional outcome. First, Jesus, oh my God, I don’t know how that happened, but how did you learn this? Is this the poet in you and the writer in you that doesn’t fall prey to the big name emotions, but you get granular? How did you learn to do that?

HA:I think I’m almost required to understand my feelings as complex because otherwise I’d be overwhelmed by the large-ness of them. And so I don’t know if it’s the poet in me, but it is the person who has been heart-broken enough times by the state of my living and almost requires something else to propel me towards the next potential for heartbreak or the next potential for pleasure that is greater understood by the knowing of the heartbreak. This is nothing I’ve studied. I think I like to ask questions of the things I feel because if I just sit in those feelings and accept them as they are, at least in my case, I would be kind of swept away by something that would at least for a little while render me incapable of moving forward emotionally.

BB:The enormity of it.

HA:Yeah, yeah. To be frank, I’m sad often. I am always either mourning something or preparing to mourn something. My therapist would tell me that I fixate too much on the potential for mourning, but I think that even through that fixation, what I’m actually doing is cultivating a generosity for the parts of the world that are still here and still very touchable to me, and so I think I need to balance those things, evenly.

BB:I want to tell people about the book and then I want to talk about what you just so beautifully explained and how it plays out in the book, because I’m telling you, even with the eyes of someone who studied emotion for decades, it’s interesting, there’s a sweeping away by overwhelm that is really, I think dangerous, at least for me personally, and then there’s a being swept away by a refusal to deny the full human experience.

HA:Right.

BB:That’s beautiful.

HA:Right.

BB:Do you know what I mean? There’s different sweepings, aren’t there?

[chuckle]

HA:Yes indeed, yeah. I’m someone who like a lot of people, I’ve spent the last 12-ish months in my house largely, and I live alone with my dog, and so that taking inventory for the first time in my life, as much therapy as I’ve done in my adult life, I’ve had this immense discomfort of checking in with myself on a frequent basis where I’m very good at checking in with myself when it seems like things are not going great. But I think in the past year, I’ve also really fostered discomfort with checking in with myself, just even hourly, kind of taking that inventory of how I’m feeling. And if I’m feeling fine, not being concerned with that feeling of fineness. I’m someone who was for a long time now, for well over a decade, I’ve been diagnosed with anxiety disorders, and so so much of my aversion of checking in with myself is an easy way to open a door through which I’ll just spiral through an anxiety tunnel, right? But there’s just something interesting about what we’re talking about in terms of breaking down the enormity of the emotion into more reasonable kind of bite-sized portions that serve my emotional state, where it’s important to ask myself what I need in the moment, and even if what I need in the moment is nothing, but what I have, it is still good to kind of tap on the window and take that little smaller inventory.

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tallmantall · 1 year

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#JamesDonaldson On #MentalHealth – Talking #Grief: You Don’t Get Over A Death By #Suicide

Charlotte Maya’s two sons were 6 and 8 when her husband and the boys’ father died. She says, ‘#Grief doesn’t ever end.’ By Cheryl Platzman Weinstock Medically Reviewed by Allison Young, MD of American College of Lifestyle Medicine Charlotte Maya, now 54, says taking more time for #self-care and seeing a #therapist helped her cope with her #grief It has been more than a decade since Charlotte Maya’s husband, Sam, died by #suicide in 2007. She was out on a hike with her two young sons when it happened. Yet, Maya says: “#Grief doesn’t ever end.” Her son Jason is graduating college this year. “We are sad all over again because Sam is not here to see Jason graduate,” says Maya, 54, a former trusts and estates attorney who lives in Los Angeles. Holly G. Prigerson, PhD, professor of sociology in medicine and co-director of the Cornell Center for Research on End-of-Life Care at Weill Cornell Medicine in New York City, says, “This is totally normal — whatever that means.” Why #Suicide Loss Is Like No Other “There are triggers and #suicide survivors will need to negotiate how to feel okay — including being extremely upset — when reminded of the loss,” she says. A #suicide loss is like no other loss. “#Suicide bereavement may involve conflicting feelings of shame, relief, and guilt over things done or not done, especially if the mourner was the last person the deceased had spoken to,” says Prigerson, who has spent over three decades studying how to diagnose and ease #grief, especially during end-of-life care. She says there is a certain stigma of a #suicide death that makes it hard for survivors to feel they are not being accused of negligence, or worse. Maya says she was “sad, mad, and confused” all at once. “I was afraid I would be ostracized in the community because of how Sam died,” she says. She also felt anger and guilt over Sam’s #suicide. “It was easier to forgive Sam than to forgive myself. There was constant revisiting of what I said and what I could have done,” she says. It is estimated that there is about one #suicide death every 11 minutes. In 2021 there were 48,183 deaths by #suicide in the #UnitedStates, according to the #CentersforDiseaseControlandPrevention. Every one of these deaths can affect approximately 135 people in the same social network who may be grieving, too, research has indicated. Those closest to the person that died, like Maya, can find it hardest to navigate their shock and despair. ‘I Fell Apart’ When Sam died Maya tried lots of things to heal herself while others tried to help her, too. Her #parents moved in with her for the first few weeks after Sam’s death so her mother could mother her. “I fell apart anyway,” says Maya. “Sam’s death was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was like a full body slam against the wall. I couldn’t breathe, eat, or sleep,” she says. She had to take a leave of absence from her work as a trust and estates attorney. Maya’s #doctor prescribed a mild sedative, which finally let her sleep. She even used some of the medication before delivering Sam’s eulogy. She lost 25 pounds in the first three months after Sam’s death and doesn’t remember if she even brushed her hair. Sometimes, Maya would lock herself in her car so her #parents and sons, then 6 and 8 years old, couldn’t hear her screams of anguish. She took up running. “It was a really effective way to pound out the rage because the person you love and are grieving is also the person you’re most angry at.“ She and her sons also began therapy. A Mother’s Role in Helping Her Kids Cope With #Grief While Struggling With Her Own Jill Harkavy-Friedman, PhD, a clinical #psychologist and senior vice president of research at the #AmericanFoundationforSuicidePrevention (#AFSP), explains: “Generally, with any kind of loss, and particularly with #suicide, you don’t have to wait to get help. Get help from the start.” #Suicide loss survivors can also join support groups run by other survivors who are trained to have healing conversations, adds Dr. Harkavy-Friedman, who has spent 35 years in #suicide research and prevention and counseling. And when it comes to helping #kids cope, honesty is important, Harkevy-Friedman says. “#Kids know when something is not okay.” Maya tried to be transparent in front of her #children and wanted to give her #children a sense of normalcy as much as possible while realizing that nothing was normal, she says. Maya’s younger son wanted to “talk about daddy all the time,” while her older son at first refused to say Sam was dead. So she ended up tending to her boys’ #grief separately. Every member of the family will deal with the loss and #suicide differently and they should be treated differently to match their grieving, Harkevy-Friedman adds. She also worried that her son’s would be scarred forever from their father’s #suicide because #children who lose a #parent by #suicide are at risk of #mentalhealthproblems, research shows. “This may be both nature and nurture, genetics and environment,” Prigerson says. “As simplistic as this sounds, I truly believe that the best approach is unconditional love and caring.“ #James Donaldson notes:Welcome to the “next chapter” of my life… being a voice and an advocate for #mentalhealthawarenessandsuicideprevention, especially pertaining to our younger generation of students and student-athletes.Getting men to speak up and reach out for help and assistance is one of my passions. Us men need to not suffer in silence or drown our sorrows in alcohol, hang out at bars and strip joints, or get involved with drug use.Having gone through a recent bout of #depression and #suicidalthoughts myself, I realize now, that I can make a huge difference in the lives of so many by sharing my story, and by sharing various resources I come across as I work in this space. #http://bit.ly/JamesMentalHealthArticleFind out more about the work I do on my 501c3 non-profit foundationwebsite www.yourgiftoflife.org Order your copy of James Donaldson's latest book,#CelebratingYourGiftofLife:From The Verge of Suicide to a Life of Purpose and Joy www.celebratingyourgiftoflife.com Learning Acceptance: ‘We Don’t Keep the Skeletons in the Closets’ Therapy helped Maya cope with her #grief. Ultimately, she accepted that her husband loved her. “It became much easier to understand his death as stemming from #depression and illness,” she says. Maya also started devoting Tuesdays to #self-care because that was the day she had her favorite yoga class and the day her #therapist had a recurring time slot. On Tuesdays she might also go grocery shopping, or eat sushi out. She devoted Tuesdays to taking care of her, she says. If she needed to crawl back into bed and cry, that’s what she did. She also began meditating. “ was and is key to my #mentalhealth and equanimity,” says Maya. Slowly, Maya began making progress in grieving her husband’s death. Although she no longer needed a sedative to help her sleep, she says: “For a long time I carried it in my purse as security.” Harkevy-Friedman says: “You don’t get over a death by #suicide. You heal from it. You don’t forget the person. You heal over time and the focus can shift from the way a person died to getting back to remembering who the person was that died.” In 2014, Maya began blogging about her husband’s death because she wanted to talk about #suicide in a safe space. In February 2023, Maya published her book, Sushi Tuesdays: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Family Resilience. Maya says she hopes the vulnerability she shares in the book will inspire others to have more conversations about #suicide because it is a national health crisis and not just isolated individuals struggling. “We used to say the ‘C word’ instead of cancer, and it feels like we say the ‘S word’ and don’t want to talk about it,” Maya says. “I think normalizing the conversation encourages people struggling to ask for help and it helps those of us who lost someone to #suicide honor our beloved’s whole life and not reduce them to how they died. Every time we have these conversations in a holistic and meaningful way, we do save lives.” In 2010, Maya married again to Tim Stratz, who is also widowed and has two #children. They live in Los Angeles. “We joke in our house that we don’t keep the skeletons in the closets,” Maya says. “We put their pictures on the piano, on the walls and on the mantle because Sam and Debbie (Stratz’s first wife who died from cancer) are always in our hearts and are how we got here.” If you or someone you know is feeling hopeless or suicidal, you can call 988 to reach the #NationalSuicidePreventionLifeline, or text "HOME" to the #CrisisTextLine at 741741. If you have lost someone from #suicide the AFSP offers resources that can help. Read the full article

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siderealcity · 1 year

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Narrative Sense

Okay, this is eventually going to become a post about Dragonsong, and maybe Stormblood, but to start with, it's going to be a discussion of the peculiar form of non-logical sense that stories have. You could call this "emotional sense," or "vibes," maybe, but I'm going to call this "narrative sense," because it's not 100% emotion-driven, and it's not logical, but it's the way things make sense because they're in a story.

In its simplest form, narrative sense is the way things work in a fairy tale. Cinderella must leave the party by midnight because the enchantment will end then. Does that make logical sense? No. Do we need to get a full explanation of the rules of fairy magic to accept that limitation? No. We accept that magic will have abrupt, maybe harsh limitations, just like we accept that if you look the monster in the eyes it will get you, or if you hold your breath passing a graveyard, you'll be safe from ghosts. We believe, on some fundamental, instinctive level, that we are bargaining with the universe on terms that we don't fully grasp, and we're prepared to accept that you can pay for a miracle with seven years of silence (with occasional screaming into a hole in the ground not counted against you.)

We expect stories to obey the rules of this negotiation far more strictly than we do reality. Which is not to say that characters can't lose or fail, but rather, that we expect that if they are going to lose or fail it's because they broke the terms of the agreement. This is pretty much the entire way the horror genre is structured. Characters are tested on subjects they didn't know they ever needed to study, and when they get things wrong, they die. Is that fair? No. But it feels understandable. As opposed to reality, where terrible things happen to people for no reason.

Likewise, if they're going to win, they have to earn it. They must have paid the price for happiness before it could be delivered. Or someone must have paid it, at least.

And now we get to Dragonsong. Spoilers ahead.

Okay, so I mentioned before when talking about Ysayle, that Estinien is the most Obviously Doomed Character in the history of characters. And he might as well be wearing a Tragic Hero t-shirt over his drachen mail. For all of Heavensward, he is the voice of Ishgard's side in the Dragonsong War. He's the dragon-killer who wants revenge on Nidhogg, he's the embodiment of a thousand years of people who've suffered from Nidhogg's wrath. The people who don't know anything about Ratatoskr and never did. The other innocent victims of the war.

As a character, he is the outrage of a people who have been wronged. It aligns him perfectly with Nidhogg, and that's why they make such a nice, neat pair. The mortal expression of grief and rage, and the immortal one. Of course they're destined to destroy one another. In most stories, that's how they find redemption. Outrage doesn't get to be put away when it's finished. In Narrative Sense, the revenge-seeker gets what they want and dies because that's how they pay for their victory. And who would they be afterward, if they survived anyway? Vengeance was their character. And that character's purpose ended. They have nowhere to go and no one to be once their role in the story is done.

If you did the Dragoon job quests before starting Heavensward, then you know that the eye is eventually going to overwhelm him. He starts out the cutscene asking you to fight Vishap with, "Don't worry, I'm not here to fight you again." You knew it was coming sooner or later.

So it's entirely unsurprising that he's transformed at Azys Lla. Again, it makes perfect narrative sense. You've already destroyed Nidhogg, the draconian side of the anger fueling the war. You've destroyed Thordan, and through him the Ishgardian Orthodox Church, the force that pitted Nidhogg against the people in the first place, and profited off the suffering of both sides. Of course you still have to fight the anger of the common folk. Because it doesn't matter that Nidhogg's outrage was initially justified, so was theirs. Their desire for revenge has to find an end, too.

The expectation set up from the moment of the transformation, and reinforced constantly is that Estinien will die with Nidhogg. That's just how it makes sense. And it ties into the larger theme of the game's story: Where do we get salvation from? What are we prepared to sacrifice for it? For whom do you fight? And what do you believe in? Estinien is meant to be the sacrifice that ends the thousand-year-long war. He is the collective anger of the innocent people of Ishgard, and he's now fused with the immortal, undying anger of the dragons over Ratatoskr's murder. There is no other way to end the song than his death.

Isn't there?

It's the revelation that the Scions still want to save Estinien that convinces Hraesvelgr to finally act. Because he knows how these stories end. How they always end. Midgardsormr traded his life for his childrens' future. Shiva gave her life so their souls could be together. Ysayle gave her life to save her friends. Victory always comes with a cost. So why even pursue it? What makes the victory worth the price you have to pay for it? It's a taste of the nihilism we'll get with Fandaniel and Hermes later. If suffering is the inevitable outcome of everything you do, why try for anything better?

But in the narrative sense, the price for victory has already been paid.

Not by Estinien, but by The Warrior of Light. Our losses along the way have paid the narrative cost for his rescue. Haurchefant, and Ysayle, and Minfilia have all been taken from us, not through any fault of our own, not by choice, even though we have followed the rules of the narrative to the letter, and now the narrative owes us something. And if we didn't get that feeling already, the ghosts of Haurchefant and Ysayle, the characters representing love and redemption, appear and literally give us the strength to pry the eyes from Estinien's armor in the end, freeing him both literally and figuratively from being the avatar of vengeance.

This is why he finally takes his helmet off only after everything is done. When he's no longer the Azure Dragoon, or the representation of righteous anger. When his part in the story is over. He couldn't do it before, but now that his character, the character of vengeance has died, he can be reborn as just Estinien.

#ff14 ffxiv #spoilers #narrative #narrative design #story logic #endwalker spoilers #heavensward #dragonsong

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