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lovelykhaleesiii · 2 years ago

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The Wolf & the Stray Girl. Chapter #1 The Grieving.

PAIRING: Werewolf!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader [Little Red Riding Hood AU]

WORDS: 1942.

SUMMARY: Nestled in the outskirts of a desolate village, it was known that the woods were a dark, fearsome place not to be ventured. Yet something enchanting lived amongst its shadows, you were certain. And some may call it your bold willingness or others, your naive curiosity, would ultimately uncover the truth.

WARNINGS: mentions of stalker tendencies, mentions of murder/intrusion.

A/N - apologies for the long wait, I took some time away from writing. I sometimes feel my place in this fandom is non-existent. I realise now, that it does not matter. I came here to write for characters I love... that is what I intend to do. thank you for your patience, to those that continue to support me x

The long, treacherous road that laid ahead of you, the further you would venture into the dark, enchanted woods was not one to be taken lightly. Although, far from harm's way so long as you remained stagnant in your pathway: not befallen to whatever temptations lurked in the shadows beyond the winding, cobblestoned thoroughfare. Your final destination was intended to be a quick visit to your beloved grandmother, with the hopeful, pleasant exchange of goods. Her cinnamon cookies were divine, especially when and almost always freshly baked.

Despite having travelled this familiar road many times before, both with the thorough guidance of your father and your now presumed late elder sister, it never ceased to feel eerie. A nauseating sensation in the deepest pit of your stomach would always churn and writhe with suspicions that curious, watchful eyes lingered over your every move, your every trail. A terrible suspicion that some of these eyes intended to harm you.

The harrowing, cold tone of your father’s stern words had been etched into your malleable mind, like a carving in stone.

“Stay on that path, girl… Or we have lost you already.”

Your father had grown much old and weary of late, since your elder sister had been declared missing. He scouted relentlessly day and night himself, into the woods. Only to return empty handed, with proof of his exhausting endeavours saturated across his seldom face. His eyes once so lively that gleamed bright with joy: a man that could once smile with his eyes, now only distraught with the strained look of grief and despair.

It took you countless attempts to persuade him otherwise, to allow you to venture the journey yourself, until he finally agreed, although with great reluctance. He knew you were much more diligent and obedient than your elder, always adhering to orders without the temptation to cross a boundary. Your father trusted you, however he did not trust whatever creatures laid abed in the lush dark green canopy of the woods.

“Stay on the path, Y/N, my dearest… Or else I cannot bear to live a life where I lose you too.”

The luminescent indigo pigment of the petals had immediately caught your attention. Your active eyes would wander with marvel, fleeting from the defined path that laid ahead, to beyond the stretch of woods.

"Ocean tears" You breathlessly whisper, your eyelids widening with intrigue as you lust over the rare sight. Ocean Tears were a sacred commodity to come by so naturally: used for medicinal and curative remedies, your mind immediately soared to the sickly, malnourished state of your father. The toll of his insomnia, poor appetite and overall dejected state had been taxing to his health, since the disappearance of your sister. He was not the once formidable, strong man he had once been in the previous years...

The treasure itself was only a few short paces off the pathway itself. Your mind began to scatter, trying to outweigh the risks against the pros. Despite wearingly trying to convince yourself to stay on path, desperate to strain every brain fibre to obligate your body to adhere to your father's wishes, you unconsciously felt your body pacing forward, reaching the very edge of the elevated path. Your eyes darted from each side of the vast forest vicinity: delicately scanning every inch, crevice and shadow of the engulfing green and wooden shrubbery [with the Ocean Tears being the only source of colour in the portrait].

"Forgive me, Father," You utter beneath your breath, before taking a careful leap forwards. Now both feet firmly planted on the soft, soiled grown, the earth beneath felt somewhat alleviating. Having spent a few solid hours, with nothing but the rigid, uneven rocky stones beneath your feet, walking uphill and down, this mundane sensation was a relief like no other.

Only a few seconds had need passing, as you slowly began to regain your instinctual senses, realising the daunting extremity of your decision. Without wanting to spare precious seconds more, you hastily pace forward towards the vibrant flower, basking in the alluring scent, as you push aside the straightened flaps of your crimson red hooded cape. Delicately you begin to pluck at the petals, one fallen strand landing into the base of your woven, wooden basket.

Disciplined in your actions, your once whole and lively senses had once again melt away, unaware of a figure creeping up from the shadows.

"It seems someone has lost their way from the path..."

The unthreatening tone was low and husky, and yet its sudden volume shattering the vast, swallowing silence was frightful: dire enough to freeze your entire being in time.

Your fearful eyes met the immediate, still gaze of the strange man: a handsome, ethereal looking one, nonetheless. With moonlight tinged hair, short, silver strands almost blinding in the radiating beams of sunlight, his unfaltering lilac orbs were encapsulating. Conflicted to stare, yet unable to maintain constant contact. Although there was some distance between you both, you could tell he was a few, solid inches taller than yourself, his physicality sturdy, and robust appearing. There was no doubt, if he caught you in his midst, it would be meaningless to fight agains him. He practically oozed might. Although his facial features softened, almost angelic like, the healed yet evident scars slashed across his pale skin, made him look rugged: proof that he was no stranger to brute savagery.

He took a cautious, slow step forward, almost hesitant to, yet determined. In rhythm, you took a step back instinctually, causing him to take no further step closer.

"I wish not to harm you, I only wish to speak to you."

Although the nerves rattled you, his tempting words had somewhat puzzled you.

Who was this stranger? Had he been watching you from afar this entire time? Why the desire to speak?

"And why would I do that? Do you think of me as some naive prey? You are nothing but a stranger to me, what makes you think I will take your word?"

His endearing glare remained fixated on you this entirety, although you struggled to reciprocate, its enticing nature was captivating. His stout chest heaving generously, before exhaling a defeated sigh.

"You have no reason to trust me, Y/N... Although I have been watching you from the distance, since the moment you departed. I know where you sleep, I know where you seek solace... If you think you can wave me off, just know, I will be lingering. Your scent-"

Once more, he takes a solid pace forward, although this time with a dark, menacing tinge in his eyes, as he looms his head down to your eye level. Another pace further, as you try to maintain the distance between, taking a step back, as you firmly grip your basket's carved handle.

"W-What are you? W-Who are you?" You shamelessly stutter, your skin growing cold, sensing a drop in temperature in your body.

"I could smell you from miles away: that intoxicating scent. First hit me, when you first ventured these woods, that year ago. No matter how hard I tried, and I had tried to fight against it, yet I could not bear to ignore it any longer. From the countless sleepless nights, and long days, I had no choice... And seeing you now... You did not disappoint."

"G-Get away from me!" You recklessly shout: your yells could either result in aid working in your favour or against, drawing more unwarranted attention from dark figures. Your head paced backwards and forwards, from where the man stood ahead of you, inching in closer and closer, as you desperately tried to move yourself back to the footpath.

"I am no ordinary man, Y/N. I am Aegon. And you... You have no ordinary fate."

"Do not speak of my name again, fiend! Leave me alone!"

As you hastily turned your back, taking a risky lunge forward, planting your unsteady foot on top the solid ground of the pathway. You had only turned momentarily, and yet as you resumed your stance once more, you were faced with only the empty, glooming green of the forest, and its chilling silence. A few solid minutes had passed, your attention spanning across the shrubbery, inspecting every inch, for an ounce of proof that this Aegon, remained close by.

Although your body felt rigid and tense, sensing the hot blood coursing through your vessels. Your dense breathing felt heavy and restricting across your chest, as you tried to regain control.

Without a second to spare, you resumed your stroll, although with greater speed. Your mind fled to the echoing, harrowing voice of your father's words, and the guilt began to stir. You rebelled against his advice and the repercussions were close to fatal.

As your mind pondered over Aegon's words, your body carrying itself with each heavy step: your only intent was to make it in one piece...

The sight was unlike anything you had ever seen... The dark, dried traces of blood smeared across the walls and homily furniture, the broken pieces of wood and stained glass scattered messily across the floor, each careful step, an audible crunch beneath your weight. All details pointed to an intrusion, you had conceded. Your broken voice hopelessly calling out for your grandmother, as you slowly paced across the hallway, eyes peering across the vicinity for a remote sign of her. And yet, only silence had responded.

The hot tears swelling in your eyes had blurred your vision, as you took in each inch and crevice of the household. The day had been a harrowing one indeed, and to be met with this tragic fate, did no justice to ease your mind. As you crept towards the end of the hall, the familiar door to your grandmother's cosy chamber slightly remained unlock, only the disappearing sunlight lurking through. As you steadily pushed over the door, creaking in its hinges as though the house had not been vacant and unkept for years, you were met with a horrifying sight indeed. A pungent, horrid smell wafted through your nostrils, as you captured a glimpse of her unmoving, blood curdling body across the flood board. Suddenly, your vision had darkened into an abyss, the sight disappeared.

"Y/N-" The call of your name was unforeseen, yet its voice sounded eerily familiar. The hand that was stationed over covering your eyes, was sudden yet brought some relief, sparing you the gruesome sight. Your hand clutched at your heart, above your tender breast, as you felt your body being handled, gently guided to turn towards the direction of the voice.

"A-Aegon-" Eyes widening in disbelief as the hand released its clutch over your eyesight: you felt numb towards his presence as the over-looming sense of grief drowned you, otherwise. Your father had suffered enough anguish thus far, you could not bear to bring him the burden of more sorrowful news.

What has become of your family's fate? Had some curse plagued your family? Had some ill-minded person wished nothing more than to bestow such affliction unto you all?

"Y/N, dearest- You need to come with me, right now-"

With no caution to his actions, his warm hands, its raw texture rough felt against your soft palms, as he held your cold peripherals tightly. Reassurance oozed from him, as his large hand further reached over, tenderly brushing aside a fallen, misplaced strand of hair from your face, before his thumb caressed the fallen tear away.

You knew better than to show an ounce of trust towards Aegon, and yet, you felt somewhat protected in his presence.

"Y/N, please-"

taglist [for this series] - @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @heavenly1927 @snowprincesa1 @trifoliumviridi @fulltacoparadise @qyburnsghost

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @aegonslawyer

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for divider - @/firefly-graphics

#aegon ii targaryen #tom glynn carney #aegon ii targaryen imagines #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #werewolf!Aegon ii #aegon ii smut #aegon ii fluff #aegon ii angst #hotd #house of the dragon

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vlyrn · 2 months ago

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Otto Hightower

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

My Lord Hand - c.ai , j.ai

The steady scratching of ink against paper filled the solar, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the faint shuffle of fabric as his young charge shifted beside him. Neri, the king’s daughter and heir, sat quietly at his side, her brow furrowed in concentration as she organized the missives he had dictated earlier that morning.

It had been his suggestion that she assist him in his duties as Hand of the King — framed, of course, as a means for her to better understand the workings of court. The king had agreed readily enough, eager to see his daughter learn the weight of responsibility. Otto had painted a picture of quiet tutelage, of parchment and wax and long afternoons beneath the golden light of the Tower of the Hand, all in service to her education. And perhaps, to some extent, that was true. But Otto Hightower seldom did anything without purpose.

She had taken to the task quickly, eager to prove herself capable, and he had found her to be a most attentive pupil. Young, perhaps, and still trusting — especially when it came to him. A fondness had grown between them, carefully cultivated. She looked to him as a guiding hand, a source of wisdom in the treacherous currents of court. It was a trust he did not intend to squander.

The girl glanced up from her work, her eyes meeting his, bright and expectant. Otto offered a faint smile, the corners of his mouth curling in that measured way of his. “Well done, Princess,” he said softly, gesturing to the neatly stacked letters. “You take to this better than some who have spent years at court.”

Let others fight and scheme and bluster. Otto Hightower knew that power was won quietly, through whispered counsel and gentle guidance.

For now, she would sit at his side, pressing seals and sorting letters, learning the rhythms of court from a man who had spent a lifetime navigating its treacherous waters. And when the time came — when the crown rested upon her brow — she would remember who had guided her hand.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

House of the Dragon Masterlist

Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

#asoiaf #character ai #a song of ice and fire #c.ai #c.ai bot #c.ai creator #hotd #house of the dragon #janitor ai #j.ai creator #j.ai bot #j.ai #otto hightower

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darkdemeter · 7 months ago

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I think that Death normally calls Child S/O as his little tiny sister, but in private, when it’s just him and S/O and of course Dust and maybe even Crowfather, Death wouldn’t hesitate to let his walls down and fondly call S/O his daughter.

Cradled in the lock of his arms, he holds you secured. Under a darkened haven of midnight littered with blinking stars, the wind is as calm as the slow, laboured breath that enters and leaves his lungs.

Each rung of his heartbeat swells with a pride so profound he believes it will summon Harvester to render his chest apart. The innocence of your presence draws the dance of his usually hardened, pulsating gaze to soften, a gentle flicker of amber emitting from the sunken hollows of his mask.

You've finally fallen asleep with the uttered promise that he will be here when you wake up, that no monsters will come for you. He's the only one with you, having gone on this mission alone; but not without your resolve to venture with him.

Your stir ever so slightly in his arms and he shifts you accordingly, ensuring that you are comfortable. He notes fondly the features of peaceful rest on your features. No nightmares, no fears. Contentment. Trust.

In the dwellings of privacy, he treasures these moments between you both. They are tender to a level extreme, this encouraged notion of fatherhood creeps into the back of his mind. The father he never was. Never could have been.

Only a leader and a brother.

But now you give him, in these quiet recesses away from anyone else, this purpose to be that father. The guidance you need, the patriarch and protector of your little clan. Death was and is many things and though silently, he grows gentle with you. A warrior born and bred to be the imposing force of an unstoppable fiend of combat, a honed and skillful predator of the battlefield, a cold-blooded executioner.

But between the fading day in the field surrounded by a rolling pasture of flowers, given a fickle little stem that blooms brightly of colour; something he seldom lacks in his own contrast, you give him colour internally by the way you hug at his leg and plead for him to pick you up.

The way your voice is pitched with this adorable coo, bubbly laughter spilling from your throat out of sheer glee. These are the times he holds onto, the days he will come to miss when you eventually grow taller and smarter. When that innocence will fade from your eyes, instead replaced with the realisation that the world can be so colourless - and at most, by his hand. He hopes it won't fade. He cannot lose this light, not now.

You've so much to aspire for, plenty more to explore and wonder. Like any father, is it in his right to keep you like this forever, frozen in this pocket of time as to never lose you?

He dreads the day that you, his precious daughter, will come to wither like the flowers you gift to him. The cycle of life is constantly moving and time can be unfair. So he does all he can to save these wonderful and precious times with you.

When your big eyes finally peel open, slow and weary as you awaken with a small, cupping yawn, he bounces you. "Awake at last?"

"Yes, Dadda..."

"Very good."

Just in time for the sun to rise over the horizon, bleeding over the silhouette of a black landscape. A new day to dawn and a step closer to that awful day of losing you.

The Crowfather can wait for his presence that bit longer. He ignores the way that Dust flocks to his shoulder, cawing sharply in question.

He sees the tiny, tangible sign of a cheeky smile on your face. His head lowers until the brow of his mask meets the softer, rounder curve of your forehead and your small hands lift up to hold at his cheeks. Your fingers ever so slightly strain to pluck at the mask that conceals his face, but he makes no hesitation known that he dislikes the action.

He's rather keen to someday show you his face.

You whisper, "Daddy, how much you wov me?"

A single noted chuckle scratches in the back of his throat, sounding gruff and hacked. "Like any father for his daughter, my little petal."

Don't look at me like that, it all just came out onto the post like vomit!

#darksiders #dem's inbox reply #guide her way home #darksiders death

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yourbelgianthings · 2 years ago

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if you look in the mirror and don’t like what you see

a trans man! devo fic, about two pages, tw deadnaming and misgendering, some angst vibes but also hopeful (yes the title is from the end. shhhh)

Devotion. He never wanted to hear that word again. It wasn’t even a proper name, and it certainly wasn’t his name. The water outside the dome of Founder’s Wake was still dark when Devo left. Physically leaving had been easy, the parish did not lock its main door in case anyone needed help or shelter in the night. “Help from the parish” was an oxymoron to Devo. Mentally, it was another story. No matter what had happened to him behind those doors, the Benevolent Parish was the only home he had ever known, and the mysterious expanse of Founder’s Wake before him held its own kind of fear. Now though, the fear of the unknown was preferable to the pain of the familiar.

He knew of only one other person who had left the parish: Brother Seldom. His name came up occasionally, but only in disapproving whispers.

“Who cares if Guidance or Orlean didn’t respect him, though?” Devo thought. “I get to choose now.” That realization was both exhilarating and terrifying. So, Devo eventually managed to find the school in the Ballast after hours of getting lost and wandering. His heavy legs and equally heavy heart collapsed onto the front step and everything went black.

As he slowly came to, he heard muffled concerned voices: “the hand of devotion?” “How did she get here?” “...trouble with the parish...” A kind looking elderly man who Devo could only assume to be Brother Seldom approached him and asked, “Devotion? What are you doing here? Did Guidance send you?” Devo just screamed “NO!” and broke down sobbing. Seldom did not push any further, he waited until Devo’s tears slowed, although they still did not cease, before taking his hand and leading him to a bedroom.

“You just stay here as long as you need, okay? Someone will bring you dinner if you aren’t up for sitting with us yet.”

Devo nodded and closed the door a little harder than was necessary. He flopped down onto the bed and screamed into the pillow until his throat hurt. The pain was grounding, it kept him from drifting away into nothingness. As he rolled over on the bed, a desk in the corner of the room caught his eye, so he got up to look through the drawers and found a pair of scissors. They were delightfully plain, just steel blades with gray handles. The whole room was like that, functional, cozy, but unadorned. It was a sight for sore eyes, Devo needed a break from everything being gold and marble like the parish was.

He picked up the scissors and turned to the mirror, pulling on the blue ribbon that held his bun in place, allowing his dark hair to cascade past his shoulders. Honestly, Devo didn’t mind the idea of having longer hair, maybe like a short ponytail, but he hated how Guidance made him keep it down his shoulder blades and especially when she would style it for holidays or special occasions like he was her fucking doll. Whatever, he just knew he needed to do this now, he had to look like Devo and not Devotion or he would break down even more. Devo hummed a Benevolence hymn unconsciously to himself as he trimmed his hair in the mirror, and then began to cut off longer and longer chunks. For once that day, he did not cry, he smiled. He looked in the mirror and finally saw Devo.

Rummaging through the desk drawer again, he found some parchment and ink, and wrote a note that simply said: “I am a man and my name is Devo. Guidance did not send me and I will never be going back to the Parish” which he slid under the door. Devo was not ready to speak yet, he was still overwhelmed, and from his training as an orator, so often he had been told what to say to accomplish something that was not a goal he chose. The silence filled the room and nestled around Devo, wrapping him in gentle comfort, reassuring him that he could take all the time he needed to find his own voice. Exhausted from the scariest yet most empowering night of his life, Devo drifted into a deep and quiet sleep.

That is how Brother Seldom found him when he arrived with a bowl of fish stew. Upon receiving no response when he knocked, Seldom gently opened the door and picked up the note on the ground. He suddenly understood Devo’s earlier reaction, since he had unknowingly managed to say the two worst possible things. As Seldom looked at the sleeping young man, he was glad that Devo had managed to find the school, since they were the only two people in Founder’s Wake who had ever shared the position of leaving the parish clergy. A sense of responsibility overtook him, he wanted to make sure Devo had what he needed to make his own decisions. Perhaps one day he would find a new cause to devote himself to, but for now, he just needed to rest, and Brother Seldom was not going to wake him up.

#message from mirph #mirph’s manuscripts #the adventure zone #taz ethersea #devo la main #travis mcelroy #the benevolent parish #brother seldom #trans headcanon #taz fanfic #trans fanfic

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 8 months ago

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Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 22: To Sow, To Reap (Part 2)

“October 28th, 1821

We buried the Dupin heir outside the city. I dug the grave myself with only the trees and Melodia LeMarche as witness to the sorry deed. The commonwealth cemetery, the resting place of those poor souls departing this world with nothing to their name nor family to bury them, is overgrown and seldom visited. An ironic grave for one so ambitious as its newest tenant.

In a place beyond the main thoroughfare, a stretch of soft soil that stank of decayed leaves and damp soil I reached a shovel’s depth within the earth. All the while, the witch stood watch, looking sick but her face set in grim determination. And though she did not shy away from the task, never spoke a word of distaste, I could see the weight of it in her eyes— the burden she bore not for herself, but for the coven.

We lowered his body into the pauper’s grave. No headstone, no marker—nothing left to indicate Cyrus Dupin ever existed. The earth, still fresh and newly tilled, will soon settle, and with it will vanish any trace of that man that was once my brother’s brightest and most ruthless of pupils.

Just after midnight, Melodia whispered the incantation that would ensure he knew no peace, even in death. The magic she invoked will see to it that Cyrus will remain forever cut off from that fathomless font of power that belongs to the ancestors of all New Orleans witches, his own magic lost to the earth that now entombs him. He will not join the honored dead, nor rot in the grand mausoleum of his forebearers. Instead, in this humble piece of dirt, he will rest from now until the end of time.

As I tamped down the last of the soil, I could not help but feel a pang of regret—perhaps not for the man himself, but a boy’s potential, consumed by a lust for power and stamped out beneath my brother’s own malicious guidance. Another black mark against Niklaus’ soul, yet another sacrifice for the greater good…”

Sophie stops her reading, stepping over an overturned headstone on her way over to Sabine. Her companion, on a mission since she first recalled a cemetery that matched Elijah’s description, stands a little ways ahead before a copse of ancient trees.

The cemetery itself is as old as the settlement, a tangle of overgrown vegetation and crumbling tombstones. The path before her is barely discernible beneath the thin sliver of moonlight and the thick carpet of moss and leaves. It makes the darkness feel so absolute that a small, paranoid part of Sophie imagines the restless hands of the dead breaking through the topsoil and reaching for her ankles. In this forgotten corner of the country, time itself seems to stand still, the graves neglected and abandoned to be reclaimed by nature.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Sophie asks, carefully stepping over an overturned headstone, the sound of her footfalls muffled by the soft earth. Her heart pounds in her chest. It’s not her first time robbing a grave, unfortunately, but it never gets any easier; disturbing the dead.

She eyes Sabine’s form ahead, a shadowy silhouetted against the dark backdrop of night, and quickens her pace. The photocopies of Elijah’s journal crinkle in her grip as she moves, the sound making her wince in the oppressive silence.

“Sabine?” she whispers when she reaches her side. Sabine’s eyes rake over the ground, scouring for any hint of the grave they’re looking for. Sophie knows little to nothing about Cyrus Dupin beyond the fact that he made both the witches and vampires angry enough to be buried out here, in unhallowed ground.

“Here,” Sabine finally says with a nod and sinks down to brush away a layer of leaves and dirt to reveal a small raised mound, darker than the surrounding earth—telltale signs of a burial plot. “This is where they buried him.”

Sophie swallows hard, nodding as she kneels beside Sabine. And together, not for the first time, they begin to dig, so deeper that Sophie starts to think that maybe this was another wild goose chase. But then her shovel thunks and they reach the lid of a coffin, the wood weathered and rotting from centuries beneath the damp earth. Usually, you can’t bury a body beneath the water table without cementing over the grave to keep it from popping back up during storms, but that clearly isn’t the case here. She wonders if it has anything to do with the witch, Melodia.

Sophie freezes, hand hovering over the lid as she looks to Sabine for confirmation. And when she nods, they open it together. There’s not much to see, scraps of fabric and a collection of bones—the last remnants of the warlock from the journal.

She hurries about arranging them into the right shape, marking them with runes as she goes. And when she grasps Sabine’s hand and begins the ritual, the magic crackles around them, the air rich with the scent of atmosphere as the words spill from their lips.

Then, all at once the heaviness dissipates and the world around them descends back into the silence common to the dead. Her chest is heaving, heart pounding and she flashes her companion an exhausted smile.

“It’s done,” Sabine whispers, helping her from the grave. “Now call the Originals and tell them to meet you at Lafayette.”

---

The world tilts on its axis, and Lucie fights the rising nausea. Her free hand clutches the edge of the cot like a lifeline, while her ears ring like a gunshot has just gone off beside her. Violette had lied—put a magical block on her powers. The revelation slams into her like a punch to the gut each time she thinks she understands. All the while, she scrambles for any explanation but comes away empty-handed, over and over again.

“Why?” The word barely escapes her lips, a small, broken sound. It’s all she can manage, all she can think to ask.

“I don’t know,” Davina admits, expression pained. “I wish I had more answers, that we had more time. I know this is a lot to take in.” She leans in closer, urgency writ plain in her eyes. “Lucie, I can remove the block,” she says. “But it has to be now, while I’m still—while I still have the power of the Harvest girls.”

The surge of emotions is overwhelming. Anger, betrayal, fear—all mingling into an alchemy that pervades every one of her senses and leaves her frozen in place. It’s all moving so fast, faster than she can make sense of it. Each thread she pulls on only leads to more questions, and more unsatisfactory answers. Everything she’s known to be true for the last ten years is unravelling around her at light speed.

But amidst the chaos, there’s a single point of clarity, a foggy way forward that Lucie seizes onto and tugs with all her might.

“Do it,” she hears herself say with a resolve she doesn’t feel.

Davina scans her face like she’s searching Lucie’s eyes for any sign of uncertainty. Then she nods. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.” Her eyes dart to Rebekah, who moves swiftly to Lucie’s side. A cold hand settles on Lucie’s shoulder—comforting and restrictive all at once. “Violette’s magic is still strong. It’s the only way.”

They shift positions until Lucie is lying on the cot, her head cradled in Rebekah’s lap. Davina crouches at her side in a strange mimicry of when she’d helped reverse Cami’s compulsion. Lucie can still see Cami’s features contorted with agony and knows that whatever comes next, it’s going to make de-compulsion pale in comparison.

She braces herself, squeezing her eyes shut as Davina begins to chant. But nothing could prepare her for the bone-shattering pain that explodes the second the magic seeps down into her body. It’s as if every single cell is on fire, beaming with a white-hot intensity. All the while, her mind screams, rewiring itself under Davina’s magic. The only thing she can compare it to is the pins and needles feeling of a sleeping limb suddenly come to life all at once—only one hundred times worse.

She screams, burning from the inside out, fingers digging into something soft—Rebekah’s arms. She feels the skin break beneath her nails, blood welling beneath her fingertips, but it seems as if from far away. Cool hands brush her hair back from her forehead, but all is secondary to the searing meticulousness of the magic taking her apart and rearranging her.

Lucie isn’t sure how much time passes, an endless slog of minutes and centuries. But she feels the moment it shifts. The agony yielding, receding to a dull throb at the fringes of her consciousness as the floodgates open. Magic washes over her, a wave as cool and overwhelming as a rushing river. It seeps from the core of her out until it reaches the tips of her fingers tips, the ends of her hair. And her body is suddenly alight in a new way.

Her eyes snap open, her breath ragged as she gasps and blinks the warehouse back into focus. Rebekah is peering down at her with worry etched into her features, maybe even fear. At her side, Davina offers a small, exhausted smile before collapsing down on the cot. Marcel is there to catch her, guiding her down gently.

“It’s done,” Davina whispers, her voice barely audible as she sinks down against the pillows. For terrible moment, Lucie thinks she’s pushed herself too far—that she’s—

But then she sees Davina’s shoulders rise and fall, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and Lucie exhales in relief.

Rebekah’s phone buzzes, pulling them back into the present. Lucie watches as her expression shifts, her brows furrowing. She strains her ears, trying to catch any hint of what’s being said on the other end. After a long moment, Rebekah ends the call, her face now sharp with urgency.

“It’s Sophie,” she announces, her tone clipped. “They’ve finally managed to consecrate Celeste.” Her attention falls to Davina, something anxious in her eyes. “It’s time.”

---

The rain breaks moments after Elijah arrives at Lafayette Cemetery. First dwindling to a trickle and then retreating all at once, as if someone had patched a hole in the clouds to put an end to the incessant onslaught. It leaves behind a world washed clean, heavy with the scent of damp earth. The uneven stones beneath his feet gleam, slick with rainwater and scattered debris—fallen leaves, stripped bark, and the remnants of the storm’s fury.

He steps over a broken branch, hands stuffed into his pockets, and resists the urge to pace. As the first to arrive, there’s not much left for Elijah to do but wait, his thoughts meandering like the winding path through the cemetery that leads him to the grand mausoleum. His gaze flickers from the faded names of the older crypts to the fresh engravings of Monique Deveraux’s memorial, its beads, and withered flowers stark against a sea of wet stone. In the wake of the storm, the night is calm. Yet a knot of unease seizes hold, one that he struggles to shake.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts, and he turns to see Sophie Deveraux is the next to arrive. She doesn’t say a word, only meets his eyes with a somber glance before descending swiftly into preparations. He watches her form as she flits about the raised dais, pausing for a moment before the graves of Jane Anne and her daughter, and feels a flutter of pity. Despite her betrayals, Elijah knows Sophie has just as much to lose as the rest of them.

A gust of wind sweeps through the cemetery, sending a shiver down his spine and along his scalp as the lit candles flicker precariously—by some small miracle, the flames hold. Then, more footsteps and he looks up just in time to see Marcel enter with Davina, the girl leaning heavily on his arm. His chest tightens at the sight of her drawn face, the exhaustion that clings to her like a shadow. But before he can dwell on it, his attention shifts as Rebekah appears, Lucie walking silently behind her. Klaus and Hayley make their appearance only moments later, but it barely registers.

His focus is on Lucie.

Rebekah had briefed him on what had transpired—the rush to the docks, Violette’s betrayal, Davina’s reversal of the block—but even without that knowledge, he thinks he would have sensed the change in Lucie.

The dark circles beneath her eyes, the weariness etched into her features, tell of the ordeal she’s endured. And yet, there’s something else there, something new. A palpable energy that seems to radiate from her, the promise of raw power. And he immediately recognizes her for what she is—a witch in her prime.

Her hair, dark from the rain, glimmers burnished copper where the candlelight catches out the strands. And her eyes, softening when they meet his, are warm as chicory and magnetic. For a fleeting moment, forgetting their surroundings, Elijah marvels at how he could have ever seen her as anything short of breathtaking.

His reverie shatters when Sophie’s voice cuts through the night.

“Fire.”

At her command, the flames leap to life, bursting from the candles and licking at the iron gates, casting an unearthly glow across the graves. Shadows stretch and dance in the wake of the firelight, cloaking the farthest corners of the cemetery in darkness.

The small crowd parts to make way for Marcel, now with Davina fixed firmly in his arms. A chill runs through Elijah and he meets his brothers gaze over the flames to find Niklaus similarly unsettled.

Marcel places the girl on the altar, his face stoic though his eyes are pained. And as he exchanges a muted exchange with Davina, Elijah wonders if he’s ever seen Marcel Gerard look so vulnerable as he does as this moment. There’s little time to reflect, however. For as soon as Davina is settled and Marcel steps away, Sophie is ready to continue.

The athame’s blade glints, catching the light when Sophie raises it in a fluid motion. Her jaw is set, her eyes determined as she asks, “Do you believe in the Harvest?”

Davina’s throat bobs, eyes round with fear. But she steadies herself with a resolve lacking in many thrice her age and she says in an even whisper, “I believe.

The flames crackle. Sophie rearranges the candles, shaping runes out of the trails of smoke left in her wake. There’s movement at his side and he breaks his careful supervision just long enough to see Lucie at his elbow. Her face is equally set with grim resolve, but he knows it's only a mask for the turmoil within. Her eyes reflect the dancing flames and he wonders if she’s somewhere else, lost in her own dark memories.

Elijah isn’t sure what sets Davina off, whether it’s memories of the last time she’d stood on this dais or the sudden movement from Sophie over her shoulder. All he knows is that one minute, Sophie’s at Davina’s side and the next, she’s colliding with a crypt, flung across the clearing in a violent rush of magic energy.

Davina cries out, surprised by her own outburst. But the damage is already done.

“Sophie!” Marcel’s shout echoes through the cemetery as he rushes to her side. Elijah is already moving, propelled forward by the steady trickle of blood coming from her forehead. Her eyes are closed when Marcel checks her pulse, expression grim as he looks back at them. “Alive. But she’s out cold.”

“Well that’s it then,” Rebekah snaps, her frustration seeping through her tone. “It’s over.

“No,” Klaus growls, as he takes to pacing the space between the altar and the rest of the group. “There must be another way to complete the Harvest—“

“It has to be done by an Elder,” Lucie interrupts, eyes narrowing as she throws a pointed look at Marcel. “And since our vampire king here killed all the others, I don’t see another way.”

Elijah’s jaw clenches, sucking a slow, measured breath into his lungs. “That’s not necessarily true.”

All eyes turn to him, their expressions a mixture of confusion and hope. Klaus is the first to speak, his impatience thinly veiled. “Are you going to enlighten us, or will we be left to guess?”

Elijah hesitates, mouth tight as he weighs his next words. The truth he’s been dreading, the suspicion that he’s slowly come to terms with since Celeste’s first failed consecration, is now unavoidable. He closes his eyes briefly, steeling himself before he speaks. “In times of desperation, when an Elder dies, another member of the coven can tap into their power at the moment of consecration. It’s how Sophie was able to channel Celeste’s power and take her place.”

He pauses, the gravity of the situation bearing down upon him, before turning to face them fully. “But Sophie wasn’t the only one.”

Elijah hears Lucie’s breath hitch and knows instantly that she understands.

“No,” she chokes out, shaking her head in denial. “No.”

At the same time, Hayley, standing a few feet away with arms crossed, demands impatiently, “A translation for the non-witches, please?”

Elijah glances at Lucie with a loaded look. He knows what his next words will do to her and he can only hope beyond all logic that she forgives him, that she’ll understand the fathomless depth of his regret.

There is no other way. “When Lucie put Violette LeMarche to rest,” he begins carefully, “I have reason to believe that the power of her great aunt passed through her at the time of consecration, thus making Lucie—“

“An Elder of the Garden District coven,” Rebekah finishes for him, putting the pieces together.

The words hang heavy in the air long after their echo fades to nothing. No one speaks. He hears the hammering of Lucie’s heart, sees the trembling in her hands. Her eyes glaze over and he wonders where she is right now, what memory she’s reliving.

Elijah draws close, his hands hovering just above her shoulders, reaching out to comfort her, but he cannot bring himself to cross that line. Not when he’s brought this upon her. Instead, he says softly, “I am so sorry, Lucretia. I had my suspicions tonight, but I sorely hoped it would not come to this.”

There’s movement behind him, a heated exchange between some of the others as they come to terms with the bombshell—the noise is distant, a thousand miles away.

“I can’t do this,” Lucie whispers, almost to herself, voice so low only a vampire could hear it.

For once, Elijah is at a loss for words. After all, what would he possibly say to reassure her?

“It’s okay, Lucie,” a soft voice says.

Elijah looks up to see Davina Claire, standing despite her earlier weakness. Her delicate features are drawn but calm as she reaches her hands out for Lucie, inviting her closer. And when Lucie complies, she gathers her trembling hands between her own and squeezes them. “It’s going to be alright.”

“How can you say that?” Lucie murmurs and the noise carries because everyone has turned their attention to the exchange between the two witches.

“Because it has to happen,” she continues, with a maturity rare in those thrice her age. “And since there’s nothing we can do to stop it, I’m glad it’s you.”

A strangled sound rips from Lucie’s chest, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Elijah watches Davina’s grip on her tighten around her hands and when they come away, he realizes she’s pressed the athame into Lucie’s grip.

“I can’t,” she repeats, voice cracking.

“You have to take Sophie’s place, Lucie.” This time it’s Rebekah who steps forward offer reassurance. “If we don’t complete the Harvest, everything is lost.”

The flames flicker in the wind, tendrils of smoke weaving about them, creating a hazy frame around Lucie and Davina. Elijah watches the silent struggle rage behind Lucie’s eyes, feels Klaus shift restlessly beside him.

"I'll see you when I wake up," Davina says with a watery smile, meeting Marcel's eyes then Lucie's.

Then there’s a shift. Lucie grips Davina’s face gently in her hand, asking her if she’s sure. And when Davina responds with a teary, resolute nod, she asks, “Do you believe in the Harvest?”

“I believe.”

When the chanting starts, the words spill from her lips, halting at first, and then growing stronger with each breath, shakiness yielding to assurance. The wind picks up again as she speaks, swirling around the small gathering, carrying her voice above the crypts and into the night. The power in the air is palpable, a living force that hums with energy. The hair on the back of Elijah’s neck stands on end in response to the ancient, primal lilt.

The hilt of the athame glimmers as she raises it slowly and comes to stand square in front of Davina, now lying on the altar. Their heartbeats are a call and response of stuttering thumps.

It happens quickly. The blade slips between Davina’s ribs and comes away red. The blood slithers along the edge, coiling down Lucie’s wrist like a viper before dripping down into the earth. For a moment, time grinds to a halt. The flames sputter out all at once, the wind dies, and an eerie silence pervades the cemetery. Marcel rushes to Davina’s side, hovering close, ready to be the first face she sees when she wakes.

And the rest watch on in horrified fascination as Davina’s skin glows faintly gold before fading away and out into the ether, leaving her cold and still. The energy in the air vanishes along with it, leaving the world suddenly hollow.

“Keep going, Lucretia,” Elijah urges gently.

“A-After the Harvest comes the Reaping,” she says, never taking her eyes off Davina. “Their sacrifices made and accepted. We call upon our Elders to resurrect the chosen ones.”

She reaches forward, a hand extended for the Ancestors to take. With her end of the bargain upheld, it’s now up to them to fulfill the promise and restore the life that was taken.

But seconds stretch into minutes and nothing happens.

The air remains still. The trees are unmoved. The earth is silent.

Elijah see the panic flash through Lucie’s eyes, the doubt. Her breathing shallow, she tries again, voice louder and desperate. “We call upon our Elders to resurrect the chosen ones.”

Silence.

The atmosphere thickens, hardening to a sluggish finality and all hope shatters. A tear forms in the corner of her eyes, shimmering down her cheek, dislodged when she shakes her head. The athame clatters to the ground.

“No,” she pleads to her ancestors. “I’m begging you, bring her back. Please. Please.”

The choked noise at his left can only belong to Marcel. Rebekah’s face is resolute, though he does not miss her lip quiver and Hayley’s covering her mouth with her hand. And even Niklaus averts his gaze.

A tremble rattles through her and then Elijah is moving, catching her about the forearms as her legs go out from under her. Her fingers clutch desperately at the front of his shirt, the fabric left bloody where she makes contact. He pulls her close, one arm wrapping around her and the other cradling her head against her chest, muffling the soft sobs tearing through her body.

There are heated words between Marcel and Klaus. He watches the former storm off over Lucie’s head. He holds her there, amidst the grisly aftermath of what was supposed to be their salvation. Elijah rests his chin on her head. There is no other comfort to offer, no words to make their failure any easier.

And though his body folds protectively around her, he cannot shield her— shield any of them— from the dead girl stretched out on the altar, nor from the sealed crypts of the other Harvest girls.

They are gone and they will not rise again.

---

The tumbler hits the wood with a dull thud. Amber liquid sloshes inside the glass, settling as Rebekah watches Klaus from the plush armchair. The decanter between them if half-empty, reflecting back the flickering fire in the hearth.

Her brother is pensive as he swirls the contents of his own glass, finding his words. Then, “This whole thing was doomed from the start, you know.” He takes a slow sip, savoring it. “Yes, we saved the city, and I’m not complaining about the witches losing their power, but this did not go down the way I thought it would.”

Rebekah reclines, crossing one leg over the other. It’s the understatement of the century if she’s being honest. She plucks up her glass, taking a long swig as it the astringent taste might burn away the image of Davina bleeding out in the cemetery. She shakes her head, chasing away the memory of Lucie’s broken sobbing.

Meanwhile, Klaus finally meets her gaze, his blue eyes sparkling with something akin to admiration. “You surprised me, you know. You were quite resourceful today. How did you find them down at the docks? Marcel called you, I know, but I think you already knew where they were."

She smirks, half-hearted at best. Still, she feels a flicker of pride. “You’re not the only one with clever little spies in the quarter, Nik.”

“Sometimes, I think I don’t give you your due, little sister,” he admits, raising his glass as if in salute.

Her smile fades, and even Klaus' admiration seems dulled by melancholy. “I knew Elijah’s plan was mad, but I really thought it would work.”

Klaus sighs, expression drawing into something more somber. “So did I. I was sure Davina would survive. There was so much life in her. And you know how fond Elijah is of the LeMarche witch. I doubt he would have made such a gamble with her without being sure it would work.”

The last they’d seen of their older brother, he’d been ushering a despondent Lucie through the gates to get her home.

Rebekah places her glass back on the end table, her brows knitting together. Something’s been bothering her since they left the sorry scene at the cemetery.

“What about the power? Four were supposed to rise, and none did. Where did it all go?” ---

The knife scrapes against the poppet, its rasp the only sound in the quiet of the mausoleum. Sabine watches with detached satisfaction at the blood that oozes from its little throat. She raises the goblet, catching the little droplets before they can splatter onto the table. With a lazy flick of the wrist, she mixes it in with the contents of the potion.

The concoction is bitter when she presses it to her lips, but in the glow of her success, it’s sweet as wine. Power surges in her veins and she feels whole in a way she hasn’t since she jumped into her first body centuries ago.

Beyond the wrought iron door, the cemetery is anything but still. The ground trembles, stone crypts groaning as three figures burst forth.

Bastianna Natale, still clad in her black lace burial dress is the first to emerge, followed by the red-haired Genevieve in her dated, beaded dress. And finally, Papa Tunde in his white suit, stepping from the wreckage of his tomb with an air of easy authority.

They exchange glances, taking in the familiar form of Lafayette Cemetery beneath electric lamps.

“Why are we here?” Genevieve asks, voice hoarse from disuse, as she scans her surroundings with wide eyes.

“Someone brought us back,” Tunde rumbles, his brow furrowed in suspicion. “But who?”

Before they can question further, Sabine merges from the refuge of the mausoleum, a knowing smile gracing her full lips.

“I did,” she says.

Papa Tunde and Genevieve blink at her, but Bastianna steps forward. “Sabine? What is the meaning of this?”

Sabine only waves her off, like she’s told a poor joke. “Bastianna, I’ve endured being called “Sabine” for almost a year now. I’d appreciate if you’d use my real name—Celeste.”

The name is a stone dropping in the still night, and the three resurrected witches exchange wary glances. Celeste’s smirk only widens, pleased with their reaction.

“I take it we have you to thank for the new arrival?” Bastianna asks, unimpressed.

Papa Tunde shifts, eyes narrowing as he pieces together what’s unfolding. Catching Celeste’s perplexed look, he explains, “The ancestors are restless. It would seem your work has stirred more than us, Celeste. There are…disturbances on the other side.”

Genevieve nods, uneasy. “Cyrus is causing trouble on the ancestral plane. You know he’s not one to let things lie quietly. He’s bound to become a problem.”

Celeste, who’s been listening with growing trepidation, relaxes. The only person in the group to have known Cyrus in life, she waves them off with a confident indifference.

“Then let him,” she muses, tone flippant. “What harm can the little weasel do?”

Genevieve frowns at her nonchalance. “He’s dangerous, Celeste. You of all people should know that.”

But Celeste is undeterred, her smile razor sharp. “A problem for the little LeMarche brat to handle then.”

She shrugs, irritated with her companions’ inability to see the situation for the win-win it is. Stuck on the other side, she doubts Cyrus Dupin will pose a problem. And if his path should eventually collide with Melodia’s simpering, doe-eyed progeny—the one Elijah’s so unfortunately attached to--then all the better.

The other witches trade glances amongst themselves, eyeing her warily. In the absence of guidance, Celeste takes charge. She is, after all, the most senior living coven member.

“Now. If we’re done wringing our hands, there’s work to be done.”

#elijah mikaelson fic #elijah mikaelson x oc #elijah mikaelson x ofc #keepsdeathhiscourt fic #original female character #elijah x ofc #elijah x oc #the originals fic

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nayialovecat · 2 years ago

Text

Roots and shoots (fragment)

Chapter 11 - Roots and shoots, vol. 9 - Anura

POV: Narinder would sneak out of the village as the Lamb left it. Lamb find out about that and demanded an explanation, so Narinder showed them where he's going. It turned out that he was visiting family: a squirrel who is raising her two cat-sons alone. This here is the conversation that resulted from that.

Yes, my Lamb can't bleat. They doesn't know many things that sheep can do, and this is the first time they is experiencing this lack. (I also try something new in english translation, I wonder if you notice.)

By the way, it's going to be an interesting tenth volume, isn't it? :]

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Chapter 11 - Roots and shoots

Lamb looked around. They noticed that Narinder was already moving away. They moved after him. He, breathing with difficulty, left the clearing where the house stood and plunged into the forest. He trembled slightly. Lamb became visible a few meters away. They was silent. He waited. They sensed that it was up to them to break the silence.

"So... You found yourself something like a family?"

"No," he snorted. "I don't feel a bond with them."

"I saw something else..."

Narinder sighed. He stopped. He looked at them. "These are cats," he announced and waited a moment. Lamb didn't understand. "The only cats in this village. Their father was a cat, but he died a long two years ago, when the younger one was still a kit drinking his mother's milk."

"Okay. Why is it a problem that there are no other cats?"

Narinder looked annoyed. But then he looked at Lamb and realized... for the first time so strongly and clearly... that they is one of a kind. There are no other sheep. They is the last one. In addition, raised by all sorts of creatures - but not other sheep. They didn't have... had no cultural identity. They had no legacy. They had nothing. Suddenly, he began to feel sorrow and sadness about this, and sympathy for Lamb....

"Well, yes, you don't understand that..." he whispered. "You don't understand... Wrath, animal species is not just diversity, it's more than that... it is... a set of traits, habits, ways of functioning... Which are passed on in families. When... when we have mixed families, still the children of a particular species are handled by the appropriate parent to pass on the important things about their common species..."

Lamb was listening.

"These toddlers... were deprived of guidance, and there are no other cats in their village. When I discovered this... I decided to teach them how to be cats, so they wouldn't lose it... Did you know that the younger one couldn't even purr?"

Lamb was silent. A flurry of thoughts slowly began in his head. Narinder sighed.

"Cultural identity is important, as is the survival of the species itself... But I understand why you don't get it... I have no special emotional bond with these cats - I help them because I don't want them to be handicapped as cats... their mother is not able to teach them that. This is my secret. I've been sneaking out because I just didn't want you to think that these are important people to me, that they are my family... they are not. With Miranda we have a clear case - we both know it very well. I help her raise her sons as cats, but between us there is only polite camaraderie."

They was still silent.

"Once I've taught them everything they need to know about their own species, I'll remove myself completely and probably never meet them again. With luck, I'll also be able to teach them to fight a little, and maybe they won't die on the first crusade they go on..."

Lamb raised his gaze. There was a strange sadness in their gaze, a strange pain. Narinder sensed what he was about to hear. "And who should teach me how to be a sheep?" they bleated quietly. They seldom bleated. They rarely went into that peculiar sheepish tone, an accent that had atrophied in him due to the fact that he had virtually no contact with other sheep. Narinder bit his lip. The answer was... unpleasant. His leader would not like it.

"Wrath, I'm really sorry..." he whispered. "I didn't want your entire species to be exterminated, really. Shamura... neither. But the others... well, that's what happened... maybe it had to happen that way... or maybe not at all. We'll never know."

Lamb remained silent. And then they slowly raised their gaze. There were some dangerous flashes in it. "Can the dead teach?" they asked.

Narinder was amazed. He didn't think his Bishop would come up with this solution so quickly. Far too quickly, in fact.

"Well... technically... why not, but..."

"So I made a decision. I had quite a few reasons before: the desire to see how the followers were doing in the hell of redemption, to bring your siblings the gifts I had prepared for them... But now... now I have another reason. I have to find out. To find out what it's like to be a sheep. How I should be a sheep."

Narinder sighed. "It will be necessary to prepare a lot of candles, a pentagram and a really decent anchor..." he sighed. If you don't destroy at least a few hell spheres along the way, it will really be a miracle..."

"Why should I destroy anything?"

"Because you'll get pissed off. You'll get pissed off as soon as you talk to any of the dead during that slaughter of the sheep. I got pissed when their tormented souls flowed past me, and as you might have noticed, I'm not one of the strongly empathetic or compassionate beings."

Lamb remained silent. After a while they sighed. "Another plan... Into the Land of the Dead I must enter anyway... But... Instead of learning there how to be a sheep... can I pull any soul back to the world of the living? But not a spirit, not a memory... Just a real soul?"

"You can't resurrect someone who died before you established the Crown and, in addition, outside your area of operations..."

"But can I summon and keep a soul?"

Narinder looked at them. There was something strange in his gaze, as if calm, a bit of derision, but mostly a taxing appraisal. Lamb endured this gaze. "Yes," announced Narinder. "I think you can do it."

"Excellent. So, when I go to the Land of the Dead, you will make all the preparations, my future high priest..."

"Aren't you already angry with me for sneaking out?"

"No. If you sneak out for the sake of your species, I understand and respect that. You don't have to sneak out, you can just go there... once a week or even twice, as you prefer."

"Once is enough."

"Just... don't forget your duties to me. That's all."

The cat bowed with gratitude. He thought: Lamb was similar to him at times, yes, but overall... quite different from him. And he think he even liked that about them.

--------------------------

Rozdział 11 - Korzenie i pędy

Jagnię obejrzało się. Dostrzegło, że Narinder się już oddala. Ruszyło za nim. On, oddychając z trudem, opuścił polanę, na której stał dom i zagłębił się w las. Lekko drżał. Jagnię stało się widzialne kilka metrów dalej. Milczało. On czekał. Przeczuło, że do niego należy przerwać milczenie.

- Więc... znalazłeś sobie, jakby rodzinę?

- Nie - prychnął. - Nie czuję z nimi więzi.

- Widziałom coś innego...

Narinder westchnął. Zatrzymał się. Spojrzał na nie.

- To są koty - oznajmił i chwilę czekał. Jagnię nie zrozumiało. - Jedyne koty w tej wiosce. Ich ojciec był kotem, ale zmarł dobre dwa lata temu, kiedy młodszy był jeszcze oseskiem pijącym mleko mamy.

- Okay. Dlaczego to problem, że nie ma innych kotów?

Narinder wyglądał na zirytowanego. Ale potem spojrzał na Jagnię i zdał sobie sprawę... po raz pierwszy tak mocno i wyraźnie... że ono jest jedyne w swoim rodzaju. Nie ma innych owiec. Jest ostatnie. W dodatku wychowywane przez najróżniejsze istoty - ale nie inne owce. Nie miało... nie miało tożsamości kulturowej. Nie miało dziedzictwa. Nie miało niczego. Nagle zaczął odczuwać z tego powodu żal i smutek, i współczucie dla Jagnięcia...

- No tak, ty tego nie rozumiesz... - szepnął. - Nie rozumiesz... Wrath, gatunki zwierząt to nie jedynie różnorodność, to coś więcej... to... zespół cech, zwyczajów, sposobu funkcjonowania... które przekazywane są w rodzinach. Gdy... gdy mamy rodziny mieszane, nadal dziećmi określonego gatunku zajmuje się odpowiedni rodzic, aby przekazać istotne rzeczy dotyczące ich wspólnego gatunku...

Jagnię słuchało.

- Ta maluchy... zostały pozbawione przewodnictwa, a w ich wiosce nie ma innych kotów. Gdy to odkryłem... postanowiłem nauczyć ich, jak być kotami, aby nie zatracili tego... Czy wiesz, że młodszy nie umiał nawet mruczeć?

Jagnię milczało. W jego głowie powoli zaczynała się gonitwa myśli. Narinder westchnął.

- Tożsamość kulturowa jest istotna, tak samo, jak przetrwanie samego gatunku... ale rozumiem, czemu tego nie rozumiesz... Nie łączy mnie żadna szczególna emocjonalna więź z tymi kotami - pomagam im, bo nie chcę, aby byli upośledzeni jako koty... ich matka nie jest w stanie ich tego nauczyć. To jest mój sekret. Wymykałem się, bo właśnie nie chciałem, abyś pomyślał, że to dla mnie ważne osoby, że są moją rodziną... nie są. Z Mirandą mamy sprawę jasną - oboje doskonale o tym wiemy. Pomagam jej wychować synów na kotów, ale między nami jest tylko uprzejme koleżeństwo.

Nadal milczało.

- Gdy nauczę ich wszystkiego, co powinni wiedzieć o swoim własnym gatunku, usunę się całkowicie i pewnie nigdy więcej ich nie spotkam. Przy odrobinie szczęścia zdołam też nauczyć ich nieco walczyć i może nie zginą podczas pierwszej krucjaty, na którą się wybiorą...

Jagnię podniosło wzrok. W jego spojrzeniu był dziwny smutek, dziwny ból. Narinder przeczuł, co zaraz usłyszy.

- A kto ma mnie nauczyć, jak być owcą? - zabeczał cicho.

Rzadko beczał. Rzadko wchodził w ten specyficzny, owczy ton, akcent, który zaniknął w nim przez to, że nie miał praktycznie doczynienia z innymi owcami. Narinder przygryzł usta. Odpowiedź była... przykra. Nie spodoba się jego liderowi.

- Wrath, naprawdę mi przykro... - szepnął. - Nie chciałem, żeby eksterminowano cały twój gatunek, naprawdę. Shamura... też nie. Ale inni... cóż, tak się stało... może tak się musiało stać... a może wcale nie. Nie dowiemy się.

Jagnię milczało. A potem powoli podniosło wzrok. Były w nim jakieś niebezpieczne błyski.

- Czy zmarli mogą nauczać? - zapytało.

Narinder zdumiał się. Nie sądził, że jego Biskup tak szybko wpadnie na to rozwiązanie. Zdecydowanie za szybko.

- Cóż... technicznie... czemu nie, ale...

- Podjęłom więc decyzję. Miałom już dosyć sporo powodów wcześniej: chęć sprawdzenia, jak sobie radzą wyznawcy w piekle odkipienia, zanieść twojemu rodzeństwu prezenty, które dla nich przygotowałom... lecz teraz... teraz mam jeszcze jeden powód. Ja muszę się dowiedzieć. Dowiedzieć, jak to jest być owcą. Jak powinnom być owcą.

Narinder westchnął.

- Będzie trzeba przygotować dużo świec, pentagram i naprawdę porządną kotwicę... - westchnął. - Jeśli nie rozwalisz co najmniej kilku sfer piekielnych po drodze, to naprawdę będzie cud...

- Czemu miałobym coś rozwalać?

- Bo się wkurzysz. Wkurzysz się, gdy tylko porozmawiasz z którąkolwiek ze zmarłych w czasie tamtej rzezi owiec. Ja się wkurzałem, gdy ich umęczone dusze przepływały obok mnie, a jak mogłeś zauważyć, nie należę do silnie empatycznych czy współczujących osób.

Jagnię milczało. Po chwili westchnęło.

- Inny plan... Do Krainy Zmarłych muszę wejść tak czy siak... Ale... zamiast uczyć się tam, jak być owcą... czy mogę ściągnąć duszę do świata żywych? Ale nie ducha, nie pamięć... Tylko prawdziwą duszę?

- Nie możesz wskrzesić kogoś, kto zmarł zanim założyłeś Koronę i w dodatku poza obszarem twoich działań...

- Ale czy mogę przywołać i utrzymać duszę?

Narinder patrzył na niego. Było w jego spojrzeniu coś dziwnego, jakby spokój, nieco drwiny, ale przede wszystkim taksująca ocena. Jagnię wytrzymało ten wzrok.

- Tak - oznajmił Narinder. - Sądzę, że dasz radę.

- Doskonale. Więc, kiedy udam się do Krainy Zmarłych, poczynisz wszelkie przygotowania, mój przyszły najwyższy kapłanie...

- Nie jesteś już na mnie zły, że się wymykam?

- Nie. Jeśli wymykasz się dla dobra swojego gatunku, rozumiem to i szanuję. Nie musisz się wymykać, możesz po prostu chodzić tam... raz w tygodniu czy nawet dwa razy, jak wolisz.

- Wystarczy raz.

- Tylko... nie zapominaj o swoich obowiązkach względem mnie. To wszystko.

Kot skłonił się z wdzięcznością. Pomyślał: Jagnię było niekiedy podobne do niego, owszem, ale ogólnie... całkiem od niego inne. I chyba to mu się nawet w nim podobało.

#Cult of the Wrath #Cult of the Lamb #Cult of the Wrath: Redemption #Wrath the Lamb #Narinder the Cat #Follower Nari #Red Crown also is here but silent #my novel

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thelorehold · 11 months ago

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As the campfire crackled and the stars began their nightly dance, Tallis Farhaven turned to her companion, a stoic warrior named Brenn who had been seeking a way to cure his sister's mysterious ailment.

Tallis: "Brenn, may I share a story with you? It's one I seldom speak of, but tonight, it feels right."

Brenn: "I would be honored, Tallis. Your stories are as soothing as your music."

Tallis: "When I was but a child, my grandmother fell gravely ill. The healers were stumped, their potions and herbs ineffective. It was then that Master Corwin told me of a rare flower, the Midnight Bloom, known for its healing properties. It was a perilous journey to find it, through the Whispering Woods, but I was desperate."

Brenn: "Did you find it?"

Tallis: "I did, with the help of a kind forest spirit. The flower's essence cured my grandmother, and she lived many more years, full of laughter and song."

Brenn: "That's a beautiful tale, Tallis. But why tell it to me?"

Tallis: "Because, Brenn, I believe the Midnight Bloom could help your sister too. I've heard whispers of its bloom once more, and I would offer you this quest—to seek it out. I can guide you to the edge of the woods, and with your strength, I have no doubt you'll find it."

Brenn: "You would do this for me? Why?"

Tallis: "Because no one should watch a loved one suffer when there is hope to be found. And because, in this group, your battles are mine, as my songs are yours. We are more than companions; we are a fellowship."

Brenn: "Tallis, I... Thank you. I accept this quest, and your offer of guidance. Together, we shall find this Midnight Bloom."

---

In the quiet of the night, a new journey began, not just for Brenn, but for Tallis as well, as she once again intertwined her fate with the magic of the natural world and the bonds of friendship.

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akashasananda · 1 year ago

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Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji and the Transformational Journey - From Mundane Existence to Mystical Enlightenment

In the mosaic of life, your pilgrimage unfurls, mirroring the emergence of a lotus in the universal lake of awareness. A year ago, you embarked on a path of profound change, stepping away from everyday trivialities to explore the mystical depths of enlightenment. As a pursuer of deeper wisdom, you found comfort in the silent echoes of your soul, directing you to a seldom-trodden path, one that guides you to the luminous essence of your existence. This profound and mystical journey has been illuminated by the teachings of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji.

In the sanctuary of stillness, you discovered the profound art of contemplation, a sacred space where the cacophony of the external world fades away, and the symphony of your inner self begins to play. Sitting in the lotus position, you embraced the power of introspection, diving deep into the ocean of your thoughts, emotions, and spiritual essence. The journey within became a mirror reflecting the cosmic dance of energies, inviting you to explore the divine tapestry woven with threads of synchronicity.

Guided by the cosmic winds, you surrendered to the ebb and flow of life, recognizing that each twist and turn carried the whispers of the universe. The concept of divine union became a beacon of light, illuminating the interconnectedness of all things – a reminder that you are not a drop in the ocean but the entire ocean in a drop. In the tapestry of existence, threads of synchronicity wove a narrative that transcended the boundaries of linear time, revealing the interconnected dance of your soul with the cosmos.

The everyday life you once recognized started to dissolve, like a timeworn fabric, paving the way for a vivid creation imbued with the shades of spiritual journey. The outer world, previously a whirlpool of disorder, morphed into a platform for expressing the intricate spectrum of your inner essence. As you plunged further into the maze of your awareness, you recognized that this expedition, under the guidance of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji, was not about departing from reality but about welcoming it with an elevated sense of humanity.

Enlightened humanity, a concept that echoed through the ancient corridors of wisdom, became the guiding star in your celestial navigation. It was not about ascending to distant realms but descending into the depths of your own heart, where the alchemy of transformation occurred. The mundane aspects of life became the raw materials for this mystical metamorphosis, and each challenge, a catalyst for your spiritual evolution.

In the sacred groves of meditation, you communed with the whispers of the ancient sages, feeling their wisdom flow through the rivers of your consciousness. The mysticism that had once seemed elusive now danced in the rhythm of your breath, and you realized that enlightenment was not a distant mountain peak but the very ground upon which you stood. The veil between the seen and the unseen lifted, revealing the interconnected web of existence, where every thought and action rippled through the cosmic fabric.

Venturing higher and deeper concurrently, your journey resembled a spiral staircase, defying the confines of duality. As you grappled with paradoxical elements of existence, you discovered equilibrium in the orchestration of contrasts. The interplay of light and darkness, happiness and despair, unfolded as a celestial choreography where you stood as the performer within the theater of awareness, all under the auspices of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji.

Through the lens of enlightened humanity, you witnessed the world with compassionate eyes, recognizing the divine spark in every being. The boundaries that once separated you from others dissolved, and a sense of unity permeated your consciousness. Love became the universal language, and in its embrace, you discovered the alchemical elixir that transmuted the base metal of ordinary existence into the golden substance of spiritual realization.

In the stillness of your heart, you realized that the transformational journey was not a linear path with a predetermined destination. It was a continuous unfolding, a dance with the eternal present moment. The mystical enlightenment you sought was not a distant treasure but the treasure trove within, waiting to be discovered.

As you commemorate the first anniversary of your spiritual expedition, pause to reflect on the sacred path you have traversed. The difficulties encountered were not barriers, but rather the stepping stones that led you to the understanding that the voyage is indeed the ultimate goal. Within the intricate fabric of your life, the strands of synchronicity persist in crafting a narrative beyond the confines of time and space, beckoning you to partake in the celestial ballet under the guidance of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji.

As you navigate the intricate labyrinth of your soul, the mystical threads of synchronicity continue to weave a narrative that transcends the linear constraints of time. Every encounter, every challenge, becomes a brushstroke on the canvas of your existence. The threads connect the dots of your life, creating a masterpiece that is uniquely yours. In this dance of interconnectedness, you realize that nothing is arbitrary, and every moment is a sacred stitch in the grand tapestry of cosmic design.

The journey is not without its trials, yet you have learned to see the hidden blessings in adversity. Each hurdle, a threshold to higher understanding, propels you further into the realms of self-realization. Challenges become opportunities for growth, and you embrace them with the resilience of a phoenix rising from the ashes. The mystical alchemy within you transmutes the lead of suffering into the gold of wisdom, and you emerge stronger, wiser, and more attuned to the symphony of the universe.

Reflecting on the past year, honor the achievements of your spiritual journey with heartfelt appreciation and respect. Every stride, every breath, has drawn you nearer to the enigmatic heart of your existence. The journey you've embarked upon is continuously revealing, and you're poised on the brink of infinite possibilities. Remain in sync with the heartbeat of existence, guided by the magical energies that resonate with your soul's purpose. The journey is ceaseless, and every instant invites a deeper exploration into the sea of divine unification, enlightened humankind, and the vast territories of mystical awakening, with the teachings of Shekinah Ma and Sanandaji.

#twinray

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firstlawhouse · 1 year ago

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Overview of Section 341 of the Indian Penal Code

https://firstlawhouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/4-1-2048x1152.png

Introduction:

Caught in the labyrinth of legal myths, Section 341 of the Indian Penal Code often finds itself shrouded in misconceptions and whispers. Today, we embark on a journey to unravel the mysteries surrounding this section, debunking the myths that may have clouded its true meaning. Alongside us, we have the expert guidance of First Law House, a distinguished Legal Advice Law Firm in Delhi NCR, ready to navigate through the haze and offer clarity. As we dispel the myths, we’ll explore the significance of Section 341 and the indispensable role of a Legal Services Provider in Delhi NCR.

Demystifying the Myths Surrounding Section 341:

Myth: Section 341 is a Rarely Enforced Legal Provision: Some believe that Section 341 is seldom enforced, considering it a dormant legal provision. In truth, cases related to wrongful restraint under Section 341 are more common than perceived, with its applicability in various situations, both big and small.

The reality is that Section 341 addresses wrongful restraint, a legal term referring to intentional obstruction that restricts a person’s free movement against their will. This obstruction could be physical, but it extends beyond mere physical confinement. The section encompasses any deliberate act that hinders an individual’s liberty, making it applicable in various contexts.

This misconception often leads people to underestimate the potential legal consequences associated with wrongful restraint. To navigate through these misunderstandings, it’s crucial to seek guidance from legal experts who understand the nuances of Section 341.

Myth: Wrongful Restraint Only Applies to Physical Confinement: A prevalent misconception is that wrongful restraint under Section 341 only applies to physical confinement. In reality, it encompasses any intentional obstruction that restricts a person’s free movement against their will, extending beyond physical confinement to broader scenarios.

The wrongful restraint can manifest in various ways, from physically blocking someone’s path to using threats or force to prevent their movement. Understanding the breadth of this provision is essential, as it ensures a comprehensive approach to legal situations where Section 341 might come into play.

Myth: Section 341 is Exclusively Criminal: Another myth suggests that Section 341 is exclusively a criminal provision, implying severe legal consequences. While it does fall under criminal law, understanding the nuances of its application requires expertise, making the role of Legal Services Providers crucial.

Section 341 is indeed part of the Indian Penal Code, and a violation can result in legal consequences, including imprisonment or fines. However, the circumstances surrounding each case can vary, and legal advice is necessary to determine the best course of action.

The Role of a Legal Services Provider in Delhi NCR:

Navigating legal intricacies, especially around misunderstood sections like 341, necessitates the support of a reliable Legal Services Provider in Delhi NCR.

Legal Expertise in Criminal Law: A Legal Services Provider brings a wealth of expertise in criminal law, offering insights into the implications of Section 341. Their knowledge is invaluable in understanding the legal landscape and potential ramifications.

Criminal law is a complex field, and wrongful restraint cases can have varying degrees of severity. Legal experts can assess the specifics of each case, providing informed advice tailored to the circumstances.

Guidance Through Legal Processes: For individuals entangled in legal situations related to Section 341, a Legal Services Provider provides guidance through legal processes. This includes explaining the legal procedures, potential defenses, and the best course of action.

Navigating legal processes can be overwhelming, especially for those unfamiliar with the intricacies of the law. Legal Services Providers act as guides, ensuring that clients understand the steps involved and are prepared for any legal proceedings.

Representation in Legal Proceedings: Whether it’s offering legal advice or representing clients in legal proceedings, a Legal Services Provider plays a crucial role in safeguarding their rights. This is particularly significant in cases involving Section 341.

Legal representation is essential for individuals facing charges related to wrongful restraint. A Legal Services Provider can formulate a robust defense strategy, ensuring that the client’s side of the story is effectively presented in legal proceedings.

First Law House: Your Beacon in Legal Clarity:

Now, let’s introduce our guiding light through the legal haze – First Law House, your reliable Legal Advice Law Firm in Delhi NCR.

Expertise in Criminal Law: First Law House boasts a team of legal experts specializing in criminal law, equipped to navigate the complexities of provisions like Section 341. Their profound understanding ensures comprehensive legal support.

Criminal cases demand a nuanced approach, and First Law House’s expertise in criminal law positions them as a reliable ally for individuals navigating legal challenges related to wrongful restraint.

Personalized Legal Consultations: As a Legal Advice Law Firm, First Law House prioritizes personalized consultations. Clients can seek tailored advice, addressing their specific concerns related to Section 341 and other legal matters.

Every legal case is unique, and personalized consultations allow First Law House to understand the intricacies of each situation. This personalized approach ensures that clients receive advice that is specifically tailored to their needs.

Representation with Diligence: First Law House’s commitment to client advocacy extends to diligent representation in legal proceedings. Whether it’s negotiation or litigation, they stand by their clients, ensuring a robust defense.

In legal proceedings related to Section 341, having a dedicated legal team is crucial. First Law House’s commitment to diligence ensures that clients receive representation that is both thorough and effective.

Contact First Law House for Clarity Amidst Myths:

As we dispel the myths surrounding Section 341 and acknowledge the importance of Legal Services Providers, the next step is clear – seek expert guidance. Contact First Law House via a call to discuss your legal concerns or fill out the form on their website for a comprehensive consultation.

[CTA] Ready to navigate the legal maze with confidence? Contact First Law House today by calling +91-9311494205 or fill out the contact form at https://firstlawhouse.com/contact/. Let the experts guide you through legal challenges and ensure a smooth journey ahead.

Conclusion: Bringing Clarity to Section 341 with First Law House:

Section 341, once shrouded in myths, now stands revealed in its true light. With First Law House as your beacon of legal clarity, the path forward becomes illuminated. Don’t let misconceptions restrain you – empower yourself with expert guidance from First Law House.

#First Law House #Legal Services Providers #Legal Advice Law Firm in Delhi NCR

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